Here's Chapter One to wet your appetite.
"When did you first meet Miss LaRoux?"
"Three days before the accident."
"And how did that come about?"
"The accident?"
"Meeting Miss LaRoux."
"How could it possibly matter?"
"Major, everything matters."
ONE
TARVER
Nothing
about this room is real. If this were a party at home, the music would
draw your eye to human musicians in the corner. Candles and soft lamps
would light the room, and the wooden tables would be made of actual
trees. People would be listening to each other, instead of checking to
see who's watching them.
Even
the air here smells filtered and fake. The candles in the sconces do
flicker, but they're powered by a steady source. Hover trays weave among
the guests, like invisible waiters are carrying drinks. The string
quartet is only a hologram—perfect and infallible, and exactly the same
at every performance.
I'd
give anything for a laid-back evening joking around with my platoon,
instead of being stuck here in this imitation scene from a historical
novel.
For
all their trendy Victorian tricks, there's no hiding where we are.
Outside the viewports, the stars are like faded white lines,
half-invisible, surreal. The Icarus, passing through dimensional
hyperspace, would look just as faded, half-transparent, if someone
stationary in the universe could somehow see her moving faster than
light.
I'm
leaning against the bookshelves when it occurs to me that one thing
here is real—the books. I reach behind me and let my fingers trail over
the rough leather of their antique spines, then pull one free. Nobody
here reads them; the books are for decoration. Chosen for the richness
of their leather bindings, not for the contents of their pages. Nobody
will miss one, and I need a dose of reality.
I'm
almost done for the night, smiling for the cameras as ordered. The
brass keep thinking that mixing field officers with the upper crust will
create some sort of common ground where none exists, let the paparazzi
infesting the Icarus see me, the lowborn boy made good, hobnobbing with
the elite. I keep thinking that the photographers will get their fill of
shots of me with drink in hand, lounging in the first-class salon, but
in the two weeks I've been on board, they haven't.
These
folks love a good rags-to-riches tale, even if my riches are no more
than the medals pinned to my chest. It still makes for a nice story in
the papers. The military look good, the rich people look good, and it
gives the poor people something to aspire to. See? say all the
headlines. You too can rocket your way up to riches and fame. If hick
boy can make good, why can't you?
If
it wasn't for what happened on Patron, I wouldn't even be here. What
they call heroics, I call a tragic debacle. But nobody's asking my
opinion.
I
scan the room, taking in the clusters of women in brightly colored
gowns, officers in dress uniforms like mine, men in evening coats and
top hats. The ebb and flow of the crowd is unsettling—patterns I'll
never get used to no matter how many times I'm forced to rub elbows with
these people.
My
eyes fall on a man who's just entered, and it takes me a moment to
realize why. There's nothing about him that fits here, although he's
trying to blend in. His black tailcoat is too threadbare, and his top
hat is missing the shiny satin ribbon that's in fashion. I'm trained to
notice the thing that doesn't fit, and in this sea of surgically
perfected faces, his is a beacon. There are lines at the corners of his
eyes and around his mouth, his skin weather-beaten and marked by the
sun. He's nervous, shoulders rounded, fingers gripping the lapels of his
jacket and letting go again.
My
heart kicks up a beat. I've spent too long in the colonies, where
anything out of place might kill you. I ease away from the bookshelves
and start to weave my way toward him, past a pair of women sporting
monocles they can't possibly need. I want to know why he's here, but I'm
forced to move slowly, navigating the push and pull of the crowd with
agonizing patience. If I shove, I'll draw attention. And if he is
dangerous, any sudden shift in the energy of the room could trigger him.
A brilliant flash lights up the world as a camera goes off in my face.
"Oh,
Major Merendsen!" It's the leader of a gaggle of women in their
mid-twenties, descending on me from the direction of the viewport. "Oh,
you simply must take a picture with us."
Their
insincerity is poisonous. I'm barely more than a dog walking on its
hind legs, here—they know it, and I know it, but they can't pass up an
opportunity to be seen with a real, live war hero.
"Sure,
I'll just come back in a minute, if—" Before I can finish, all three
women are posed around me, lips pursed and lashes lowered. Smile for the
cameras. A series of flashes erupt all around me, blinding me.
I
can feel that low, stabbing pain at the base of my skull that promises
to explode into a fully fledged headache. The women are still chattering
and pressing in close, and I can't see the man with the weathered face.
One
of the photographers is buzzing around me, his voice a low drone. I
step sideways to look past him, but my eyes are swimming with red and
gold afterimages. Blinking hard, my gaze swings from the bar, to the
door, the hover trays, the booths. I try to remember what he looked
like, the line of his clothes. Was there room to hide anything under his
dinner jacket? Could he be armed?
"Major, did you hear me?" The photographer's still talking.
"Yes?"
No, I wasn't listening. I disentangle myself from the women still
draped over me on the pretense of stepping closer to speak with him. I
wish I could shove past this little man, or better yet, tell him there's
a threat and watch how fast he vanishes from the room.
"I said I'm surprised your buddies on the lower decks aren't trying to sneak up here too."
Seriously?
The other soldiers watch me head to first class every evening like a
man walking down death row. "Oh, you know." I try not to sound as
annoyed as I am. "I doubt they even know what champagne is." I try for a
smile too, but they're the ones good at insincerity, not me.
He
laughs too loudly as the flash explodes in my face again. Blinking away
the stars, I stumble clear and crane my neck, trying to locate the only
guy in the room more out of place than I am. But the stooped man in the
shabby hat is nowhere to be found.
Maybe
he left? But someone doesn't go to the trouble of crashing a party like
this and then slip out without a fuss. Maybe he's seated now, hiding
among the other guests. My eyes sweep across the booths again, this time
examining the patrons more closely.
They're
all packed full of people. All except one. My gaze falls on a girl
sitting alone in a booth, watching the crowd with detached interest. Her
fair, flawless skin says she's one of them, but her gaze says she's
better, above, untouchable.
She's
wearing the same hue as a navy dress uniform, bare shoulders holding my
gaze for a moment—she sure as hell wears the color better than any
sailor I know. Hair: red, falling down past her shoulders. Nose: a
little snub, but that makes her more pretty, not less. It makes her
real.
Pretty's not the right word. She's a knockout.
Something
about the girl's face tickles at the back of my mind, like I should
recognize it, but before I can dig up the connection, she catches me
looking at her. I know better than to mix with girls like her, so I
don't know why I keep watching her, or why I smile.
Then,
abruptly, a movement jerks my gaze away. It's the nervous man, and he's
no longer meandering in and out of the crowd. His stooped posture is
gone, and with his eyes fixed on something across the room he's moving
quickly through the press of bodies. He's got a goal—and it's the girl
in the blue dress.
I
waste no time weaving in and out of the crowd politely. I shove between
a pair of startled elderly gentlemen and make for the booth, but the
outsider's gotten there first. He's leaning close, speaking low and
fast. He's moving too quickly, trying to spit out what he came to say
before he's picked out as an intruder. The girl jerks back, leaning
away. Then the crowd closes up between us, and they're out of sight.
I
reach down to lay a hand on my gun, and hiss between my teeth as I
realize it's not there. The empty spot at my hip feels like a missing
limb. I weave left, upsetting a hover tray and sending its contents
crashing to the floor. The crowd recoils, finally giving me an avenue
toward the table.
The
intruder has grabbed her elbow, urgent. She's trying to pull away, eyes
flashing up, looking around for someone as though she expects help. Her
gaze falls on me.
I
get one step closer before a man in the right sort of top hat claps a
hand on the stranger's shoulder. He has an equally self-important friend
with him, and two officers, a man and a woman. They know the man with
the fervent light in his eyes doesn't belong here, and I can see they
mean to remedy his presence.
The
redhead's self-appointed guardian jerks the man backward to stumble
against the officers, who take him firmly by the arms. I can tell he's
got no training, either formally or the rough-and-tumble sort they learn
in the colonies. If he did, he'd be able to handle these desk jockeys
and their sloppy form.
They
start to turn him toward the door, one of them grabbing at the nape of
his neck. More force than I would use, for someone whose only crime so
far seems to be trying to talk to the girl in the blue dress, but
they're handling it. I stop by the adjacent booth, still trying to catch
my breath.
The
man twists, breaking free of the soldiers, and turns back toward the
girl. As the room starts to fall silent, the ragged edge to his voice is
audible. "You have to speak to your father about this, please. We're
dying for lack of tech, he needs to give the colonists more—"
His
voice gives out as one of the officers delivers a blow to his stomach
that doubles him over. I jerk forward, shoving away from the booth and
past the widening ring of onlookers.
The
redhead beats me to it. She's on her feet in a swift movement that
draws the attention of everyone in the room in a way the scuffle didn't.
Whoever she is, she's a showstopper.
"Enough!" She has a voice well suited to delivering ultimatums. "Captain, Lieutenant, what do you think you're doing?"
I knew I liked her for a reason.
When
I step forward, she's holding them frozen in place with a glare that
could fell a platoon. For a moment, none of them notice me. Then I see
the soldiers register my presence, and scan my shoulders for my stars
and bars. Rank aside, we're different in every way. My medals are for
combat, theirs for long service, bureaucratic efficiencies. My
promotions were made in the field. Theirs, behind a desk. They've never
had blood on their hands. But for once, I'm glad of my newfound status.
The two soldiers come reluctantly to attention—both of them are older,
and I can tell it rankles to have to salute an eighteen-year-old. Funny
how I was old enough by sixteen to drink, fight, and vote, but even two
years later, I'm too young to respect.
They're
still holding on to the gate-crasher. He's breathing quick and shallow,
like he's pretty sure someone's going to fire him out an air lock any
minute.
I clear my throat, making sure I sound calm. "If there's a problem, I can help this man find the door." Without more violence.
We
can all hear how my voice sounds—exactly like the backwater boy I am,
unpolished and uncultured. I register a few scattered laughs around the
room, which is now entirely focused on our little drama. Not malicious
laughter—just amused.
"Merendsen, I doubt this guy's after a book." Fancy Top Hat smirks at me.
I look down and realize I'm still holding the book I took from the shelves. Right, because this guy is poor, he can't even read.
"I'm
sure he was just about to go," says the girl, fixing Top Hat with a
steely glare. "And I'm pretty sure you were about to leave, too."
They're
caught off guard by her dismissal, and I use the moment to relieve my
fellow officers of their captive, keeping hold of his arm as I guide him
away. She's effectively dismissed the quartet from the salon—again her
face tickles my memory, who is she that she can do that?—and I let them
make their enforced escape before I gently but firmly steer my new
friend toward the door.
"Anything
broken?" I ask, once we're outside. "What possessed you to go near
them, and in a place like this? I half thought you were aiming to blow
someone up."
The man gazes at me for a long moment, his face already older than the people inside will ever look.
He
turns to walk away without another word, shoulders bowed. I wonder just
how much he had riding on this manufactured encounter with the girl in
the blue dress.
I
stand in the doorway, watching as people give up on the drama now that
it's done. The room slowly comes back to life, the hover trays zipping
around, conversation surging, perfectly practiced laughter tinkling here
and there. I'm supposed to be here at least another hour, but maybe
just this once I can skip out early.
And
then I see the girl again—and she's watching me. Very slowly she's
taking off one of her gloves, pinching each finger deliberately in turn.
Her gaze never leaves my face.
My
heart surges up into my throat, and I know I'm staring like an idiot,
but I'm damned if I can remember how my legs work. I stare a beat too
long, and her lips curve to a hint of a smile. But somehow, her smile
doesn't look as though it's mocking me, and I get it together enough to
start walking.
When
she lets her glove fall to the ground, I'm the one who leans down to
pick it up. I don't want to ask her if she's all right—she's too
collected for that.
So
I put the glove down on the table, then find myself with no excuse to
do anything other than look at her. Blue eyes. They go with the dress.
Do
lashes grow that long naturally? So many perfect faces, it's hard to
tell who's been surgically altered and who hasn't. But surely if she'd
had work done, she'd have opted for a straight, classically beautiful
nose. No, she looks real.
"Are you waiting for a drink?" My voice sounds mostly even.
"For
my companions," she says, lowering the deadly lashes before peering up
at me through them. "Captain?" She tilts the word upward, as though
she's taking a stab at my rank.
"Major,"
I say. She knows how to read my insignia; I just saw her name the ranks
of the other officers. Her sort, the society girls, they all know how.
It's a game. I might not be society, but I still know a player when I
see one. "Not sure that was smart of your companions, leaving you
unattended. Now you're stuck talking to me."
Then
she smiles, and it turns out she has dimples, and it's all over. It's
not just the way she looks—although that would do it all on its own.
It's that, despite the way she looks, despite where I found her, this
girl's willing to go against the tide. She's not another empty-headed
puppet. It's like finding another human after days of isolation.
"Is it going to cause an intergalactic incident if I keep you company until your friends get here?"
"Not
at all." She tilts her head a little to indicate the opposite side of
the booth. The bench curves around in a semicircle from where she sits.
"Though I feel I should warn you that you could be here for a while. My
friends aren't really known for their punctuality."
I
laugh, and I set down the book and my drink on the table beside her
glove, sinking down to sit opposite her. She's wearing one of those
enormous skirts that are in fashion these days, and the fabric brushes
against my legs as I settle. She doesn't move away. "You should have
seen me as a cadet," I say, as though that wasn't just a year ago.
"Punctuality was pretty much the only thing we were known for. Never ask
how or why, just get it done fast."
"Then
we have something in common," she says. "We aren't encouraged to ask
why, either." Neither of us asks why we're sitting together. We're
smart.
"I can see at least half a dozen guys watching us. Am I making any deadly enemies? Or at least, any more than I already have?"
"Would it stop you from sitting here?" she asks, finally removing the second glove and setting it down on the table.
"Not
necessarily," I reply. "Handy thing to know, though. Plenty of dark
hallways on this ship, if I'm going to have rivals waiting around
corners."
"Rivals?"
she asks, lifting one brow. I know she's playing a game with me, but I
don't know the rules, and she's got all the cards. Still, the hell with
it—I just can't find it in me to care that I'm losing. I'll surrender
right now, if she likes.
"I
suppose they might imagine themselves to be," I say eventually. "Those
gentlemen over there don't look particularly impressed." I nod to the
group in frock coats and more top hats. At home we're a simpler people,
and you take your hat off when you come inside.
"Let's
make it worse," she says promptly. "Read to me from your book, and I'll
look rapt. And you could order me a drink, if you like."
I
glance down at the book I plucked off the shelf. Mass Casualty: A
History of Failed Campaigns. I slide it a little farther away, wincing
inwardly. "Perhaps the drink. I've been away from your bright lights for
a while, so I'm a little rusty, but I'm pretty sure talking about
bloody death's not the best way to charm a girl."
"I'll
have to content myself with champagne, then." She continues, as I raise
a hand to signal one of the hover trays. "You say 'bright lights' with a
hint of disdain, Major. I'm from those bright lights. Do you fault me
for that?"
"I could fault you for nothing." The words somehow bypass my brain entirely. Mutiny.
She
drops her eyes for the compliment, still smiling. "You say you've been
away from civilization, Major, but your flattery's giving you away. It
can't have been all that long."
"We're
very civilized out on the frontier," I say, pretending offense. "Every
so often we take a break from slogging through waist-high muck or
dodging bullets and issue dance invitations. My old drill sergeant used
to say that nothing teaches you the quickstep like the ground giving way
beneath your feet."
"I
suppose so," she agrees as a full tray comes humming toward us in
response to my summons. She selects a glass of champagne and raises it
in half a toast to me before she sips. "Can you tell me your name, or is
it classified?" she asks, as though she doesn't know.
I
reach for the other glass and send the tray humming off into the crowd
again. "Merendsen." Even if it's a pretense, it's nice to talk to
someone who isn't raving about my astounding heroics or asking for a
picture with me. "Tarver Merendsen." She's looking at me like she
doesn't recognize me from all the newspapers and holovids.
"Major Merendsen." She tries it out, leaning on the m's, then nods her approval. The name passes muster, at least for now.
"I'm heading back to the bright lights for my next posting. Which one of them is your home?"
"Corinth,
of course," she replies. The brightest light of all. Of course. "Though
I spend more time on ships like this than planetside. I'm most at home
here on the Icarus."
"Even you must be impressed by the Icarus. She's bigger than any city I've been to."
"She's
the biggest," my companion replies, dropping her eyes and toying with
the stem of the champagne flute. Though she hides it well, there's a
flicker through her features. Talking about the ship must bore her.
Maybe it's the spaceliner equivalent of asking about the weather.
C'mon,
man, get it together. I clear my throat. "The viewing decks are the
best I've seen. I'm used to planets with very little ambient light, but
the view out here is something else."
She
meets my eyes for half a breath—then her lips quirk to the tiniest of
smiles. "I don't think I've taken advantage of them enough, this trip.
Perhaps we—" But then she cuts herself short, glancing toward the door.
I'd
forgotten we were in a crowded room. But the moment she looks away, all
the music and conversation comes surging back. There's a girl with
reddish-blond hair—a relative, I'm sure, though her nose is straight and
perfect—descending upon my companion, a small entourage in tow.
"Lil,
there you are," she says, scolding, and holding out her hand in a clear
invitation. No surprise, I'm not included. The entourage swirls into
place behind her.
"Anna," says my companion, who now has a name. Lil. "May I present Major Merendsen?"
"Charmed." Anna's voice is dismissive, and I reach for my book and my drink. I know my cue.
"Please, I think I'm in your chair," I say. "It was a pleasure."
"Yes."
Lil ignores Anna's hand, her fingers curling around the stem of her
champagne glass as she looks across at me. I like to think that she
regrets the interruption a little.
Then
I rise, and with a small bow of the sort we reserve for civilians, I
make my escape. The girl in the blue dress watches me go.
"You next encountered her . . . ?"
"The day of the accident."
"What were your intentions at that stage?"
"I had none."
"Why not?"
"You're joking, right?"
"Major, we aren't here to entertain you."
