by Elsa Jade
She ran across the landing bay, kicking up the slightly too-long hem off her bronze gown with every step. The tall, dishwater-blond male who emerged from the shuttle caught her when she launched herself with rocket aim toward him. He whirled her around, the two of them like a large golden sun and a smaller golden moon. They’d make a lovely poster couple for the space resort.
Lishelle pursed her lips as if all the pixberries under her butt had gone sour.
Nor reached into his coat and handed Trixie something. Her muffled squeal of excitement was audible even across the bay. Rayna, who’d approached at a more decorous, duchess-y pace, leaned in and made an awwww noise too.
Reluctant curiosity drew Lishelle toward them. The duke strode out of the shuttle, speaking to two junior officers beside him, but then joined the gathered foursome. He directed a friendly smile at Lishelle as she approached.
“It’s a mishkeet,” Nor was saying.
Lishelle peered at the bundle of striated orange and cream fur in Trixie’s arms. “You got an alien stuffed animal?”
The slow blink of five red eyes told her it was alive. A plethora of furry legs unfolded around Trixie’s hands. Sweet Jesus, it was like three-quarters of a giant tabby-tarantula.
“Ooh, it’s purring,” Trixie cooed.
“It’s a yearling,” Nor said. “So it’ll get bigger.”
Lishelle wrinkled her nose. A bigger tabby-tarantula?
Trixie stroked the thing under its jutting muzzle, and four of the five eyes closed in what seemed to be pleasure. “Does it have a name?”
“That’ll be up to you,” Nor said. “It’s been on a hunting farm until now.”
“You people hunt these things?” Lishelle couldn’t imagine wearing a tabby skin coat, even if these Thorkons did like their bright colors. The spurt of sympathy went through her for the strange creature with its too many legs and odd number of eyes.
But Nor shook his head. “Not hunting them. Teaching them to hunt. They’re trained to go after vermin on farms. And on space stations.”
Suddenly feeling better about the little beast, Lishelle asked, “Does it kill rats?
“Larfs,” Trixie clarified.
“This one’s still a little young,” Nor said. “But a full-grown mishkeet can clear out a nest of larfs in no time.”
Trixie snuggled the creature, now purring louder, under her chin. “This is the perfect space station-warming gift.”
“Well, since it’s going to be our home, it should be warm.” Nor’s smile at Trixie lacked the lecherous edge he seemed to use defensively, and Lishelle glanced away from the intimate moment between them.
Find someone who looks at you like an ex-pirate spaceship captain looks at the little Earther girl who made a home for his heart.
Relationship goals. Lishelle snorted silently to herself. She’d given up on those even before she left Earth.
With the five of them helping—Trixie slightly hampered by the mishkeet clinging like a fluffy orange scarf around her neck—the station crew quickly unpacked the shuttle. Crates large and small laden with staples and wedding supplies were slated for delivery to their proper departments.
When the duke reached for one sizeable carton, Rayna beat him to it. “No,” she exclaimed. “You can’t see this one.”
He lifted his dark eyebrows imperiously over royal blue eyes. “Oh?” Despite the arrogant tone, he let his bride-to-be stack the box on an anti-grav loader.
“It’s my dress,” she said, a blush staining her cheeks under her tawny skin. “It’s an Earther tradition that the groom not see the dress before the wedding.”
Nor tilted his head. “So he doesn’t know how much treasure she stole?” He gave an approving ex-pirate nod. “Very tricky. And wise.”
Trixie snickered. “It keeps the mystery going a little longer.”
The duke put his hands on his hips, his lips pursed as if he wasn’t sure he approved of mysteries. “But I’ve seen everything already.” And he flashed a grin at Rayna that was as wickedly inappropriate as anything from his reprobate half-brother.
Rayna smacked his shoulder. “Just for that, I shouldn’t give you anything else until after the wedding.”
His smirk gentled sensuously. “I’d like to see you try.”
Ugh. Fifth wheel. So awkward.
Lishelle cleared her throat, about to say her goodnights—although it was clear everyone else would be having a much better night than she did—when a tall, lean alien emerged from the shuttle.
He was white. Not just Anglo-Saxon Protestant white, but Snow White and the Rest of the Pre-Diversity Princesses white. Even his eyes were totally white. And yet a part of her perked in interest. She needed a date for the wedding…
“Who’s that?” she hissed.
Rayna followed her gaze, then nudged the duke. “Who’s the new guy?”
“That’s Idrin,” Nor answered. “Freelance personal recovery agent.”
“A bounty hunter?” Trixie sniffed.
“Bounty hunter,” he confirmed. “The penitentiary authorities finally got around to sending one. They were supposed to manage Blackworm’s imprisonment but they’ve been dragging out their investigation into his escape. Said it wasn’t a priority since he’s dead.”
“What with flying my flagship dreadnaught into a black hole,” the duke muttered.
“In Blackworm’s defense,” Nor said, “he wanted to fly the dreadnaught past the black hole. I’m the one who locked in the speed that prevented him from escaping the singularity’s gravity.”
“Why defend him?” The duke punched at his half-brother’s shoulder. “Whose side are you on?”
Nor leaned smoothly out of the way. “Your side, of course. Since you made me your best man and gave me the station to oversee.”
The duke subsided. “Well, don’t fly it into the black hole.”
Lishelle eyed the very white Idrin with sudden misgiving. “You don’t hire a bounty hunter for a dead man.”
“Blackworm had conspirators who aided his escape,” Rayna said. “Assuming not all of them went down in the dreadnaught with him, finding and punishing them would be good too. Blackworm may’ve been a grief-crazed psychopath trying to petition the gods to return his lover, but the people he paid were just plain greedy and evil.”
“No defense,” Trixie agreed with a growl that was about as intimidating as the mishkeet’s purr. “And if they are on Azthronos, they can answer to our justice instead of the transgalactic council’s incompetence.”
Nor chucked and pulled her under his arm. “My bloodthirsty Black Hole Bride,” he said affectionately.
She butted her head against his shoulder, the one he’d ducked away from the duke, and he took it. “I hate that name.”
“But it brought you here, where I could find you.” He kissed the crown of her blond hair.
Ooo-kay. Enough was enough. Lishelle turned away. “I’m going to take the mystery dress and the rest of this load to the bridal suite,” she announced to no one. “See you girls tomorrow for the final cake tasting?”
The duke perked up. “Is cake tasting allowed for males before the ceremony?”
“I’ll give you all the sweetness you need,” Rayna said.
Sooooo outta here. Lishelle grabbed the loader and hustled for the exit. She didn’t even glance back at the intriguing Idrin.
Apparently she was going to be that sour spinster space aunt.
The decks of the station being converted to rooms and suites were busier than other areas, and she passed more construction crews and decorators. Nor and Trixie had been the ones to suggest a resort retrofitting for the station, and the dowager duchess had embraced the idea like only a fancy lady creating essentially a space-going luxury liner could.
Hopefully it wouldn’t end like the Titanic…
Lishelle nodded to two workers who were installing lights over a concrete planter built along the bulkhead. They nodded back as she guided the anti-grav loader past a topiary sh
rubbery in a temporary pot waiting to be transplanted.
“So did they ever figure out what triggered the overgrowth?” one was asking. “I swear everything was pruned before we transported.”
The other shrugged. “Some sort of unusual blackbody radiation surge from the singularity, they said. Seems to have subsided, so we won’t have any more problems before the wedding.”
Weddings always had problems; that was what made them memorable. Except hers. Her wedding had been beautiful and problem-free.
The actual marriage, however…
Mistakes were made, as people liked to say in the passive voice, absolving any specific person of culpability. She thought of Trixie’s righteous scowl and heartfelt threat at the mention of Blackworm and his mercenaries. But did justice or even revenge matter to the women who’d been sacrificed to the singularity?
Maybe once upon a time she’d have sat around—with weed or ghost-mead or totally sober—and opined on the point of it all, and she might’ve even namedropped some of her newly mastered terminology: membrane paradigm, curved spacetime, information loss paradox, quantum entanglement. She might’ve even got really nostalgic for her old dorm room and wish she could debate Blackworm on the existence of God. Or gods, if she graciously granted him the Thorkon view of divinity as polytheistic.
But Blackworm was (thank God or gods) dead. And she had purple ribbons to hang.
At the bridal suite, she waved her hand over the lock, and the door opened with a welcoming chime.
Though the suite was huge enough to hold all the accouterments of a noble wedding, Rayna had told the estate staff to do the bare minimum in renovations here and spend their time in the public areas that would most benefit the relaunch of the station’s image. A savvy move, Lishelle thought; Rayna might have fought against the responsibilities of leadership at first, but she would be an admirable duchess.
The two women who’d decided to have their memories wiped when they returned to Earth and the families of the abducted victims who hadn’t made it would never know where the survivors benefits slipped into their finances came from. The success of the station would be some small, insufficient payback for their experiences with Blackworm.
Lishelle opened the crate that held the wedding dress. Stasis gel had kept the elaborate pleats from being crushed, so she didn’t have to do more than give it a gentle shake and hang it on a rack where it would wait for the big day. She touched the tissue-thin layers of fabric a little wistfully. Her own wedding dress had been traditional white—not that she’d been a virgin—and she decided she rather preferred the Thorkon custom of wearing whatever looked joyful and best on the bride. What would she wear if she was getting married today?
She turned away from the pretty dress with a snort. She wasn’t making that mistake again, not even with a rich, noble alien.
Restlessly, she straightened some of the detritus from the last few frantic days. Maybe the two couples were still at the landing pad and they could all grab a late dinner together…but she wasn’t sure she could overcome her own churlish bitterness enough to fool them. But she didn’t want to be alone either. Maybe the gardeners would want to get a drink.
But when she stepped out into the corridor, she found only the sculpted topiary bush in its planter standing sentinel. She let out a disgruntled breath. That’s what she got for being stuck inside her own head.
Never mind. She had plenty of reading to keep her entertained this evening and plenty to do tomorrow. If there were a few empty hours in the middle… Well, she’d moped herself to sleep more than once, even on Earth.
She locked the suite behind her and set off down the passageway. Apparently it was later than she’d thought—however much there was a later in space—because all the staff seemed to have checked out for the night. The halls on the way to her private suite were empty. And that damned echo was following her again.
Refusing to look over her shoulder, she stomped down the corridor. When she was upset enough, she could make even slippers stompy.
She crossed into one of the nexus atriums where several corridors met under a high transparent steel dome. The station decorators had added a couple benches and more concrete planters with topiary, some of which were blooming already. Not yili or crocuses but some other alien flower as big and yellow as a mammoth sunflower but as intricately composed as an orchid with veins of darkest crimson, like heart’s blood. She focused on the pretty blooms and their drifting fragrance—sweet but musky—so she didn’t have to acknowledge the partial view of the black hole visible through the skylight.
The most annoying thing about the relatively quick spin of the station, which helped maintain the artificial gravity—she never knew which turn of a hallway would suddenly show that glaring celestial eye. It was like some unnerving creeper always peeping in the windows. She knew it wasn’t sentient, and yet…
Despite her best intentions, she realized she was staring up at it, a slight crick in her neck, as if she’d been standing there longer than she remembered. When she shook her head, her vision swam a little, and the musky-sweet perfume of the alien flowers seemed to waft through her veins.
The scent reminded her of the last hot summer days in Tennessee shortening to chilly nights, the little crabapples outside her aunties’ farmhouse sweetening to hard cider under brilliant leaves, heady and buzzing with bees.
Certainly her head was buzzing now as if she’d gotten into the weed and the ghost-mead and all the sugary wedding cake at once…
Between the distraction of the alien flower and astral phenomenon overhead, she excused herself for not noticing the being standing in the middle of the nexus. Like she’d been, he was staring up at the skylight, but one of his hands cupped a flower, as if he was admiring its scent and beauty before the black hole came into view.
She was admiring his long artisan fingers stroking the yellow petals. Hands big enough to hold a woman of any size…
Hold up, girl. Maybe this alien preferred embracing men of any size. Or mishkeets. What did she know about alien loving?
Well, she knew a little. As soon as she got her universal translator, one of the first things she’d done was start working her way through the educational materials provided to young aliens across the galaxies, introducing them to their sentient, spacefaring futures. She learned all about transgalactic governance, interplanetary law and trade, and the scientific basics such as faster than light travel and even black holes. There’d even been an embarrassing but she admitted intriguing primer on “your changing body”, that covered the essential intraspecies safe sex rules. The idea that an ancient race had seeded the universe with biologically compatible genetics was…embarrassing and intriguing both.
And now, seeing this alien, she believed it for the first time.
A weird, little noise came from her. She’d meant to clear her throat, but instead it sounded like a breathy gasp.
She tried again, and the alien tilted his head down to meet her gaze.
Oh. He was fine, with the strong lines to his features and big body that she’d come to associate with Thorkon males, although the simple white tunic he was wearing was awfully plain for the elegant species. His dark hair was just long enough to run her fingers through and tousled, as if someone had already done exactly that. When he looked at her, his dark eyes were half-closed and dreamy. Oh no, no no, not the poet type. Anything but that. She was such a sucker for a sweet talker with zero bankroll…
“Well, hullo,” she said. She meant it to come out as a purr, but it actually sounded more like she’d tripped over a clue in a bad British mystery show.
He smiled at her, a flash of joy so wide and bright it was like a pulse of light from some collapsing star. “You see me.”
She blinked, dazzled. “Uh, yes. Were you…hiding?”
“I was lost.” He plucked the flower he’d been holding.
She wanted to scold him. The flowers were for everyone to enjoy. But the way he held the flower up to his chin,
as if it was the most precious thing ever, stifled her reprimand. One flower couldn’t hurt.
She found herself leaning forward, as if he’d taken her in hand too. “It’s easy to get lost on the station. All the hallways look alike.” They were hoping to do more refurbishing to made each deck more unique, but wedding prep had to come first. “Where are you trying to get to?”
He glanced around, twirling the flower between his fingertips. “Here.”
Darting a quick glance around—had she missed a reason to pause in the nexus?—she pursed her lips. “What’s here?”
“This splendor.” He gestured with the flower. “You.”
Was he saying the flowers were splendorous? Or she was? A flush of heat—part pleasantly flustered, part angry at the pleasant fluster—warmed her cheeks, and she was glad for the abundance of melanin that disguised her uncertainty. She didn’t mind being wooed, but she wouldn’t be fooled. “You must be here for the wedding.” She’d heard some guests would be arriving early, but she hadn’t realized the influx had started.
“Souls joining,” he murmured. “Quantum entanglement to outlast the stars.”
She eyed him. Poet, or physicist? She’d slept with both in school. Poets tended to excel at oral. The science boys knew the power of momentum, leverage, and friction. “Are you friend or family of the groom?” Since she knew he wasn’t sitting on the bride’s side.
“I’m here to bless their fusion.”
Bless their…fusion? Was he physicist or pastor? She’d never slept with a pastor.
Good heavens, why was she thinking about sleeping with anybody? She’d blame the bad heavens—that creepy black hole eye staring down at her, reminding her how close she’d come (and still was) to the end of everything she knew.
She gave herself a dismissive shake. “I haven’t had a chance to look over the ceremony specifics. But I imagine with as many gods as Thorkons have, you do a lot of blessing.”
“Only for one. The God of Beloveds.”
