by Dan Schiro
“Orion,” Kangor shouted with an upward jerk of his snouted face. “The dome!”
Orion looked up and saw for himself — the Great Painted Dome had a small, jagged hole on each side of it, and the fine cracks spider-webbing out from each had just met in the middle. One of the galaxy’s greatest works of art creaked just seconds from collapse, and though their lightshields would block pulse bolts, a rain of thick glass would shred them.
“I’ve got nothing,” Orion said to Aurelia, holding up his bare hand. “It’s gotta be you, AD, it’s gotta be you.”
The stained glass shattered with a tremendous shriek, and Aurelia Deon threw up her arms, muttering a mantra in the rolling language of the Green. Emerald light coalesced around the three of them, and the sparkling vapor grew thick.
Chapter 3
A short time after the collapse of the stained-glass dome, Orion swaggered out of the Painted Palace’s towering front doors. Aurelia Deon glided along on his right, glistening green in the fading daylight, and Kangor stalked along on his left, hulking and fierce. Behind them followed Grand Queen Lob, Princess Swada hugging her egg, and Swada’s limping husband Tivian, the famed musician. The remaining minor nobles skittered along in the rear, some of them weeping to see the sky of Phantak Ro after more than two weeks of captivity. The media members crowded at the main gate cheered, and soon the long walk through the palace courtyard was done. When the gates opened, Orion let himself be engulfed by a throng of reporters and a swarm of floating datacubes.
He turned to the nearest creature with a press badge, a green-scaled mystskyn woman in a burgundy suit. Amid the flurry of questions, Orion leaned down to hear hers.
“Sir,” she shouted, “who are you?” The rest of the mob fell into an eerie silence, ceding the floor to the mystskyn.
Orion plastered on his winningest smile. “I’m Orion Grimslade III of Earth. Miss…?”
“Lamia Rath, Galactic Core News.” Her scales’ light-green shade deepened ever so slightly as their eyes locked. “Mr. Grimslade, what happened in the Painted Palace? Union officials seem confused and more than a little angry. Can you tell us what transpired and how you freed the royal family?”
“Well, Miss Rath,” Orion said with a shrug, “a wise elder of the royal clan claimed his sovereign right to solve the problem himself. He hired me and my crew.” He raised his hands to indicate the two unusual creatures standing next to him. “And we. Rescued. The Princess!”
Orion made a dramatic flourish toward the traumatized tabloid star, expecting cheers. Instead, the reporters gaped at him with haggard faces that had been on the job for days, and he began to feel silly.
“To clarify, sir,” Lamia said, rescuing him. “The three of you… infiltrated the palace and… dispatched the terrorists who had held the Union Legionnaires at bay for over two weeks?”
“We also disarmed the atomic,” added Kangor gruffly.
“True!” Aurelia smiled and kissed Orion on the cheek with a loud smack. “Also true!”
“As in… atomic bomb?” Lamia Rath’s forked tongue flickered in and out.
“Yes, well, the point is this,” Orion said with an easy smirk as he looked into the nearest recording datacube. “Do you want to wait for Union bureaucrats to solve your problem? From anti-terrorism to investigative intelligence to protective services, AlphaOmega Security can solve your problem today.”
He breathed out. It felt satisfying and terrifying to deliver the lines he had practiced so many times in the mirror. But had it worked? His face was in front of the whole galaxy, and if the right people took notice — CEOs of galactic corporations, diplomats on dangerous missions, wealthy royal houses with enemies and so on — it just might save the business he had emptied his trust fund to found.
“Uh… come again?” Orion said, realizing he had missed the reporter’s question.
“The Great Painted Dome,” Lamia Rath repeated. “What can you tell us about the destruction of the single greatest work of glass in the galaxy?”
Orion’s face blanched. “I… well…”
The questions that came next didn’t matter. The right people had in fact been watching, and they had even seen what had happened inside the throne room.
Chapter 4
“And what was up with that kiss on the cheek?” Orion threw back another gulp of Stardust Gin, an expensive brand the briophytes distilled in limited quantities. He chuckled, swirled the ice cubes in his glass and set it on the bar. “I mean, that came out of nowhere.”
Sitting on the stool next to him, Aurelia Deon tipped back her flute of honey wine for a long sip. “You laugh, but that was PR gold. Trust me,” she added with a twinkle in her eye, “I’ve been around long enough to know people love that kind of schlock.”
Kangor’s deep laugh rumbled in his chest as he pounded his huge stein on the bar. “How can a creature your age still hold surprises, Exile?”
Orion refilled his glass from the stay-cold bottle. “All I can say, is that Queen Lob certainly knows how to say ‘thank you’ with style.” Spinning on his barstool, he gestured at his lavish quarters. The sephilon monarch had personally chartered the fully staffed luxury cruiser — a space yacht dubbed Royal Whimsy — and encouraged them to enjoy themselves on the day-long journey through the ether routes. “To the spider queen,” he said as he lifted his glass.
The three of them drank deep, and Aurelia cackled again. “The best part,” she said as she topped off her wine flute, “was seeing you work that senile old duke.” She narrowed her eyes and smiled slyly at Orion. “I still can’t believe he hired us. And then sidelining the Union Legionnaires with that dusty old ‘sovereign right’ bylaw.” Aurelia kissed her fingertips. “Delicious, Orion. I couldn’t have played it better myself.”
Orion winced. “Hey, don’t make it sound like I’m some conman. Duke Commilo understood well enough to sign his name to the contract.”
“No offense intended.” Aurelia repositioned herself on the stool and folded her long green legs. “I think the elderly and infirm are a frightfully underused resource.”
“Do not feel bad for your deceptions, little friend,” Kangor said as he thumped his huge hand on Orion’s T-shirt-clad shoulder. “After all, we did save the royal family, and now the old duke has some spark of glory to light his twilight years.” Kangor leaned over the dark wood of the small bar and filled his stein from a mini-keg of fortified cider beer. “Whether this leads to better work or not,” he took a quick gulp, belched and continued, “we fought a good fight today.”
Orion shrugged and threw back a swallow of gin. “I’m all for good fights, but I’d like to keep our business in business while we’re at it.” He hopped off the stool and stretched his arms, the silver glyph tattoo on his wrist sparkling softly in the suite’s bright glowglobes. “Room control,” he said, raising his voice. “Activate holo-stage and play GCN.”
The lights dimmed, and a bright hologram bloomed in the suite’s comfortably furnished lounge. After a moment, the latest Galactic Core News broadcast started from the beginning. The logos of their corporate sponsors whooshed along with the energetic chords of the show’s theme song, and two news anchors appeared.
“Good day,” said a brown-pelted great ape with a friendly smile. “And welcome to Zero Hour on Galactic Core News. I’m Gadwad of Greenarbor…”
“And I’m Tonila Roy,” said the younger freyan woman, her white wings tucked behind her. “Today our own Lamia Rath had the first interview with the man who rescued the royals, Orion Grimslade III. But tonight we examine who he is, and how he came to upstage Union forces and defeat a group of dangerous extremists.” Though her voice was as pleasant and lilting as birdsong, Orion felt a mushroom of dread expand in his stomach.
“That’s right, Tonila,” said Gadwad as he took over again. “Our long-time viewers might remember Mr. Grimslade from one of our special features seve
n years ago entitled ‘Runaway Rich Boy.’ And the viewers of GCN’s Stellar Economist segment will surely recognize his family’s name, as Grimslade Interstellar has been a major player in galactic markets since the humans of Earth began their rapid expansion some 200 years ago.”
“A peek through Orion Grimslade’s early files,” continued Tonila, “details a long list of misdemeanors and impressive test scores that are hard to reconcile. But just how did he go from pampered playboy to dashing commando in just a few years? We’ll examine the Runaway Rich Boy’s mystery-shrouded transformation after these short words from our sponsor, Phuturistic Pharmaceuticals.”
The news anchors faded away as the light score and happy faces of the commercial resolved. “You don’t have to hurt. You don’t have to feel sick or sad. You don’t have to wear the scars of what you’ve been through, inside or out. With Phuturistic Pharmaceuticals’ new multi-consulin pack for daily use…”
“Oh no,” Orion said, his mouth agape. “Room control, end program,” he barked.
As the hologram faded and the lights came up, Kangor raised his bushy orange eyebrows. “This is not what you wanted? They are talking about us, no?”
Orion shook his head. “They’re talking about me,” he sighed. “About my family and the family empire. I started this business to get out from under all of that stuff.” His silver spellblade gauntlet flowed forth along with his anger, and his armored grip crushed the cocktail glass in his hand. “They didn’t even say AlphaOmega once!”
“Oh, you’re overreacting.” Aurelia retrieved a green-plated datacube from the folds of her purple kimono and tossed it in the air. “Watch this. Show ascending mentions.” The floating cube promptly projected a list of phrases getting the most chatter on the galactic datasphere. “Look, there you have it — right up behind ‘Dawnstar’ and ‘Save Swada,’ there’s ‘Orion Grimslade III.’” She passed a finger through the hologram to filter the results. “And ‘AlphaOmega’ is associated with your name in 85% of chatter, plus the video where you say our name has been viewed 370 million times already.”
Orion still wasn’t convinced that they had garnered the right sort of attention. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.” He felt his post-combat buzz fading to a sullen half-drunk. “Anyway,” he said, feigning a yawn, “I think it’s time I got some sleep. I was so wired-up last night, I could barely close my eyes.”
Aurelia shook her head and slid off her stool. “Humans.” She straightened her silky kimono. “Such a short lifecycle, and they insist on spending a third of it unconscious.”
“Come, Aurelia,” said Kangor as he lumbered back behind the bar, pulled the mini-keg out of its cubbyhole and threw it up on his shoulder. “We can finish our revels on the observation deck.”
“Fine.” She drained her flute of honey wine and took the sunshine-yellow bottle off the bar. “Perhaps when we’re properly intoxicated, we can see if this bucket’s theater has anything that’s half-amusing.”
The suite’s doors opened with a whoosh ahead of their steps, and Orion was alone. He stripped off the white-and-red AlphaOmega t-shirt and black sweatpants that covered his lean frame, grabbed the bottle of briophyte gin, and with a few quick steps, leaped and splashed into the sonic spa in the alcove next to the bar. The liquid — a salty solution of nutrients that had been specially tuned to rejuvenate human physiology — immediately tingled on Orion’s pale skin. As the sonic emitters came on, Orion settled onto one of the submerged benches and let his muscles relax.
“Room control,” he said after a swig from the sweating stay-cold bottle, “play music, Synthetic Symphony, Bazzak Mood and Mars Rover on shuffle.”
The suite’s computer system chirped. “Would you like to activate a coordinated ambient light display?” asked the friendly disembodied voice.
“Who’s fancy now?” whistled Orion. “Yeah, absolutely.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” asked the suite computer.
Orion thought for a moment, and a loud growl from his stomach answered the question. He remembered that when he had looked over the yacht’s manifesto, he had seen that the chef was of the s’zone race. While he had never tried their cuisine, he had heard that they used their innate scientific nature to infuse their food with flavors of subtle precision. “Actually,” Orion said, “I’m going to need to order some room service.”
The better part of an hour later, Orion was toweling off on the deck of the spa when the command console by the door chimed. “Room service,” said a lilting voice.
Orion threw on his AO-branded T-shirt and black sweatpants again. He ran his fingers through his wet blond hair, standing it up just so, and padded to the door on his bare feet. “Enter,” he called.
The door opened and a slender woman rolled in a cart piled with the precise geometric shapes of s’zone dishes. Each plate or drink was contained by its own intricate machinery, from bowls that displayed exact temperatures to cups inlayed with intricate tubing to covered plates with the pistons of miniature injections systems built-in. The meal looked like it would require a full instruction manual, and he had not expected anything less from a cerebral s’zone chef.
Yet despite his curiosity about the precision-engineered dishes, Orion found that the freyan woman pushing the cart intrigued him far more. The pixie-like humanoid had rosy pink skin, blue head feathers teased out around her sharp face and striking pink eyes. Two ivory-feathered wings that could lift her into the sky on her low-gravity homeworld lay folded flat on her back. Like all of the crew members he had met, she wore a crisp purple uniform with a high collar and a glittering golden stripe, the fabric cut to flatter her lithe and remarkably human curves. Orion offered silent thanks to the gods of convergent evolution for that.
“Well,” Orion said, stopping midstride on the way to the cart. “Hello.”
“Hello, sir,” said the freyan girl with a smile. “I hope this is everything.”
As she named the dishes one by one, Orion tried to stop himself, tried to remember what his therapist had told him about thinking his compulsions through to their emotional consequences. Yet the moment of clarity was only that, a moment, soon smashed down by waves of rapacious hunger. Orion’s mind surged into motion, playing out the chase.
“…and you’ll need this to ignite the chemical flambé for the nova cakes.” She pulled a keycard from her hip pocket and placed it on the cart. “Can I bring you anything else?”
“No, that looks wonderful,” Orion said, rubbing his hands together. “I wonder, what’s an appropriate tip for a feast like this?”
The freyan girl smiled, her gentle laughter birdlike. “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to accept tips, sir.”
“Really? That’s a terrible policy.” Orion knew this, and it was a lucky thing — almost every cent he had to his name existed in the form of a payment from an old sephilon duke that hadn’t even cleared yet, and most of that would have to go back into his business. “Perhaps you could join me for dinner instead? It’s far too much food for me alone.”
The freyan girl shifted from foot to foot. “I really shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be against regulations, necessarily, but…”
“Look,” said Orion. “I get it. On a normal star cruise, you’ve got 20 nobles to babysit.” She blushed a little at this. “But today, it’s just my partners and me.” He smiled and shrugged, trying to put her at ease. “And I guarantee the other two passengers won’t be calling on the staff unless they drain both of their wet bars dry.”
Her pink eyes went wide as she glanced at Orion’s copiously stocked bar. “Could that happen?”
Orion laughed loudly, and the girl giggled. “Oh, they can drink, but even that’s a little much for them.” He gestured at the feast. “Come on, help me out.” He picked up the ignition keycard. “I can’t eat all of those nova cakes myself.”
She smiled shyly. “Very w
ell,” she said after a moment.
Orion whisked the cart away to the square table in the dining alcove of his quarters. Soon the two of them sat knee-to-knee at a corner of the burnished wooden square, picking at the vat-grown delicacies and picking at each other with getting-to-know-you questions. Britta said a little about how she had come from the freyan homeworld of Mother Tree to serve as a junior steward aboard a royal luxury cruiser, and Orion offered vagaries to explain how he had left the “family business” to do “his own thing.” After they had eaten their fill, digested a bit and emptied a few glasses of briophyte gin, Orion’s instincts took over.
In retrospect, he couldn’t say what had done it— a hand on her arm, brushing a head feather off her cheek — but an instant later she was on his lap, their mouths meeting in a deep kiss. Orion savored her warm lips, her downy skin and a scent like citrus trees and ocean breeze. A deeper level of his consciousness marveled at the familiar feel. Though the galaxy’s sentient life had evolved from many different beginnings, much of it had arrived at a very similar place, something he attributed to universal principles of good design.
After a few more long kisses, they rumpled the fine sheets of the suite’s curtained bed. The dimmed glowglobes slid between colors in time with the notes of low-key ambient music, and the majority of the temperamental s’zone food went bad while they made love. When they lay exhausted in the tangled purple silk, Britta propped up her head on Orion’s chest.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said, panting.
“Ask away,” Orion said with a drowsy smile. “But you may have to wait until the blood gets back to my brain for an answer.”
“The stories coming out of Phantak Ro are…” She chewed her lower lip, seemingly unsure how to sum it up. “When you rescued the royal family, did you use… magic?”
