by Lisa Lace
“Right.” Tate squeezed my hand and snapped his fingers at our waiter. “Are you ready to order?”
“Yup.”
The waiter shuffled over to our booth. “What can I get for you lovely people this evening?” The green-haired kid pressed his lips tightly, looking irritated at Tate’s degrading summon. I snuck him an apologetic look. The young waiter looked miserable enough in his stuffy suspenders and waist apron without adding another problem table to his list.
“I’ll have the shrimp cup appetizers and the ostrich steak, medium-well. And we’ll have a bottle of your most expensive champagne.” Tate handed over his menu, turning to look at me. “Perhaps a nice salad for the lady?”
“Absolutely not. I’ll have the crab chowder, large, and your pasta special.” I slammed the menu shut. “Extra cheese, please. Thank you.”
“Coming right up.” The waiter nodded, grinning at me before hurrying off with our orders.
“I see we’re feeling a little peckish today.” Tate stroked my arm gently. “How was work?”
“Boring and unfulfilling, as usual. I finished all my reports early today, so that was pleasant. I can’t complain.”
“It sounds like you’re complaining already. Did anything unusual happen today?”
“No,” I said slowly, choosing my words carefully. “But now that you mention it, I did want to talk to you about something.”
He wasn’t listening. “Frankly, I don’t know why you’re still bothering with work at all.” He spoke over me, popping a handful of roasted nuts into his mouth. “You know I’ve got more than enough money for both of us. You don’t have to work another day in your life. Who would choose to work when they could be a lady who lunches?”
I sighed. “We’ve been over this before. You know how I feel.” The waiter returned with our appetizers, and I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my eyes.
“I don’t know why you insist on doing everything yourself.”
“I may not have the most glamorous job in the world, but what do you expect? It pays the bills. What I enjoy about it is being able to do things for myself. Everything doesn’t have to be about you all the time.”
“All right already! I don’t understand it, but I guess I have to live with it.” Tate pouted from behind his champagne flute. “If that’s the case, why don’t you give Femina Enterprises another try? It’s an excellent company run by women and only women. You would fit right in. You’re a woman.”
“Again, we’ve been through this. I’m not interested.” I was feeling testy, and Tate’s constant interruptions were exhausting. “Before you start this up with me again, remember something. I went on the interview you set up with them behind my back, so don’t say I’m not giving things a fair shot. It just wasn’t for me.”
“They loved you over there, you know.”
“Of course they did. I’m a catch,” I said dryly. “But I’m not interested in a company that’s more concerned with my gender than my credentials. Besides, the pay they were offering was abysmal.” I looked away and tried to distract myself by digging into my crab chowder. “As I was saying, I’ve been thinking of cashing in a couple of my vacation days. I’ve always wanted to explore the galaxy, but I’ve been putting it off with my hectic schedule at work. I was thinking about something. You’ve got that meet-and-greet on planet Zorento next weekend. Why don’t I come with you? We can make a whole week of it.”
Tate coughed. “Sorry, Michelle. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He scratched the back of his neck, averting my eyes. “It wouldn’t sit well with my team. We don’t consider it very professional to bring your girlfriend along on a business trip.”
“Oh, right. No problem.” I was disappointed, but I tried to be understanding. “Maybe I’ll go somewhere on my own. It should be a fun way to unwind. They say backpacking through Luna Maris can be beautiful this time of the year.”
“On your own?” Tate snorted, rubbing my thigh. “I don’t think any woman should be traveling anywhere by themselves on Earth, let alone on another planet. Why don’t you take the time off to see your father instead?”
“My father?” I repeated indignantly, wrinkling my nose. “Why would I take the time to see him?”
“Walter’s reached out to me a few times recently.” Tate was still refusing to look at me, but I sensed it was due to a different reason than before. “What do you think, honey? Isn’t it time the two of you patch things up?”
“Who is Walter? Are you on a first name basis with my dad?” I laughed darkly. “It figures. I don’t hear from Dad in seventeen years, but when he learns I’m dating Tate Sheen, he misses his daughter all of a sudden. He should get an award for remembering I exist!”
“The man’s retired now, and he plans on moving to one of the resort moons around planet Uzra.”
“You’re not listening, and I don’t care. Tate, drop it. Please. You know how I feel about him. I want nothing to do with him. End of story.”
“But Michelle...”
“Oh my goodness, I can’t believe it. Tate Sheen?”
My eyebrows shot up as a young woman stopped next to our table, fanning herself. Three of the woman’s friends hovered behind her and clapped their hands in excitement. As usual, I felt invisible in the presence of another woman. She had her back turned to me, which uncomfortably shoved her suffocating ass stuffed in a glitzy red dress right into my face.
I moved over, holding my soup bowl, protecting it from the unnecessary bouncing next to me.
“The one and only.”
I blew on my spoon, trying not to notice Tate’s shameless rubbernecking at the plump cleavage hanging out of the woman’s top.
“Hi, I’m Sara. I’m sure you get this all the time. I’m your biggest fan!” the woman gushed, tracing a finger along the deep V of her neckline.
“Why, thank you! I do get recognized quite a bit, but believe me, it never gets old.” Fake, exaggerated laughter from the girl and her friends met Tate’s remark.
“My favorite part of Whitaker’s Revenge was when you took your shirt off,” the girl went on, touching Tate’s arm lightly. “Did you have to schedule additional workout routines for that role? You still look unbelievable now, by the way.”
“Thank you very much for noticing.” Tate grinned, entranced by the girl’s obvious flirting. “Jacques was a great trainer. I couldn’t have done it without him pushing me all the way.”
“That is so cool,” the girl drawled. I almost felt sorry for Sara. Her vocabulary seemed limited to words she had learned in middle school. Sara reached into her purse and fished out a felt-tip eyeliner. “I don’t have a pen, but it would be a shame to let this moment go to waste. Would it be too much to ask you for an autograph?”
“Not at all.”
The girl proceeded to bend over, holding open the front of her dress. I crossed one leg over the other, watching the scene in front of me unfold with a mixture of horror and amusement. Tate removed the cap of her eyeliner, signing his name across her half-exposed breasts.
“Ooh, that tickles.” The girl waved a hand over her chest, drying the ink. “Thank you so much. You made my night.”
“And you made mine.” Tate waved at the girls. “You ladies have a good night.”
I rolled my eyes as the gaggle of women crept away, whispering among themselves. “That was a little much, don’t you think?” I finished up my chowder and pushed the bowl away from me.
“What, that?” said Tate innocently, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “Come on, Michelle. She was a fan. You know I have a job, and I have to work all the time. I have to keep up my appearance in my personal life, not just in front of the cameras.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but I quickly decided against it. Inside, I fumed. Tate hid behind the same excuses for everything in his life. His double standards were infuriating. I’d been more understanding than most women would be about his trashy fans, but God forbid if someone of the opposite sex so much as looked
at me for longer than two seconds.
Dinner was already off to a rocky start, and I didn’t want to cause a scene. “I guess so. Whatever you say.” While our waiter cleared away our dishes and replaced them with our main courses, my gaze wandered to the booth next to us.
A man and a woman appeared to be colleagues and were engaged in light conversation over their cheeseboard. I squinted at the badges around their necks. The company logo featured a pair of entwined hands over a backdrop of two merging planets. Under the logo, bold print read: TerraMates.
“Michelle? What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.” I plastered on a smile and reached for my fork. “Nothing at all.”
Chapter Two
CAS
“A toast to all my brothers and sisters, the undefeated Keepers of Yaria and the finest warriors across all the galaxies. Huten daor!”
“Huten daor!”
The ship reverberated with the Yarian battle cries of all the Keepers on board. We raised our brass goblets to Prince Jethro, some of us picking our drunken asses off the ground to complete our toast. The prince wasn’t too far off from total drunkenness himself. He had climbed on top of one of the giant souza barrels to address us, teetering dangerously on the edges.
“Drink up, my friends! The party is only beginning. I have arranged for Yaria’s most beautiful whores to receive you when we land at the base. I handpicked them myself.” The prince jerked his arm forward once more, splashing the front row with his drink. “Do not fret, sisters, you have not been forgotten. You will have your share, too! Now, to all, I bid you a good night. Let us drain every barrel on this ship before we return home!”
I refilled my goblet and joined Jethro as he leaped off the top of the barrel.
“How goes it, Cas?” Jethro leaned against the barrel, draining his goblet. Around us, the music resumed from the makeshift band, headed by one of the veteran Keepers. Dancers undulated to the jovial tune, sweeping the floors with a traditional Yarian jig. “What an evening.”
“Aye. I think it’s been one of our best nights so far,” I agreed, nodding my chin at him. “But what’s the matter with you? You’re barely halfway through one container of alcohol, and you’re about to go down like a deck of yzbani cards.”
“You can kiss my royal ass.”
Jethro wiped the souza off his dark beard with the back of his hand, grinning. He dropped to one knee and started struggling with the empty barrel. Smirking, I poured some thick brown liquor from my goblet into his.
“Good man.” Jethro slurred. He staggered to his feet, signaling for me to follow him. “Come here, Cas. I want to show you something.”
I grabbed another drink for myself before following Jethro to the bottom deck of the spaceship. As Jethro was the only one who was authorized to access this level, he led the way. We passed through a series of secured doors, each gate thicker and more resilient than the last. We didn’t exchange a single word along the way. The iron heels of our boots clinking against the floors and the humming ship equipment made up for the lack of conversation.
Eventually, we reached the vault behind the last gate. As Jethro keyed in his password, I kept my eyes fixed on the ground, only looking up when the light next to the vault flashed green. When the door beeped twice, Jethro thrust his drink into my hand and began to turn the door handle counterclockwise.
Jethro wrenched the door open, pulling it as far back as it would go. The chilled vault housed a pale wooden box on a gilded display stand. A crisscrossing web of red laser sensors guarded the small container.
The prince stumbled into the vault. He disabled the sensors with a remote and reached for the box. He walked over to me, balancing the box carefully in his palm as he ran his hands over the Yarian engravings carved into the sides.
I set down our drinks, wiped my hands on my sides, and flipped open the latch.
“Isn’t it something?” Jethro breathed.
We peered into the box, admiring the crimson cube perched on the silk lining. The rock was no larger than a seashell. Jethro lifted the box to his jawline, inspecting the cube carefully from different angles.
“Those Thortonese bastards will never dare set foot in Yarian territory again,” he declared. He placed the open box back on the podium, but his eyes never left the container. “It won’t be long before the news of the massacre on Thorton tonight spreads throughout the quadrant.”
“Aye, I hear you.”
“We are at a watershed moment. I can feel it.” Jethro shut his eyes briefly and puffed out his chest. His eyes snapped back open, a toothy grin spreading across his face. “Who could be a more deserving heir to the throne than the one who singlehandedly led the mission to retrieve the Doomstone?”
“King Izbul will be pleased with your work.”
The Thorton mission was a definite success, possibly the Keepers’ greatest victory in all of Yarian history. Only two Keepers perished in battle, a practically negligible figure. Still, as much as I wanted to embrace the victory, I suspected that problems were on the horizon.
The mission had few to no problems. It was almost too easy to recover the Doomstone.
Kaiva, the ringleader of the Thortonese marauders, was notorious for her brutal tactics, a lethal band of fighters, and an unmatched ability to escape capture. The marauders were highly trained. They had to move past Keepers stationed at the Yarian palace to get their hands on the Doomstone. They exterminated fourteen of our brethren in the process.
The most recent attack of the Thortonese came thirty years earlier. Fifty Keepers lost their lives defending the palace walls that night. One of the Keepers was my father, Ezra, who left behind a wife and a 3-year-old.
Keeping the thirty-year-old bloodshed in mind, we set out to recover our property anticipating carnage of a similar magnitude. But when we got to Kaiva’s lair, only six guards circled the premises. All the guards were taken out in less than a minute, and we sliced through the other guards inside without incident. Kaiva and a few of her allies managed to flee the scene, but we took the Doomstone into our possession and returned to the ship. The Doomstone was our only objective. It would be up to the Intergalactic Bureau of Investigation to track down Kaiva.
It was logical to question Kaiva’s lackluster efforts to protect the Doomstone. Shouldn’t the Thortonese expect retaliation? The shock on Kaiva’s face when we barged into her lair was both alarming and satisfying. She should have been prepared.
But at the end of the day, a victory was a victory. It wasn’t my place to say anything, and I didn’t want to put a damper on the Keepers’ good spirits. If the Yarian royalty was content, I could be too.
“I cannot wait to see the look on my father’s face when I return the Doomstone,” Jethro mumbled, stepping forward to close the lid of the box. “For now, we should head upstairs again and rejoin the festivities.”
When we returned to the party, a rowdy group of goblet-wielding Keepers ambushed Jethro. Dahry and Godwin hoisted the prince over their shoulders and whisked him off for a round of our favorite drinking game. I was about to join them when I spotted Splynter across the room. I decided to spend some time with him instead.
Like always, Splynter was alone in a corner, looking like an island of misery among the festivities. He sat near the last window, staring out into space while taking periodic sips from his flask. The oracle was one of the oldest in our senior ranks and a walking eccentricity, from his milky-white eye to his peppered ponytail and long, braided beard. No one knew exactly how old Splynter was, but he kept himself in exemplary physical shape. I was sure the grooves on his forehead and protruding veins on his biceps were older than any three neophyte Keepers combined.
“Bashduk vala,” I called out to Splynter, using a respectful Yarian greeting.
As Splynter glanced over his shoulder, he revealed a continent-shaped burn that covered more than half of his face and neck. Through time, the raised scars had turned brown and puckered, easily mistaken for a mask from
a distance. Considering his years on the field, the Keeper displayed a collection of war wounds all over his body. Oddly enough, the burn on his face was accidental and the permanent consequence of working on a faulty electric pipe.
“Vala,” Splynter grunted, skewing away from me.
“May I join you?”
“If you must.”
I interpreted his response as a yes, sitting down on a barrel next to him.
“It doesn’t seem like you’re in the mood to rejoice.”
“I would swallow dirt before joining these impressionable fools.” Splynter bared a shiny set of silver teeth implants. “Why should we celebrate when imminent danger is upon us?”
Cold unease shuddered down my spine. Splynter could feel it, too.
“What is this danger you speak of?”
“Damned if I know. I don’t have all the answers, boy.” Splynter sniffed, taking a swig from his flask. “But it won’t be long now. The night is far from over.”
“What else do you see?” I encouraged him. “Is this something we need to bring to Jethro’s attention?”
“No,” Splynter barked. He put his flask away into a coat pocket and looked me dead in the eye. “We must not intervene in the game of destiny. We might alter our fate and make it worse than we imagine. Now out with it, boy. What is it you seek? I don’t have all night.”
Resting an arm on my knee, I glanced around me and leaned in close enough to smell the souza on Splynter’s breath. “I was hoping you could do a reading for me.”
Splynter glared at me with his good eye. Its white counterpart was unfocused and appeared to be staring directly past my shoulder. He brooded for a few moments, nostrils flaring with every jagged intake of air. Finally, his shoulders sagged in defeat.
“Very well,” Splynter relented, reaching into his heavy sack. He propped up his leg against the windowsill and pulled out a rusty cylindrical tin. “Ask away.”
“I’m not sure how to say it,” I confessed, rubbing under my chin. “I know it seems childish, but this question has haunted me for too many nights. I have to know if flaura are real or not. Do they exist, or are they nothing more than feel-good folklore?”
