by Michael Orr
Back in reality, the taxi aimed for the peach-hued reflections of Goddess’s complex in Sydney’s mirrored downtown. A squat, squarish building sat annexed to a vertical egg-shaped skyscraper plated with armor-like mirrors. The complex splashed nearby towers and low-lying neighborhood blocks with its lively take on the sunset, and Trish found herself absorbed in the brilliant cityscape as the taxi spiraled down to a rooftop entrance.
“The main lobby is through those doors, Miss Thierry. Good luck with your application.”
“Let’s go, chica.” Trish coaxed herself forward. “Just ’cuz ya haven’t done it this time around doesn’t mean ya haven’t done it.”
Grabbing her duffel, she strode through the swishing doors and approached the reception.
The mild-mannered robodesk read her bioscan and greeted her with a gender-neutral, “Welcome to Goddess Cruise Lines, Miss Thierry.”
“Hi. I’d like to submit an unscheduled application?”
“That’ll be fifth floor recruitment. Lift two is ready for you. Just follow the green path upon exiting.”
Her lift skimmed down four floors and opened with a green beam guiding her along a cylindrical, blue-carpeted hallway. The sumptuous décor helped to soothe the bats swarming in her belly, but her hiccups really needed to mind their p’s and q’s.
The beam led to a glass office occupied by one lone staffer. He had the mocha skin of a population that had been intermixing for centuries, which was yet another reason for Trish’s popularity. Her rare paleness was an added dimension of intrigue, and one to which the staffer was not immune.
His eyes ran over her petite, curvy frame as she approached. All of 49 kilograms and 157 centimeters tall — shoulder high to the average guy — Trish was a bombshell topped by a feisty pouf of black cherry hair. And her inborn grace made her a natural entertainer.
“Miss Thierry!” The staffer’s enthusiasm was set to ‘broil’. “I understand you’re interested in applying?”
“Oh, hi!” She fished out her sweetest smile. “I didn’t think I’d actually speak with a person this early on.”
“Well, recruiting’s a face-to-face kinda thing.” He grinned, and Trish jumped in with both feet.
“I’m so glad t’hear you say that...” She leaned on the counter, answering him with generous helpings of cleavage.
“We’re pretty full up.” He studied his holo. “But...wow, you’ve got some serious credentials. What kinda performance?”
“I’m pretty open, but my specialty’s nouveau.” She held back her hopefulness about as effectively as Georgia's sea wall held back the recent super-hurricane.
He tilted his head in a ‘sorry, kid’ without looking up. “Pop dancers we got.”
Trish bit her lip while the staffer searched his holo for morsels, but the latest message from her guides flashed in her mind:
There are certain moments in life with the power to transport you beyond yourself. If you have the presence to be mindful in such moments, you might never have to look back.
A new possibility emerged, but not from her unseen friends. This was from somewhere deeper inside. It felt more personal and resonant, as if she’d lived it at some point.
“What if I dance nude?” She stepped back, cocking her hip with a professional’s grace. “Got any’a those?”
The staffer twisted in his Goddess vest. “Um...w-we don’t actually have strip clubs on our ships.”
He said it as if realizing for the first time what a tragedy that was.
“Oh, I don’t really mean stripping.” The words teased wetly off Trish’s tongue. “Just dancing.”
“Like, maybe a go-go?” he warbled. “That kinda thing?”
“Will it get me a spot?”
“Uhhh...wait here.” He disappeared into the back.
2
* * *
EARTHFLEET HQ – EARTH ORBIT – FEB 23, 2371
Major Revvic Leyne tapped on the slider and waited. Lieutenant General Wye had given strict orders not to be interrupted, but Leyne’s news demanded immediate action from EarthFleet’s Chief of Intelligence.
The slider shot open, revealing a hastily-robed and glaring Wye. Deeper inside the suite, a soft voice was humming to herself.
“No choice, General...” Leyne handed him a holokey and stealthily withdrew.
Back inside, Wye angrily swiped on the holo and stopped cold. For more than a year, EarthFleet ships had been disappearing without explanation, their debris fields floating in mute witness to one-sided battles. And all those losses had been shrouded in maddening mystery — until now.
Wye clenched his fists as the anonymous holo revealed an alien dreadnought taking out a new Nile-class corvette in swift, decisive action.
“Leyne!” he comm’d.
#General?#
“Do we have intel on that ship?”
#I’ve searched our database, sir. Nothing. I didn’t wanna contact the Alliance without your go-ahead.#
“No, no. We leave the Alliance out of it for now,” Wye agreed. “Get ahold of Admiral Courne for me.”
“Gentlemen,” Wye stood at the head of EarthFleet’s steerage committee, “we have here a new threat. And the absence of Alliance targets suggests this enemy is specific to Earth.”
“Any chance these’re related to the rogue-star attacks?” asked a fleet admiral. The weaponized rogue stars of the 2350s had been few and far between since, but not quite scarce enough to be forgotten.
Wye shook his head. “There’s no way t’know so far. But I think it’s unlikely that a civilization advanced enough to replicate stars would supplement that tech with nuts-n-bolts ships.”
He paused for a moment to make sure he had their full attention. “Either way, gentlemen, we need a plan.”
That plan, as Major Revvic Leyne learned in a later briefing with Wye, was to pique the Orion Alliance’s interest in identifying these phantom ships without raising any alarms. Everyone involved understood that the Alliance would see this as an excuse to meddle in Earth affairs, and it would take some delicate line-toeing to keep them at bay.
Being Wye’s senior field operative, Leyne was accustomed to such assignments.
“I should get going.” He felt himself dismissed.
“Not this time, Rev. I’ve got a political concern with this one. The review boards’ve come out and Nash’s getting a middle stripe.”
The news brightened Leyne’s Nigerian face. It was an accelerated promotion for Jerrett Nash, who was more than a deputy; he was extremely competent and a good friend. Seeing him make rank was a welcome shift from the day’s turmoil.
But then it hit him. A middle stripe would mean Nash was going ‘mariner’. He'd never told Leyne he was choosing navy.
“Stripe?”
“You ’n I are victims of your success, Rev. You cast a big shadow. So now, I've gotta convince some skipper that Nash is the catch’a the day when he’s got no kills to his credit.”
“Aaagreed, sir...but with somethin’ like this?”
“Something exactly like this, Rev.”
Wye’s glance took Leyne back to his own first big chance. His limelight career was built on just these kinds of risks, and Nash had earned his shot. He’d have to discuss Nash’s career choice another time.
“I’ll send ’im in, sir. If you’re ready.”
Wye nodded.
SYDNEY MEGAPLEX – EARTH – FEB 23, 2371
The Goddess staffer was gone so long that Trish ended up keeping his chair warm.
What would it be like, she wondered, going on stage in nothing?
She’d only thought about it in rare moments. Her dance was about low-G poetry: the human form suspended in low flight, showcasing the supple geometries of motion. She’d spent her life learning to use her body as an art piece. In fact, had come to think of herself — her physical self — as a prop. Nouveau was dance embellished with G-tech to create the spectacle of dynamic floating. What would it be like to do that nude?
; Could I? Would anyone want me to? Maybe they’ll just want me t’dance like any old go-go.
She conjured a mental image of her ebullient body bobbling and shaking like a club dancer, but with her figure’s 85DD-58-94 cm measurements, the vision was obscene.
Never. She crossed her arms. I didn’t study and practice my childhood away just ta shake my girls. If that’s all they want, they’re in for an education.
But it went deeper. Buried beneath all the bluster was a somatic memory — the shrill sensation of baring herself in front of a crowd, hiding nothing. And not just a club crowd, but crowds in general.
Maybe it really is like everyone always says: just ’cuz ya haven’t done it this time around doesn’t mean ya haven’t done it.
She mused about it long enough to realize the staffer might not be coming back. She was debating whether to cut and run when a statuesque black lady in smart Goddess Line colors strode in with her startling golden hair all a-bounce. She seemed to draw the energy of the whole company with her.
“Trisha?” Her eyes blatantly undressed the rising girl, and a smile of obvious surprise accompanied her professional assessment as they shook hands.
“I’m Fey, activity director for Goddess. I understand you’d like ta dance with us?”
Trish nodded, guessing her figure had carried the day.
“The only place I can put you would be the Zodiac Lounge.” The woman chattered like they’d grown up together. “My plan was t’use it as a concert hall for the latest megastars, but frankly, the cost of booking names for a solid month in space gives me hives.
“Thing is...” she cast a weather eye on her exquisite applicant, “there’s just one stage — meaning you’d be the only dancer. In fact, you’d be the only performer, period.”
Trish fidgeted. “Oh.”
“But what works works, right?” Fey’s chirpiness sprang eternal. “How d’you feel about that?”
“Like, my own club?”
“Come with me...” Fey led the way through a maze of glasswork hallways until Trish was utterly lost.
“I’ll hafto audition you anyways.”
She ushered Trish into an empty sound stage and brought it to life with some swiping on her wristpad. The space erupted into an instant party filled with music and lights and people — a holosuite for testing new talent.
“Go through there.” She pointed to a nearby door. “You’ll find a changing room. Go ahead ’n get yourself ready. Just do your thing an’ let’s see how it goes.”
Trish swallowed hard. Dancing naked for a female director had definitively not been part of her plan, but what could she do?
After unwrapping from her interview dress, she took several breaths and tried to ground, imagining roots from the soles of her feet down into the Earth.
“This isn’t just dancing,” she reminded herself. She had little idea how to emcee her own club, but her best shot at a life was waiting just beyond that door.
“Lee...?” Fey called out more than an hour later as she escorted a flushed Trish back through the glass maze. A twenty-something guy popped up from a nearby cubical, his eyes tracing the jiggly, burgundy-haired phenomenon trailing his boss.
“Lee, this’z Trisha. I know you’re a little less swamped than usual, so I need you t’process ’er for the Asherah. She’s gonna solve that Zodiac problem.”
Fey’s eyes rested on her new discovery like the girl was treasure. “I’ll catch up with ya later. Lemme know if there’s anything special you need, ’k?”
Then she was gone in a flurry of blonde.
“Sooo...” Lee head-bobbed.
EARTHFLEET HQ – EARTH ORBIT – FEB 23, 2371
Lieutenant Jerrett Nash sat in Wye’s office, facing the general with his head full of question marks. In three years at Fleet Intelligence he’d spoken with Wye maybe a dozen times. Major Leyne was the department’s heir apparent, always getting the juicy assignments, and Nash had been forced to accept that his time here would be a dead-end.
His main question after Wye had filled him in on the Admiralty’s plan: “May I ask why me, sir?”
Not that he was complaining.
“Simple math, Nash.” Wye never used first names with junior assistants. “You’re a career mariner now — a fish outta water in a warrior chain of command. Getting you back fleetside means I hafta give you a chance t’make a name for yourself. Otherwise...”
Nash nodded, all too aware that his obscurity could lead to a desk job as far from the fleet as could be. But considering what was at stake, this assignment seemed over-generous.
On the other hand, he told himself, high probability of failure means political risk. Rev’s bein’ shielded from potential career suicide, and my own career needs exactly this kinda jumpstart.
“Take a command ship,” Wye instructed. “An Alliance liaison’ll meet you at Starbase Twelve.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for this, General.” Nash rose to leave but was stopped at the door.
“And go as a lieutenant commander,” the general said matter-of-factly. “They consider working with junior officers a bit of an insult.”
Nash left the office on a precarious high. There were solid reasons for misgivings, not the least of which was interfacing directly with the Alliance on their own turf. But his racing pulse told the real story. What junior officer didn’t hope for exactly this kind of make-or-break? A promotion, an Admiralty command ship at his disposal, a chance to visit the fabled heart of the Orion Alliance itself...
Hell, even if I fail it’ll be the adventure of a career.
He did some math. Ten days to reach Starbase Twelve. Just enough time.
Making field rank meant he could relax the regs and grow a goatee to age himself. He planned to return from this mission the picture of a seasoned officer.
3
* * *
SOCAL CONSERVATORY – EARTH – FEB 23, 2371
Madam Renée Durra was getting an early start to her day when a holo chimed in. She wasn’t in a place to read the label first.
“Ohh...go ahead. Answer.”
Trish materialized in mid-air, dripping with Goddess colors and an epic smile.
Renée’s hands shot to her mouth. “Ohh...myyy...”
“I’m stuck in an overnight waiting for my shuttle.” Trish beamed. “I got my own club! On the ASHERAH!”
Renée’s sharp inhale hyped the girl’s mood, and they chatted excitedly until Renée realized how late it had to be on Trish’s end.
“Gonna miss ya, sweetheart.” She grinned, thinking about the day Trisha came to the conservatory:
She watches a young woman lead a toddler up the steps to the conservatory’s main entrance, but from this distance the little girl’s details are eclipsed by the mop of deep red hair smothering her head. Her guardian’s soft voice carries across the pavement like the inarticulate moans of a mammal encouraging its baby. The toddler sallies forth in silence, deeply intent on her footfalls. The final steps prove less intimidating and she takes them boldly.
Closer now, Renée can make out more than just the flame of hair. Pale skin of a rare porcelain quality more than suggests state-sponsored breeding; it positively screams it. Renée’s experienced eye projects into the future and glimpses a remarkably close vision of what this tender little thing will become. An uncommonly tantalizing prospect for the regent of SoCal’s Conservatory.
She kneels to greet her new pupil and immediately discovers a pair of fierce and far-too-big eyes proudly displaying the hues of a periwinkle garden. Renée has seen violet eyes, but never this.
She smiles at the girl, taking in the full visual effect before glancing up at her guardian.
“Can you say ‘hello’?” The guardian sing-songs, her tenderness at odds with her spiky blonde hair. The little girl withdraws.
“Hello,” offers Renée with motherly calm and a wise, welcoming smile. “What’s your name?”
“Twifsha.” The girl twists around behind her guardian’s l
eg, eating her own fingers.
Renée brightens at the toddler’s verbal misadventures. “Hi, Trisha. D’you know who I am?”
The girl looks away. “Wuh-nay.”
Renée shoots a delighted glance up at the girl’s guardian before getting down to business.
“Would you like ta learn how t’dance, Trisha?” She whispers the tantalizing offer just between the two of them. “Really dance?”
Trisha’s whole attention bolts up to her guardian in brisk urgency, then just as briskly back to Renée. There’s an answer in those colorful eyes.
And something more.
After sixteen years, Renée still didn't know the ‘more’, but she could smile into Trish’s happy glow.
“Heyyy...I’ll be back every four weeks,” Trish told her. “It’s mandatory!” She faded away like the Cheshire Cat to make her other farewells.
With her goodbyes taken care of, Trish settled back on the bed for a sleepless night. Way too much adrenalin for anything else. But it wasn’t long before she felt the tug of a conversation.
“I know you’re here.” She glanced around the empty room as if the voices might actually show themselves for once.
We’re always with you, Trisha.
“Really? Then why’ve you been so quiet? s’Not like I haven’t been asking for guidance all this time!”
There’s always hope that you’ll find the path with your own heart, free of our influence.
We give you every opportunity up to the moment of truth.
“But that was an eleventh-hour if ever there was one.” She was off the bed, hands on hips. “Asherah coulda sailed without me!”
And yet, we were there...
And you are here.
Trish felt her free-will in the balance. “Sooo, what if I’d gone the Libernation route instead?”
Contingencies abound.
And it would’ve been an improvement over local work, anyhow.
“Then, we’re all kosher with me dancing in the raw? I mean–”
