Baby, it's Cold in Space: Eight Science Fiction Romances

by Margo Bond Collins

  After the seventh dance, she stomped off the floor and across the room to the refreshment table, where she downed one of the bubbly alcoholic drinks in two gulps.

  The duchess's rules be damned.

  Then she had two more, in quick succession.

  Her last dance partner had been … what was the term she had read for inappropriate New London men?

  A boor.

  No. The word was too genteel.

  That man—Earl Whatshisface—was an asshole.

  He had been unpleasant from the very beginning of their dance, standing too close, making too many comments about her appearance.

  How could the duke's assessment of her as "beautiful" be so flattering, when Earl Asshole's comment that she "look lovely" made her feel as if something slimy had crawled across her skin?`

  The man's words slurred, and his breath stank of alcohol and some pungent local plant that they dried, rolled, and smoked. "You're a lovely little thing. Want to come to my rooms later tonight? I could show you my etchings."

  Etchings? That was some sort of euphemism, wasn't it? Gabbi almost remembered the term being in the list of anachronistic nonetheless in use on New London. Anyway, the leer that accompanied the words made it clear that the man's invitation was to see far more than any artwork he might have created.

  I'm pretty certain that men who are strangers to me aren't supposed to proposition me at parties. It wasn't like when she'd had shore leave on Eldara, where she could have chosen to upload the "come-hither" program that advertised her sexual availability to potentially appropriate partners' implants as they walked by. Gods knew plenty of her shipmates had taken advantage of that particular cultural standard.

  No, New London was much more repressive than that. Yet the man hadn't seemed to take her rejection seriously.

  I followed the rules.

  She had said "No, thank you," politely, yet he had continued to push, telling her his address, offering to have his carriage pick her up at the end of the ball.

  She had finally withdrawn into seething silence, counting down the minutes until she could escape the horrifically entitled jackass. When the music had finally stopped, she had left the floor without properly taking her leave of him.

  Not that she cared about proper behavior with him. Clearly he didn't.

  What am I supposed to do now?

  In the Fleet, any male—or female, for that matter—who continued to pursue a potential partner after being shot down could be brought up on harassment charges.

  Was that a possibility here? Could she report him? And to whom?

  Gabbi knew it was socially inappropriate to review the information on her tablet. But surely if she stayed back here in this corner, and didn't turn on the display option, she could hold the tablet as if it really were the book she had disguised it as.

  Of course, that begged the question of whether it was considered appropriate to read at these social events.

  Gods, they have so many rules.

  Well, if there was ever a time to break them, Gabbi was convinced this was it. And she couldn't very well look up the rule about reading without potentially breaking said rule. What was that funny saying she'd heard Millie using? In for a penny, in for a pound.

  With a shrug, she tugged the tablet out of her reticule.

  She had barely enough time to think I probably should have removed the gloves first before it slipped out of her fingers and clattered to the ground.

  As the duchess would grimly inform her later, that particular faux pas might have been overlooked, were it not for everything that happened in the next thirty seconds.

  Chapter Eight

  THE MAN WHO HAD ANNOUNCED THE DUKE'S GROUP stepped to the top of his short flight of stairs and blew a short tune on funny little horn.

  The music fell silent, and everyone in the room turned to face the entrance, except Gabbi, who was scrambling to catch the falling tablet, and cursing as it fell.

  "Oh, great leaping lizard gods of the damned demonic deeps," she said, just as the announcer-man intoned, "His Majesty, King George XIV."

  Gabbi froze in her bent-over position in the chair, arms still outstretched toward the tablet, which fell open on the floor with a final thud.

  Raising only her eyes, she let her gaze skip past all the other ball-goers, all of whom were kneeling, and half of whom were gaping wide-eyed at her. The other half had settled their equally horrified stares on the king.

  The king, however, had locked his gaze on her, and she had no choice but to meet it—until her tablet powered up and the visual display unfolded in "optimal view" mode, large enough for everyone in the ballroom to see.

  Gabbi's eyes rounded in horror as she heard the opening jingle for a common VR advertisement.

  "Sex Straps!" the overly cheerful announcer's voice exclaimed. "When you wanna get it on in zero-g, but you ain't got no gravity." Several people gasped, and at least one woman standing by the refreshment table fainted.

  Gabbi dove for the device, jabbing at it to try to shut it down, but the commercial, complete with demonstrative visuals, kept playing, illustrating precisely how the advertised devices allowed intimate couples to overcome the difficulties of zero-gravity sex.

  Even shutting the book cover didn't work to hide the display, Gabbi discovered to her horror, as the smart tech simply rerouted itself through her implant.

  Now the revolving sexy couples seemed to emanate from her own eyes.

  I don't even know why I'm blushing.

  Every soldier she knew who'd ever had ship-duty had at least tried Sex Straps.

  This bizarre planet's strange ideas about procreation must really be getting to me.

  Gabbi finally managed to find the volume control, but not before the cheery jingle blared out across the room one more time: "Remember: Sex Straps! Or it's One Thrust and You're Dust!"

  When the visual display pairs—and one trois group—finished thrusting the ad to a close, Gabbi found the manual shut-down button and turned the tablet off entirely, then tucked it away in the reticule.

  The silence in the room was complete for a long moment, and then it was broken by a single, loud guffaw, and everyone began speaking at once.

  Taking a deep breath, Gabbi gathered her courage to apologize to the planet's monarch—but when she looked up, she realized that the king had exited the room at some point during the ad. Face flaming, she began searching for Kiara—or really, anyone she might turn to for support—only to find a wide, empty circle around her.

  Everyone in New London Town had decided she was a pariah.

  Except one.

  "Would you like to step outside for a turn about the garden?" Duke Wiltshire's voice settled like a balm across the wound created by her newly developed social anxiety.

  "Gods, yes." When he snickered, Gabbi realized it was his laugh she had heard break the silence moments before.

  "Come on. There's a garden house near the crèche. We can walk over there," the duke said moments later as they stepped into the blissfully cold night air. He gave her his arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  They strolled through darkened paths silently—and though her anxiety about what had happened in the ballroom made Gabbi feel like squirming, the duke's company felt almost comforting.

  The "garden house," as Duke Wiltshire had called it, was a small stone house overlooking the carefully tended, ornate plants. A porch surrounded it on all sides, giving visitors a place to view the garden. Now, in mid-winter, a dusting of snow covered everything. Gabbi imagined the garden as a riot of colorful flowers in the summer, like something she had seen only in VR shows and books.

  A few meters away from the garden house stood a strange structure, like a three-quarter size lean-to Gabbi might have built as a shelter on planetary exploration maneuvers. Inside it, robed figures grouped around a central object.

  Ah. A religious display. Connected to the Old Earth holiday.

  "This is a crèche?" she
asked, releasing his arm and drawing closer to it to examine it.

  "Yes." The duke followed her, watching her reaction rather than looking at the dolls in the lean-to.

  Gabbi stared at the toy baby bedded down in an animal trough, on top of the animals' food, apparently.

  Maybe that's why all the animals were standing around staring at the infant.

  "That's not what that word means on Niven 6."

  "No. There it's kind of a nursery?"

  "Yes. A group of children reared together, at any rate."

  "I'm sure the words share the same origin." The duke shrugged. "Were you brought up in one?"

  "A crèche? No." She smiled. "My parents were sentimentalists. My true-sib and I were brought up in a single home." She paused. "Of course, my parents had to pay the fines for not allowing state placement. And Esme and I were outsiders at our education facility." She shrugged. "But it definitely prepared me for the military."

  "Do you miss them?" the duke asked quietly. "Your family?"

  "Sometimes. My parents both died my second year in the Fleet—an accident in the mines. They were determined my true-sib and I wouldn't end up on a mining crew. I know the work I do made them proud."

  An odd expression crossed the duke's face.

  "And what about your … sister?"

  "My true-sib—yes, a sister. Esmerelda. She's in the Fleet, too. I talk to her every month or so." Gabbi smiled gently at the thought of Esme and her lofty career goals. She had no doubt her true-sib would make captain soon enough.

  The duke led them up to the garden house's verandah, holding his hand out to Gabbi to make sure she didn't slip on the icy steps.

  "So how bad is it?" she asked.

  "Honestly?" The duke leaned his elbows on the stone balustrade and stared up into the cloudy night sky. "I'm afraid you and your party are …" he searched for a word.

  "Screwed?" Gabbi suggested.

  His surprised laugh didn't keep him from nodding. "And not in any pleasant, zero-g way, I'm afraid," he added.

  I knew it.

  Gabbi chewed on her bottom lip, trying to think her way out of this mess.

  Well, she finally decided. I'm the one who screwed us. Now I'm going to have to be the one to get us out of the mess.

  And maybe this time she could avoid showing Sex Straps to the king.

  Chapter Nine

  IT DIDN'T LOOK LIKE GABBI WAS GOING TO GET THE CHANCE to fix things, though.

  "Apparently, the king can't marry me now because of tonight's 'incident' at the ball." Kiara put air-quotes around the word. They sat alone in their suite of rooms, the duke having escorted them home himself in a tense carriage-ride back from their aborted outing to the Winter Ball.

  The duchess had obviously wanted to give them a dressing-down for what had happened, but Duke Wiltshire had interrupted her in the carriage just as she was winding herself up for what looked to be a brutal reprimand.

  "Not tonight, Mother," he had said, his tone almost as grim as hers.

  When they had entered the manor, the duke had turned to Kiara. "May I speak to you privately for a moment?"

  The ambassador had nodded. "I'll meet you in our rooms in a moment," she said to Gabbi, and followed the duke into his office. The lieutenant had retreated from the duchess's angry glare.

  When she returned to their suite, Kiara had given Gabbi a strange look before dropping down onto the nearest sofa.

  "He won't marry you?" Gabbi said now. "Why not? You didn't have anything to do with it." Gabbi frowned, trying to follow the logic.

  "No, but I brought you to the ball—and to the planet—with me. Apparently, that's enough in this backward-ass place." It was one of the few times Gabbi had heard Kiara curse, and the first time the ambassador had said anything derogatory about New London in her hearing.

  "But he'll still sign the treaty, right? That's what's important."

  "Oh, hell no." Kiara threw herself back against the sofa-cushions, sprawling in a way the duchess would not have approved of. "This merger-marriage was the only way we were able to get him to agree to the alliance at all."

  "Okay." Gabbi sat more carefully, unwilling to risk ripping the beautiful dress and thereby causing any further discord. "I have to say—so what? Doesn't the treaty do more for them than for the rest of the Coalition, anyway? Yes, if the Drovek port through to this sector, they'll wipe out New London"—she was startled to find that the thought of Duke Wiltshire dying in a burst of planetary flames made her stomach twist unpleasantly—"but really, isn't that their problem?"

  "Oh, if only it were. That's the hell of it all." Kiara began pulling pins out of her hair, letting the tendrils fall free. "What most people don't know—what you don't officially know, now or ever—" she gave Gabbi a significant look and waited for the other woman to nod agreement before continuing "—is that New London has a thriving stealth-tech industry."

  "Stealth-tech? As in…"

  "As in hidden from view, even when it's in plain sight."

  "Oh, really," Gabbi breathed, as she began considering all the potential military implications.

  "Yep. You ever get that demonstration from the maid on the house system?"

  "Actually, no."

  "Didn't think so. New London society is weird. The 'lower' classes"—again, Kiara gave the word air-quotes—"the non-nobility, run the tech industry here, and guard it zealously. They all play along with the class distinction, but those divisions aren't real—not in the way they were on Old Earth." She paused, thoughtfully. "This whole planet is like one giant costume party."

  "Or a really creepy theme park." Gabbi shuddered. After a moment, she asked, "Isn't their Parliament required to share their tech as part of the Coalition?"

  "Nope. They're an associate planet, not a primary signatory planet. Thus the need for the treaty."

  The duke had been more right than he had known—she really had screwed them all over.

  Then again, maybe he knew precisely what he was saying.

  "Is there any way to fix this?" she asked.

  Kiara shrugged. "I don't know." She pulled out the last hairpin, and dropped the entire handful on the small lamp-table at the end of the sofa, then stood up and stretched. "I'll see what I can find out tomorrow, and we'll get started repairing the damage to the best of our ability."

  "I'm so sorry." Gabbi's voice was small as she looked up at the woman who had become her friend.

  Kiara nodded. "I know. There's nothing to be done tonight. Get some sleep and we'll deal with it in the morning."

  As the ambassador walked into her own room, she turned to look back at Gabbi one more time, a thoughtful frown on her face.

  ***

  "Couldn't this have waited until the morning?" The duke shook his head in irritation at his butler.

  "I don't believe it can, Your Grace."

  Graves' grim expression finally penetrated Edward's sleepy haze, and he blinked to try to wake up more. It had taken him several hours to finally get to sleep, too wound up in planning to redeem the treaty to even contemplate slumber.

  "I have asked Margaret to bring coffee to your office," Graves added, his request of his wife underscoring the severity of whatever it was he had to say.

  "Not tea."

  Graves shook his head, his lips tightening.

  Edward nodded. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

  As he pulled on his clothes, he wondered what else, after tonight's social disaster, could possibly be bad enough for Graves to rouse him from bed. The various possibilities sent him racing to the office within five minutes.

  Margaret Graves stood beside her husband, their expressions equally bleak. She handed him a cup of coffee, and Edward took a bracing drink of the bitter liquid.

  "Show me," he said simply.

  With a nod, Graves tapped on the duke's desk, and the image of a menu-panel was projected into the air above the desk. With a few quick finger motions, Graves caused a VR visual to unfold in the same space.

>   Edward took a moment to consider the irony of its similarity to the projection that Gabbi had accidentally played at the Winter Ball.

  We're a planet full of hypocrites.

  That was part of what he wanted to change about his world.

  Then his thoughts caught up with the content of the display images, and his coffee cup clattered into its saucer.

  "Has anyone alerted the king yet?" he demanded.

  "No, Your Grace. The military is following its usual protocol, as far as we can tell."

  "To hell with that. I want you to open a channel to the palace now. Code it as well as you can, but don't worry if it's intercepted." Edward took several pieces of paper out of his desk, took a seat, and dragged an ink well and quill toward himself. Then, on second thought, he pulled an e-pen out of the recesses of yet another drawer.

  He had already completed two pages' worth of notes by the time Graves had gotten past the king's staff—a difficult task even for His Majesty's own cousin.

  "Good God, man, what is it?" the monarch asked testily when Edward finally reached him.

  "It's the Drovek, Your Majesty," Edward said tersely. "They've attacked the Coalition."

  Chapter Ten

  "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOUR KING WON'T DO ANYTHING to help us?" the ambassadoress's voice cut across the babble that had erupted in the wake of the duke's announcement.

  He had gathered the members of his household who were key to his plan, including his off-worlder guests, his mother, the Graveses, his press secretary, and the local vicar, whom Graves arranged to have roused from his bed and brought to the manor. Edward had no doubt that many other members of his staff had positioned themselves at those vents most likely to carry sound throughout the manor—he knew most of those spots himself, having used them to attempt to spy on his parents when he was a child.

  Good. The more quickly people learned of this, the better.

  Assuming my plan works.

  No. He had to assume this would succeed, and that he would need the gossip machine of New London Town to spread the story far and wide.