by Anthea Sharp
Nate assured the commander that his daughter would be treated like the most precious of orchids. He would be personally responsible for her safety in every particular. After all, what harm could come to Miss Pershing? Perhaps a mild bout of dizziness from breathing in the fumes of Wendover as she examined the containers of local flora, but nothing more serious.
A quarter of an hour later, the young lady presented herself to Nate in the conservatory, her dark hair braided back, though stray curls were already escaping.
“I am ready,” she said, her eyes shining. “Only tell me what needs to be done.”
A mousy-looking woman accompanied her—Liza, who roomed two doors down from Betts. Nate nodded to her. The maid dipped her head in return, then retreated to a corner and opened the novel she was carrying.
“We’ve been cataloging the new specimens,” Nate said, leading Miss Pershing to the bank of collection jars. “Thomas has tagged some of them, but if you could take over his duties, he would be free to accompany me into the field.”
Miss Pershing nodded, her eyes fixed on the jars. Each one held a plant carefully extracted from the jungle. The air inside was tinted violet, the atmosphere controlled by an elaborate system of tubes that maintained the toxic balance the flora needed to survive.
With a competent air, the commander’s daughter took up her new duties. Nate returned to his desk and continued to key in his preliminary report to Kew Gardens. So far, he had uncovered nothing extraordinary about the plants of Wendover. Which was all to the good. He must not draw undue attention to himself.
Half of him chafed at this assignment, but he clenched his jaw on the frustration and forced his hands to patience. There was very little he could do here, at the edge of the Empire, though Edward remained on Earth, as the heart of the Underground. If anything happened to Edward, Nate would be the one to pick up the pieces and assume the mantle of heir invisible. The prospect turned his stomach. He was no natural leader like his brother.
“Mr. Smith?” Miss Pershing’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I have a question about the Doradis Excelsior in the corner. Is it supposed to droop like that?”
“One moment—let me ping my report back.” He finished the document and sent it, then rose to join the distractingly intelligent Miss Pershing.
***
The next morning, after breakfast, Jess changed out of her butter-yellow morning gown and into something more suitable for the conservatory. She had not wanted to wear her ladies’ breeches to the meal, where her mother would have expressed shock and demanded she change into attire more befitting a lady.
Jess donned a shirtwaist along with her breeches, and for a moment considered leaving off her corset—but the breeches were at the edge of decency as it was. The fabric flapped about her legs, nearly as voluminous as her skirts, but leaving her much more room to maneuver.
“What do you think?” Jess asked her maid as she stepped in front of the plas-glass imager.
Goodness, she was the very image of a lady adventurer. All she needed was a jaunty hat and a sturdy parasol, and she could easily grace the cover of a half-dozen novels.
“Very dashing, milady,” Liza said.
“A pity I won’t actually be out in the field.” Jess made a face at her reflection. “But at least I am dressed for it.”
When she reached the conservatory, however, she found a sober-faced Mr. Smith waiting. He was wearing an enviro-suit, the shiny material oddly flattering, making his features seem more rugged than usual. Behind him floated a servbot bearing everything a botanist would need for a collection expedition: jars made of impermeable Yxleti material, handheld imagers, razor-sharp shears, and various trowels.
“Do you fancy a short trip outside?” he asked. “Thomas has taken ill, and I can’t cancel this foray. My work is at a standstill until I gather more specimens.”
Her heart gave a huge thump, then settled into a faster rhythm. “You could bring one of the other men along, instead of me.”
She had to put up a token resistance. When her father found out, she would have to offer at least some excuse. Luckily, Mr. Smith had an excellent reason.
“I need another trained botanist—someone with a passing familiarity of what we’ve already collected. You’re the only one. Here, I’ve brought an extra enviro-suit.”
He held it out to her. Jess took it, excitement pulsing through her.
Good thing she was wearing her breeches. There was no way her cumbersome skirts and petticoats could have fit into the legs of the suit. As it was, the material bunched awkwardly, but there was room enough. The sleeves did not line up quite as expected, and she struggled a moment with the fastenings in front, her fingers clumsy inside the gloves.
“Here.” Mr. Smith stripped off his own gloves and deftly closed her suit. “You’ve watched all the safety grams?”
“Of course.”
He paused a moment and met her gaze. “I trust you to be careful.”
She nodded, distracted by the flecks of amber in his warm brown eyes. This close to him, she could not escape the memory of their almost-kiss on the journey to Wendover.
They had met in one of the narrow corridors of the ship, she going one way, he the other. The prudent thing to do would have been to retreat back to a doorway, but she had not. Nor had he stepped out of the way, as a gentleman would. Instead, they met in the middle. He set his hands at her waist and they had pivoted, in a slow-moving dance.
Her hands had slipped up to his shoulders, he bent his head, and their lips had brushed, soft as starlight filtered through the blackness. She had threaded one hand through his thick brown hair—and he had jolted back, the moment broken. Murmuring a stiff apology, he had set her at arm’s length and hurried away down the hall.
Tears had weighted her breath, hot and heavy, as she watched him go. The remainder of the journey had been spent in careful avoidance.
Once on Wendover, her bruised heart had healed. Truly, the man had no effect on her at all now.
He lifted a helmet from the shelves beside the airlock. Instead of handing it to her, he brushed a wayward curl from her cheek.
“I’ll seal your helmet for you. Ready?”
She nodded. Her face tingled, where he had touched it.
***
The jungle was dark and immense. Jess’s pulse raced furiously, her body unconvinced that the thin material of her suit and plas-glass helmet were enough to keep the inimical atmosphere at bay. She followed Nate under the canopy of vegetation, through curtains of hair-like vines, and past huge, fleshy leaves that seemed to pulse scarlet as they passed. The servbot trailed faithfully behind them.
“We’re going due north from the habitat,” Nate said, his voice sounding perfectly clear through her helmet. “If we get separated, activate your beacon and head south.”
“I don’t intend to lose you.”
After a few minutes, Nate halted beside an outcropping of translucent purple stone. He called the servbot over, then handed Jess a pair of shears.
“I haven’t seen this type of micro-climate yet,” he said. “Look around—collect anything that seems unusual.”
She nearly laughed at that. Everything on Wendover was unusual—alien and bizarre to her habitat-sheltered senses. But she nodded and began casting about.
The three-leaved plant behind her was familiar enough that she did not need to call him over, as were the bent stalks of a nearby tuberous growth. She prowled to the edge of the outcropping, then bent, her attention caught by a bright blotch of color near the base.
It was a fungus of some sort—or what passed for one on this moon—shedding an eerie greenish glow.
“I’ve found something,” she said. “Bring the servbot.”
Nate hurried over and knelt on the soft red loam. He took up a trowel and carefully dug a wide circle around the fungus. While he was thus occupied, Jess selected a squat, wide-mouthed jar and opened it. As soon as he was ready, she held it steady for him. Quickly, he transf
erred the specimen into the jar, and she sealed it.
“Good,” he said. “We’ll return now. Some of the things I’ve collected have died immediately. I’d like to examine this one as soon as possible.”
Just before she stepped back through the airlock, Jess turned her face up to the sky. There was still no sign of the stars.
***
As Nate had feared, the fungus proved fragile. He bent over the jar, dialing up the magnification imager with one hand and taking furious notes with the other. Before his eyes, the specimen’s glow was fading. Already the upper part of it had transformed into a pus-like ooze. Despite his careful handling, despite the tubes that carried Wendover’s atmosphere into the jar, the little fungus was dying. The ooze accelerated until, with a plop, the specimen dissolved, leaving only a viscous green puddle on the red loam inside the jar. Had he been able to smell it, he had no doubt the stench would have been terrible.
“Oh,” Jess said at his elbow, “that’s too bad.”
“I’ll need to set up a portable laboratory,” he said. “It’s no use bringing specimens inside, only to watch them die.”
He handed her the imager, then continued with his notes, filling in what he recalled of his observations. Without needing his direction, Jess hooked the imager into the larger system and began documenting the specimen’s demise. They were an excellent team, loathe as he was to admit it.
Why did he have to meet her now, when the risk of discovery was so high? Why couldn’t she be a maid, instead of the daughter of a Viscount? The knowledge left a bitter taste in his mouth, in his nose.
No… that acrid stench was coming from elsewhere. He knew it, though. It was the smell of danger. He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to identify the poisonous aroma.
Panic clanged through him, but it was distant and muffled, like an alarm bell heard through the fog. The atmosphere of Wendover was somehow seeping into the air! He must warn Miss Pershing… he must… he must…
***
The crash yanked Jess’s attention from her study of the images. Fear roared through her like a dark beast. Where was Nate? She jumped up, scanning the conservatory while her breath sawed through her throat.
There he was—lying on the floor. She hurried toward him, then gagged as a horrific stench hit her in the face, nearly a physical blow. Her lungs seized and her eyes burned from it. What was that smell?
She drew her sleeve over her face and forced herself forward.
Above Nate’s prostrate body, a violet cloud was forming. It took her an instant to spot the hole in the collection jar. Impossible—but somehow the impervious Yxleti material had been damaged. The poisonous atmosphere of Wendover was leaking into the habitat.
The valve—she must find the valve! Chest screaming, she lunged for the system of tubes running above the specimens. It seemed to take forever for her fingers to close over the gleaming lever and wrench it off.
Unable to hold her breath any longer, Jess gulped in tainted air. Coughing madly, she bent and grasped Nate beneath the shoulders. Purple swirled around them—or perhaps it was her vision swirling. All she knew was that she must pull him to safety.
Belated claxons split the air, the habitat’s alarms finally registering that something was amiss in the conservatory.
Jess collapsed beside the door. She couldn’t tell if Nate was still breathing. She could barely tell if she was. Resting her head against the slick white wall, she closed her eyes and waited for help to arrive.
***
Her father, of course, forbade Jess to return to the conservatory. Not that she could have—there was no work to be done. All the specimens had died from lack of atmosphere, and Nate was still under medical supervision. He was constrained to bed rest in the sick bay, but the doctor had declared him fit for visitors.
She was the first to see him, and had to restrain herself from taking his hand.
“I understand I owe you my life,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “Thank you, Jess.”
She did not chide him for the intimacy of using her given name. Instead, she yielded to temptation and slipped her fingers around his. He returned her grasp, warm and solid despite the pallor of his skin.
“What happened?” he asked.
“It’s remarkable, really. The ooze of the decaying fungus made a hole in the collection jar. It’s some kind of chemical excretion the scientists have never seen before.”
“It ate through the Yxleti plas-glass?” His eyebrows rose. “That’s impossible. Nothing can damage it.”
“Evidence proves otherwise.” She tipped her head at him.
“And did this substance go on to burn a hole through the habitat?”
“No—it stopped at the counter. Either the metal is impermeable, or the ooze lost its potency.”
A curious, deeply thoughtful expression crossed his face. “I’ll have to do some experimenting.”
“Not now.” She gave his hand a warning squeeze. “You are to rest. Wendover will still be here once you’ve recovered.”
***
Six months later, the news ricocheted across the Empire like a fatal blow. The fourteenth Queen Victoria was dead—and there was no successor. It was unheard of, yet somehow the Seeds of the queen had been sabotaged as well. The impervious material had been breached and the Seeds destroyed.
Victoria’s long reign was over.
Even on the tiny moon of Wendover there was consternation verging on panic. At least, in the gentry’s quarters. Several cubicles in the servant’s habitat hosted small but jubilant celebrations.
In London the next day, a man came forward claiming to carry the blood of monarchs in his veins. Tests confirmed it, and the House of Lords unanimously agreed to crown Edward Windsor the next king of England, the Earth, the Solar System, & etc.
The Yxleti remained silent. Whether they were vexed at the destruction of the Seeds, or had simply been waiting all along for humans to seize their own destiny, no one knew.
These events, though earthshaking, paled in Jessamyn Pershing’s life the day that Nathanial Smith proposed marriage.
“Yes!” she cried, flinging her arms about his neck.
Happiness soared through her, a thousand sparkling stars, a million dreams and wishes encompassed in her heart. Nate dipped his head and, at last, their lips met in a fierce, long-awaited kiss.
And if her fingers brushed the shattered remains of an identification chip at the back of his neck, she never breathed a word.
Across the galaxy the words rang, unspoken for five-hundred years.
“The queen is dead! Long live the king!”
~*~
Marianne’s Flight
The hot breeze of Korbos carried the tang of smoke. The wind ripped at the ribbons of Miss Marianne Fordham’s bonnet, sucked the moisture from her skin as she alighted from the carriage-bot in front of the Governor’s Mansion. The white stone façade was being scrubbed yet again, by the servants whose job it was to keep the mansion sparkling, despite the ochre dust that stained everything yellow.
It was a task that could have been performed by bots just as easily, but Father liked his little displays of power.
“Is something burning?” she asked the footman who assisted her down from the vehicle.
Now that she was out of the carriage, the bitter smoke was stronger, stinging the back of her throat. She heard a distant clamor, as well—yelling and crashes from the direction of the marketplace.
“I don’t know, milady,” the man said.
He ducked his head, perhaps out of deference, or perhaps to keep her from seeing his face. She had the uncanny ability of knowing when people were lying to her—a trait the servants found discomfiting. Especially when they had something to hide.
The sere heat sapped her of the energy to press him. Marianne pulled her veil across her face to keep the worst of the dust out of her nose, then beckoned to her maid to bring the packages. She hurried toward the imposing front door. It would be a blessing to
step inside the dim, climate-controlled building, even if her parents and sisters were at home—which they most assuredly were.
It was not a simple life. She could have physical ease, or mental, but not both. And each discomfort became too much to bear, on a regular basis.
The outer doors hissed open at her approach. Marianne paused inside the foyer, the sudden cessation of wind leaving her ears buzzing. She removed her bonnet and shook out her skirts, then peeled off her gloves, leaving them in a yellowed heap for the maids.
Fresh roses graced the hall table, their pink blossoms sending out a heady, extravagant fragrance. The flowers would not last long here, exposed to the arid heat, but the governor demanded it.
She passed through the polished inner doors, the wood smooth beneath her hand, and found the butler waiting.
“Miss Fordham,” he said. “I trust your outing was satisfactory. Your return has been awaited, and you presence is requested in the parlor.”
Despite the heat, a cold lump lodged beneath her ribs. By requested, of course, he meant required.
She nodded. Instead of turning toward her rooms, she headed down the high-ceilinged hall toward the parlor. Much as she would have liked to wash the grit from her face, it would be foolish to ignore the summons.
Her body moved forward, but in her imaginings, Marianne picked up her skirts and dashed back down the hall to a place of safety and refuge. A place where she could simply be, without suffering the wretched planetary winds and heat, without being forced to navigate family cross-currents that too often ended in shipwreck.
Upstairs, hidden in her jewelry box, lay the printed acceptance from Victoria University’s College of Ambassadorial Studies. She had passed her secondary-level exams with the highest marks—a matter of great pride to her father, until he realized she meant to leave and pursue a career. She had begged to go, but he was adamant in his refusal.
