by Kyla Stone
The walk-in shower was tiled in intricate patterns of teal, aqua, and shades of blue, from palest egg-shell to the deepest cerulean hues of the ocean. Twelve sprayers massaged her body from the sides, while overhead, a rain shower head spilled a hot waterfall over her head and shoulders. The personalized scent of honeysuckle and jasmine—her mother’s favorite flowers—infused the steaming room.
After months of cold and caked dirt and sweat, with only a few lightning-fast showers in freezing water, she finally felt clean for the first time since the Grand Voyager. How desperately she’d missed this—warmth, cleanliness, comfort, and beautiful, sumptuous surroundings.
Weariness filled her bones like cement. She was so tired. Tired of always looking over her shoulder, perpetually tense and anxious, unable to sleep, fear her constant companion.
She raised her head and closed her eyes as rivulets of warm, soapy water ran down her face. For all those years, she’d misjudged her mother, believing she’d stayed with Declan for money, prestige, power. Amelia hadn’t valued safety because she already had it. She’d never had to feel its lack. But safety was a powerful thing, a precious thing.
She understood this now as she stood beneath the warm, soothing rain, tears pricking the backs of her eyelids, in a way she’d never understood before.
How much would she give to stay here? To never have to go back to the cold, the discomfort, the dirt and the hunger, the constant danger and fear and death?
How much was safety worth?
But you’re not safe here.
She leaned against the tile wall, her eyes still closed. The powerful massage sprayers pummeled her stomach and thighs, so strong it almost hurt.
With all the worrying she’d done over the last months, she should have been prepared. But she wasn’t. She felt the shock of it in every cell of her body, in her bones.
Her father was alive. Somehow, someway, he’d escaped from the international terrorist syndicate that had abducted him from the Grand Voyager.
Her father was here.
And she would be forced to face him.
Her father, whose cold and calculating manipulations brooked no weakness. Her father, who used shame as a tool to humiliate and control. Her father, who exploited her beauty and charm as a tool to beguile his political allies.
She had spent years checking mirrors compulsively, ensuring she was perfect enough, good enough, for her father. But whatever she did, it was never enough.
It wasn’t until his final rejection on the Grand Voyager’s bridge that Amelia finally understood that her father might be incapable of loving her.
Despite everything he’d done to her, he was also her savior. He was the one who had introduced her to the violin, who’d glowed with pride at her concerts and competitions. And he was the one who had saved her from brain damage and certain death with the illegal medication he’d developed for her deadly form of epilepsy.
A cold, dull dread stole over her. She wasn’t ready. She had thought she was, but she wasn’t.
Her knees buckled. She collapsed hard, slipping to the wet, slick tile. She dragged in harsh, rasping breaths. Her belly cramped, her knees knocking against each other, her shoulders shaking, her whole body trembling.
She drew her legs to her stomach and wrapped her arms around her shins. She rocked back and forth, numb and terrified and alone. Water pounded her head and back, pooling around her feet.
Fear and despair clawed at her. Beneath it all, beneath the slow-burning shame and betrayal and anger, there was a terrible kind of devotion. She both feared and hated her father—and loved him. How could she possibly reconcile such competing, disparate emotions inside her without being torn apart?
How was she possibly going to do this?
When the first tears came, she barely noticed them. They blended with the water pouring down her face. They came harder and faster, until she was sobbing, heaving, unable to stop them. Unable to stop anything.
It might have been an hour before the grief wrenched every tear from her body. The warm water never ran out.
Numbly, she unfolded her limbs and forced herself to stand.
She waved her hand over the dryer sensor. The sprayers retracted, replaced by the auto-dryers. Billowing clouds of heat enveloped her, wicking the liquid from her body. In moments, she was dry from head to toe, even her hair.
The temperature was warm as she stepped into the bedroom. She nearly fell into the opulent, king-sized sleep pod. The curved lid of the sleek, egg-shaped pod was open, beckoning to her to lay down, to succumb to her exhaustion. With the pod’s simulations, she could choose to sleep on decadent silks and furs, luxurious feather-soft velvet, or drift in a calm, moonlight-drenched ocean. The advanced haptics and pressurized air nodules could replicate the weightlessness of floating in outer space. In the sensory deprivation of a sleep pod, she could sleep for three days straight.
Her gaze was drawn to the velvet box wrapped in a bow laying in the cushioned center of the sleep pod. She unwrapped it to find a simple pair of powder-blue underwear and a bra. Hope this is your size! Dinner is at six! Love, Vera! read the attached digital card.
She couldn’t let herself rest yet.
Amelia stepped behind the discrete privacy shield in front of the closet. She waved her SmartFlex over the body scanner. Nothing happened.
If it were working, the scanner would have scanned her height, weight, and measurements and projected the latest runway fashions over a rotating holographic image of her body. Through a chute in the wall, her selection would be delivered in a lavender-scented box.
But that was the old world. Or, that was the old world of the elites. She knew better now.
The closet was barely visible but for the rectangular cracks in the sleek white wall. “Open closet,” she said.
The door slid open, revealing a pre-selected dress draped on the single hanger. Of course. That was why the scanner hadn’t worked. Her father had chosen for her.
Carefully, slowly, she slipped into the supple, indigo-blue asymmetrical gown. It rippled above her knees, silky as gossamer, but hung loosely at her chest and hips. She’d lost weight from the Hydra virus, from the weeks and months scavenging to survive. She wasn’t willowy like Celeste or sturdy and muscular like Willow. She looked sickly.
She wrapped a luxurious sable shrug around her bony shoulders and glanced down. A delicate, midnight-blue clutch lay on the vanity next to a familiar-looking benitoite necklace gilded with diamonds. The rich indigo facets of the rare jewel glinted bright and fiery in the light.
Amelia sucked in her breath. She’d worn this necklace—or one eerily similar—on the Grand Voyager. Like everything else, her father had picked it for her.
Her hand hovered above the necklace, trembling. He wanted her to wear it. He would be upset if she didn’t.
She took one last glance in the mirror. Her hair was a ragged mess, cut in jagged chunks around her ears.
She didn’t miss her long hair. Cutting it short had been symbolic of so many things. It had freed her from the gilded prison of perfection her father had forced on her. She no longer needed to be beautiful and graceful and articulate and utterly dazzling.
Until now.
Now, she was right back inside that gilded cage. Her hair hadn’t made a mote of difference. The cool air against her bare neck made her feel exposed. Her heart was cold as a block of ice. Her mouth was dry, her palms damp.
No. She didn’t have to be afraid anymore. Don’t forget who you are.
Even though Declan Black was still alive, she wasn’t his daughter anymore, not the one he knew. She wasn’t the scared, weak little girl he expected. She was someone else now. Better, stronger, braver.
She grasped the diamond charm bracelet still bound to the leather thong around her neck. She pressed her index finger against the point of the violin charm. It didn’t fit her elegant dress. She would wear it anyway.
Someone knocked on the door. “Vera Castillo-Longoria is here to see
you,” the room AI purred in a rich, sophisticated voice.
Amelia left the blue benitoite necklace on the vanity and went to meet her father.
17
Gabriel
Fear stuck in Gabriel’s throat like a hook. He stared at Cleo in horrified disbelief. “You can’t do that! You can’t attack the Sanctuary now! Amelia is going to smuggle the cure out, just like she promised. You have to give her time! You have to—”
“I don’t have time!” Cleo’s dark eyes glittered. “Did you not just hear me? My mother is infected! She’s dying!”
It was too dangerous. She was insane. They couldn’t put Amelia, Micah, and Silas at risk like this. “And Amelia and my brother?” he roared.
“We’ll be careful. We won’t hurt the labs, the scientists, or Amelia. We’ll take over, and the scientists will get us the cure.”
“What about anti-virals?” Gabriel asked, scrambling for ideas. “Don’t they hold off the symptoms and delay the onset indefinitely?”
“Only for a month or two at most,” Cleo said. “The Sanctuary lied. Big surprise. Besides, we don’t have any. I already asked Cerberus—and checked their supplies for veracity. They’re out. They’d planned to stock up when they reached the Sanctuary. We prevented that.”
“So we find a way to get more. We have what—almost two weeks before the final stage of the disease?”
Cleo shook her head. “The anti-virals only work if taken before the coughing starts, within the first forty-eight hours.”
Gabriel thought of Harmony. She’d betrayed them to the Headhunters for a case of anti-virals for her infected, dying nephew. Her nephew, who had already suffered through the advanced stages—the incredibly high fever, the bleeding from the nose, mouth, and ears.
A sharp, bitter pain flared in his chest. Harmony had betrayed them for absolutely nothing. The anti-virals wouldn’t have worked. Her nephew died anyway. Nadira was killed for nothing.
Something shriveled inside him. It was all so crushingly pointless. He blinked back the stinging in his eyes.
“I will not let my mother die,” Cleo said. She patted her breast pocket for a fresh cigar and growled in frustration when she found it empty. “We move up our plans. We attack the Sanctuary and get the cure now.”
He felt sickened, dread coiling in his gut. “What about the rest of the Patriots’ leadership? They won’t agree with such a rash action. You’re putting too much at risk!”
Her eyes flashed. “I’ll make them agree.”
Something crashed behind them. Gabriel and Cleo spun, yanking their guns from their holsters and aiming into the shadows of the garage. Something—or someone—was hiding around the corner five yards to their rear, in the hallway that led to a pair of offices, bathrooms, and a back door.
Gabriel’s heart hammered against his ribs as he inched forward silently, Cleo right beside him. He and Cleo crept to the wall, then swiftly rounded the corner. The hallway was empty but for a metal shelving unit containing packs of paper towels, microfiber clothes, and cleaning supplies. A bottle of industrial cleaner had fallen to the floor. Gabriel prodded it with his foot.
Cleo nudged his shoulder, tilting her chin at something at the other end of the hallway. The steel-reinforced back door was wide open, daylight forming a long rectangle on the concrete floor.
“Damn it,” Cleo whispered. They rushed through the hallway to the doorway. Outside, the sun peeked through a raft of gray clouds. A strong breeze whipped the bare trees and kicked up a swirl of dead leaves in the patches of ground where the snow had melted.
The sounds of children laughing and screaming as they played soccer drifted from the rec yard. A kitchen worker escorted a hovercart filled with potatoes freshly harvested from the greenhouse thirty yards to their left. To their right, two military Jeeps were parked in the empty, weed-infested lot beside the garage.
They checked the Jeeps, but found exactly what they were expecting—nothing at all. Whoever had been spying on them had gotten away. Who was it? And what were they going to do about what they’d just heard?
A boy dressed in army fatigues with a rifle slung over his shoulder rounded the corner of the garage along the inside fence line.
He shook his head when Cleo questioned him. He’d ducked around the corner to take a piss. He hadn’t seen a thing.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said to Cleo nervously, his eyes darting from her to Gabriel. A spray of pimples peppered his forehead and chin. A feather-light dusting of blonde hairs brushed his upper lip. He was just a kid. Maybe fifteen.
“What’s your name?” Gabriel asked.
The boy snapped to attention. “James Hunt, sir. Ready for orders, sir.”
Cleo gave him a tight smile. “You ready to fight for your freedom?”
There was fear in the kid’s eyes, but also determination and boyish enthusiasm. “Yes, sir.”
“We’ll need your services soon, soldier. You’re dismissed.”
The boy turned smartly and marched back to his patrol along the eastern perimeter fence line. Gabriel clenched his jaw. “What’s he doing here?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a kid. He’s too young. He’s—”
“We need every able-bodied soldier,” Cleo snapped. “This is his future, too. We’ve trained him. He has every right to be here. Though he just screwed up royally. The intruder escaped. Whoever they are.” Her gaze trained on Gabriel. “It better not be one of your people spying on us.”
He saw the defiance in her eyes, the hard resolve, the intensity that burned everything it touched with a consuming fire.
It would burn him, too, if he wasn’t careful.
18
Amelia
“You look lovely, Amelia.” President Sloane greeted her with a prim hug and an airy kiss on each cheek. “You must have an incredible story to tell.”
“Something like that,” Amelia murmured.
A humanoid service bot pulled out a carved, plush chair. She smoothed her dress and sat at the ornate mahogany table. Crystal lights dripped from the domed ceiling. Opulent paintings of former presidents adorned the far wall. On the three remaining walls, pastel colors swirled to the beat of jazz music playing softly from invisible speakers.
President Sloane took her seat at the head of the table. She was dressed in a tailored chartreuse pantsuit. Tall and svelte, she was in her mid-fifties, though she looked younger, lines just beginning to crease her mouth and the corners of her eyes. Her auburn hair was clipped short and slicked behind her ears. She had a brisk, efficient manner. Everything about her oozed competence and authority. “Welcome, my dear. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you for having me, Madam President. This is truly an honor.”
President Sloane gestured at the four other people at the table, who were all watching Amelia with interest. “These are a few of my closest advisers and cabinet, all members of the Coalition.” The President introduced them as Senator Steelman, General Daugherty, and her Chief of Staff, Selma Perez. Vera Castillo-Longoria sat further down the table, her head bent as she typed something into her holopad.
“It is a pleasure to meet you all,” Amelia said politely.
“Likewise,” Senator Steelman said. She was in her late forties, whippet-thin and blonde, her perfectly styled and polished hair cut in a crisp bob to her chin, her makeup precisely applied, her posture ramrod-straight. Her eyes were frank and assessing as she studied Amelia without smiling.
Several members of the president’s security team ranged the room semi-discreetly. A hulking man stood behind her. President Sloane followed Amelia’s gaze and gestured vaguely. “This is Angelo Bale, my head of security. Impressive, no?”
The man’s muscular arms strained the seams of his tuxedo. His oiled black hair was streaked with silver. The shadows playing across the sharp angles of his face gave him a brutal, sinister look. Slowly, he lowered his gaze to meet Amelia’s.
Despite herself, she flinched
. Angelo Bale’s beady eyes reminded her of Kane—the psychopathic New Patriot terrorist who’d enjoyed killing, who took pleasure in others’ pain. Who’d taken pleasure in her own.
The memories she’d worked so hard to defeat flashed behind her eyes: Kane and his rough, scrabbling hands, his predatory eyes, his vicious leer as he hovered over her in the captain’s quarters on the Grand Voyager.
Kane had tried to break her. He almost succeeded. But she’d fought back. She’d beaten him, stabbing him right through the eye with the needle of her auto-injector.
Amelia looked away from Bale, drawing a breath she hoped the president didn’t hear. When among wolves…she remembered Cleo’s words clearly. She didn’t doubt for a second there were wolves here, stalking the shadows with beatific smiles set upon their deceptively benevolent faces.
But who were they? Were any of them here right now, watching her with malice in their hearts?
She picked up a linen napkin and spread it over her lap, willing her fingers not to tremble. The table was set with fine china and wine glasses. A cluster of orchids in a glass vase glistened in the dim glow of the crystal lights. A service bot placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of her.
“Mocha latte, correct? Declan said that was your favorite. He suggested we begin, though he will be here shortly. He’s very eager to get started on your bloodwork—”
Selma Perez, the president’s chief of staff, leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She was a thin, stuffy-looking woman with a horsey face, a pinched mouth and watery eyes.
President Sloane sat back, a wide smile creasing her face. She looked friendlier—and kinder—when she smiled. “Forgive my manners. I have to say, you’ve brought a fair bit of excitement and hope into a place in sore need of it. Eat, my dear, eat. You must be famished.”
Amelia was suddenly starving. The service bot whisked the cover from her plate, revealing steaming beef risotto tarts, succulent lemon chicken, and crisp zucchini fritters. The delicious scent of real, freshly cooked food filled her nostrils.
