That Distant Dream

by Laurel Beckley

  “Tallagorin?” It was impossible. She reached out to touch the tapestry.

  A hand clamped onto her wrist—her bad wrist—and she winced and broke the hold as she faced and stared straight into the gray eyes of the man in black.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “That sword,” she realized she’d slipped into the Old Tongue without thinking, and continued, “I—” She stopped, unable to finish. I know that sword from a dream was completely ridiculous. The knight in the tapestry wore another sword at the waist. Her stomach clenched. From a dream. Just a dream. She pointed at the knight. She had to know. “Can you tell me who this is?”

  The man held her gaze, the don’t-look-at-me impulse blurring her vision. Her head throbbed, but she refused to break eye contact. The dream. I’m alive. This is reality, and I am alive. It is not real. It can’t be real. “Who is that? Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  His eyebrows quirked, and his lips parted as if to answer.

  “Sera, we need to get back,” Dar’Tan said, breaking her concentration.

  She looked away. Dar’Tan was at the tent’s entrance again, tapping his finger to his temple to let her know they were running late. Melin spared one final glance at the man in black and the tapestry before joining the major. Her head reeled.

  Dar’Tan snorted as they passed through the group of Saturans now disassembling the tent. Melin remembered to dip her head to the damir before she and Dar’Tan came to the edge of the field.

  “Had I known you were such an art connoisseur, I would have used you as an icebreaker earlier,” Dar’Tan joked as they picked their way through the rows. They passed the second-nearest ring of watch markers and entered their squad’s inner perimeter. “See something interesting?”

  “I don’t know.” Melin blinked, mind spinning as she tried to parse together the meeting. She was getting a headache thinking about it all. “I thought I recognized something from my great-grandmother’s stories. A…folk tale. I think. I don’t know.” She shook her head, skipping to avoid stepping on a deviant row of plant life. “Did you notice that the man in black could read Standard but never said anything?”

  “What man in black?”

  “The guy in the back corner of the tent,” Melin said. “He wore all black and lurked in the shadows the entire time. I just talked to him.”

  Dar’Tan stopped and faced her. His face was lined and serious. “Melin. There were only two Saturans in the tent with us, and one servant that came in to bring us that tea. There was no man wearing black in the shadows.”

  “But I was standing next to him a second ago. Didn’t you see—”

  “Melin.” Dar’Tan touched her shoulder. His face turned from serious to concerned. “You were by yourself just now. You were staring off into space.”

  Melin opened her mouth to argue further, then closed it. Maybe she had imagined it. Was she going crazy? She could have sworn she had seen the two Saturans glancing at the man every so often during the talks, but they hadn’t spoken to him. Hells, she hadn’t ever seen him talk to anyone else beyond the question he’d asked her. And the more she argued the more she’d further convince the major of her unraveling sense of sanity.

  She shook her head. “Never mind. It must have been the tea.”

  He nodded, but the concern was still here. “Come on, we need to get on the shuttle.”

  The rest of the flight home was uneventful, filled with chatter, rehashing the events of the meeting, and congratulations over finalizing the treaty with relatively few concessions on the part of the IASS. “Gun-barrel diplomacy at its finest.” Sorem grinned as she raised a canteen of water—the only liquid on the shuttle—high in celebration.

  Melin sat by herself, obsessing over the tapestry and the knight with two swords and the man in black no one else had seen. She’d discreetly asked the others how many Saturans had been in the tent, and everyone had replied that minus the servants there had been only two Saturans.

  No one had noticed the man in black in the shadows. No one had seen him at all.

  Melin shook her head and pinched herself.

  Pain blossomed on her left arm, radiating up and down, a relief that disintegrated to worry. She’d made it all up. Just like she’d imagined the tea’s disinhibiting properties and the weirdly familiar swords on the tapestry. The knight was just a knight, the scene just a scene. The tapestry just decoration. The tea was regular tea.

  She’d imagined everything.

  I need a psych eval. She pulled at the two Silver Galaxies that were beginning a slow strangle hold on her windpipe. First dreams, now full-scale hallucinations. I’m going crazy.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A solid week of debriefing from the trip and Melin was back in the storeroom with Trudi, out of sight and out of mind.

  When no other mysterious people only she could see materialized, she relaxed and decided maybe she had taken a sip of that stupid tea by mistake. The shrink’s visit was delayed again, and she forced herself to relax after another week of nothing.

  Major Dar’Tan and the others ventured out to Apharom Province without her. Melin heaved a sigh of relief when she wasn’t asked to go, and another sigh when she wasn’t included in any of the briefings. Perhaps Dar’Tan had noticed her lack of attention during the Zakuska talks, or maybe Doctor Kubicek had reestablished his dominance in the training field once they had returned among the diplomats.

  Either way, Melin was happy to be left behind.

  She didn’t need to add causing a war to seeing imaginary people and weird dreams.

  Although even the dreams let up, giving her a solid week of uninterrupted sleep.

  One week turned into two, into four.

  The guerrilla situation in Veskie died down. No more bombings or attacks on the embassy island.

  No more scheduled inbounds or outbounds.

  Everything was quiet.

  There were rumors the wormhole situation was heating up, and the Blood Sun Empire was growing more active in their sector of the galaxy, but those were distant fears. They didn’t concern her.

  The weather turned colder, the last gasps of summer heat giving way to fall rains.

  People relaxed. Her roommates even stopped wearing their helmets and flak jackets and insisting Melin sleep in the living room to save them.

  Nine blissfully boring weeks after the Zakuska Province excursion, Melin was returning to the embassy proper after a long run at the gym when two soldiers peeled off from a larger than normal group at the main entrance. They wore full body armor and carried their rifles at the ready—indicating a heightened threat level Melin hadn’t really paid much attention to that morning. Come to think of it, the gym had been suspiciously empty too. She’d chalked it up to good luck on her end.

  They spotted her and changed course.

  She hoped they didn’t want her for some reason.

  They continued walking toward her.

  She groaned. Please not today. The damn tech had shorted out in the middle of her run, causing her to smack the bridge of her nose against the treadmill, and it was swollen and sore. She avoided eye contact and pushed forward.

  Her wish was not granted. They stopped right in front of her. Fuck.

  “Sera Grezzij?” Lance Corporal Cho asked. Lance Corporal Va’try was the other soldier.

  Her irritation spiked at the hesitance. These were the two who had pulled her off Private Herring those months ago. “What?”

  “The ambassador wants you.” Their faces were even, too even, hiding a weird nervousness.

  For fuck’s sake. “Right now?” Melin asked, gesturing toward her sweaty body. Her shirt stuck to her skin, her hair was plastered all over her face, and she was pretty certain she stunk. Her nose throbbed.

  “Um, perhaps we could wait ten minutes for you to change,” Cho began.

  Va’try shook her head. “The ambassador said he wanted his translator immediately.”

  “I’m not his translato
r.”

  “He specifically said your name, Sera.” Va’try was unrelenting.

  Melin sighed, touched her nose, and winced. “Fine. I’ll go. If he complains of the smell, it’s on him.”

  The two soldiers didn’t crack a smile but gestured for her to join them. She fell into step, one on either side, feeling like she was being escorted. Their body language didn’t help matters. They were both tense, and they avoided direct eye contact.

  “What’s going on?” she asked as they entered the embassy. It was quiet inside, too quiet. Prickles ran down her spine. She didn’t ask if she’d done something wrong. She’d been a model citizen for these past couple months—hells, ever since she’d half strangled that poor little private.

  “We’re not at liberty to say,” Va’try said at the same time Cho replied, “No, Sera.” They looked at each other and away. Their fingers never strayed too far from the triggers of their rifle.

  Melin was walked straight through the ambassador’s antechamber and into his office—passing by an unusually frazzled Izzie. The door to his private office was open, a soldier standing guard in front of it. Melin’s chest tightened with a spike of panic. What the hells was going on?

  The ambassador sat at his conference table, five people occupying the chairs around him. They swiveled to meet her as she entered, and the solemn faces of Dar’Tan, Sorem, Temir, Elihu, and Kubicek greeted her. Two chairs were empty. One at the ambassador’s right, which was reserved for his undersecretary—Calderon had left on an earlier shuttle a month ago—and an empty chair on the far side of the table.

  A map of Satura—perhaps the same one from Sorem’s office—was spread across the table.

  The group was dressed in their usual suits, but lines of exhaustion ringed each face. Kubicek gave Melin a long up and down glance. She stared back at him. Yes, she was aware she was out of place in this meeting, both in sweaty attire and in general.

  “Ah, Sera Grezzij,” Ambassador Koshkay said. His voice was warmly welcoming. Too warm. Too welcoming. He gestured for her to take a seat in the seventh chair. She obeyed hesitantly, squishing as she sat. Great, she was going to leave butt prints on the ambassador’s fine silk. “We have use of your services.”

  “You’d like me to inventory something?” Melin asked, playing dumb in the hope he’d find her too addled of mind to be useful. She was highly conscious of a trickle of sweat sliding down between her shoulder blades.

  The others chuckled. Her hopes sank.

  The ambassador motioned to one of the soldiers at the entrance, and they snicked the door shut behind her. Sealing her into her fate, whatever that was. Please not—

  “We’re planning another excursion,” the ambassador said, confirming her fears. “The situation here has taken a rather unexpected turn.”

  “I’ve noticed no one is trying to blow up the bridge.” Melin paused. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “The Saturans have changed their tactics,” Dar’Tan replied, taking over the brief after a wave from the ambassador. “Since our trip to Zakuska, the climate in Veskie has changed. The resistance is more passive, prone toward civil disobedience rather than outright violence. It seems like the Saturan resistance has reorganized, and someone is leading them.”

  Why did that require another excursion—oh. “You caught someone,” Melin said. Her fists clenched the table.

  There was a long silence. Were they waiting for her to fall apart again?

  “Well, yes,” the major admitted, looking both pleased and perturbed. “There was an attempted raid on the shuttle pad two nights ago. We got one of them.”

  “I’m not interrogating anyone,” Melin said firmly, unable to hide a quaver in her voice. Her nails dug into her palms. The pain centered her. Grounded her.

  “We’ve been attempting to talk to him for the past two days,” Dar’Tan said. “Neither myself nor Doctor Kubicek nor anyone else has been able to get him to say anything.”

  Melin’s breath hitched. No, no, no.

  Dar’Tan stood and walked toward her, palms out in supplication. “Melin. I’m not asking you to hurt anyone.” His voice was low, his focus on her as if they were the only two in the room. “This isn’t a request. I need you. The natives are more open to you than anyone else we’ve ever had here.” She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Just to talk. Nothing else. We’ll go however fast you need to go.”

  He held her gaze, not flinching. She looked away first.

  “Okay,” Melin said. Her jaw clenched. “I’ll try.”

  The smiles on the others were identical. They were not pleasant.

  *

  The prisoner was held in the brig below the main building. It was in a special level, dug two stories into the rocky island and separated from the rest of the basements, connected to the embassy itself by a narrow staircase—and a lift that worked when the tech was up, although she had no idea why anyone would ever want to attempt a lift ride and risk getting stuck underground.

  The complex was larger than she had expected, but she’d been ushered downstairs so fast she hadn’t been able to note much of the layout, most of which remained hidden behind closed doors. The others had trooped down with her as soon as she’d agreed—leaving no time to change or shower. Her leggings and shirt clung to her, damp with moisture, and her scalp itched with drying sweat, worsened by the air conditioning pumping aggressively through the ducts, as if to make up for tech being down earlier that morning. The only consolation to her discomfort was that the others would have to smell her.

  There was a one-way mirror on one wall, looking into the cell. This specific holding cell was specially designed—solid metal walls, thin air vents that cycled automatically regardless of tech, and no furniture beyond a metal desk and two chairs. Judging by the patches in the observation room’s chairs, these were well-used spaces. She shuddered.

  The prisoner, a sad bundle with limp brown hair, hunched pathetically in one of the chairs, head bent, hair tumbling over his face. His hands were shackled behind him.

  Melin’s stomach roiled. I can’t. Dar’Tan placed a hand on her shoulder, enough pressure to be reassuring without being a threat. “Just talk.”

  She spread the palm of her right hand wide, acknowledging the rules of engagement.

  Just talk. But not like this.

  She sucked in a breath, exhaled, then another inhale.

  “Untie him.”

  A guard shook his head. “Sera, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Do it, Lance Corporal,” Dar’Tan ordered. “Sera Grezzij knows how to defend herself.” To Melin, “Do you remember what we’re trying to find out?”

  “Strongholds, people and their next attack plans,” Melin recited, feeling sick. She was not going to touch the Saturan. She was certain of that. She couldn’t promise she wouldn’t puke on him though. Her stomach felt like it was turning inside out.

  Funny, how she’d never given a second thought to interrogations before she had been in one herself. She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath.

  “Good.” The major led the way out of the observation room and to the holding cell.

  Two soldiers entered before she did, Dar’Tan pausing at the threshold before retreating to the observation room. Her stomach sank as she entered the room. The place smelled of anger and abuse just like—she stopped, putting a hand onto the wall and breathing. In and out and in and out.

  She felt the eyes of the group in the observation room crawling across her back, discussing her lack of suitability. Her inevitable failure. Asking Dar’Tan what the hells he was thinking.

  What the hells was Dar’Tan thinking? She had long since ceased to be the hero of the Redelki Wars if that person had ever existed. Clearly the others had figured that out.

  Fuck you all. Fuck you, Dar’Tan, and fuck everyone else.

  She straightened, gathering her fucks about her like a shield.

  A lance corporal untied the prisoner’s hands.

  The ma
n automatically jumped to his feet and lunged at the guard before the other soldier raised her rifle. The prisoner raised his hands and froze, face locked in a snarl. The armed soldier snapped for him to sit down. The prisoner didn’t move, and the soldier raised her rifle higher. The prisoner’s snarl turned predatory.

  The air in the room thickened from the tension and something else. Despite the fact tech had come up as they’d marched downstairs, there was a deep miasma in this room, a buzzing energy, the same awareness that nothing worked. Melin wondered what would happen if the private decided to fire her weapon and decided she didn’t want to find out.

  “That’s enough, Private.”

  “Uh, are you sure?”

  Melin’s kept her focus on the prisoner, who had turned his head to stare at the newcomers, the rest of his body still locked into place.

  Their gaze met.

  Surprise flashed across his face, mirrored in her own expression. His eyes were a brilliant blue, but his pupils were just like hers, slit like a cat’s. The irises practically sparkled. Irritation flamed. Dar’Tan should have warned her.

  Melin opened her palms to show she was unarmed and meant no harm. With the air of bemused curiosity, he mimicked her movements.

  “Leave,” she told the soldiers.

  She sensed the lance corporal opening their mouth to protest, but she shook her head and they left with the private. The private kept her rifle trained on the prisoner as she made her way through the door, walking backward. The door closed and locked behind Melin, leaving her alone with the prisoner.

  The prisoner who hadn’t moved.

  Maintaining eye contact, Melin cautiously moved toward the table, slid out the chair on the other end, and clumsily took a seat. The man mirrored her, sinking into the chair he’d recently vacated.

  She put her hands flat onto the table.

  He copied her. His hands were fine boned and long-fingered. Musician’s hands despite the small scars on knuckles and fingers. A brawler, or a fighter. She had similar scars on hers. Well, on one of hers.