Star Crossed

by C. Gockel

  Luka made her feel alive. All her actions had been to support him, protect him, or please him. She wanted to make him laugh, to know what he was thinking, to learn what he tasted like, to feel the pressure of his breath in her ear. Her body and her emotions responded to him, regardless of the constant warning pings from her brain, and it both thrilled and alarmed her. There was a fine line between want and need. She was afraid she was becoming as dependent on him as he was on her, but for very different reasons.

  She quietly let herself out Luka’s front door, checking reflexively for scents or sounds that might mean trouble. Nothing had changed; he was safe, and his townhouse was secure.

  Maybe it was enough that she was free to worry about such things, and free to stay if she chose to see what she and Luka could discover for themselves and together. She could still escape and hide herself away again if she had to, though the thought of it made her chest ache abominably.

  9 * Planet: Rekoria * GDAT 3237.036 *

  THE FOG OF the day was still lingering when Mairwen arrived at La Plata, earlier than usual because Velasco had requested time off for personal reasons. As usual, when Mairwen took over the shift from him, he lit out the second she appeared, leaving her to figure out where Foxe was and what his plans were for the afternoon. She finally found him occupying a fourth-floor office that, from the smells in it, used to belong to Leo Balkovsky.

  The new office was much larger than Foxe’s and more easily accommodated his habit of pacing, but it was still a closet compared to Zheer’s presidential suite.

  Foxe was in an audio conference. He was as dressed up as she’d seen him, with tailored pants and fitted dark wool halfcoat with a high-necked green shirt that complemented his hazel eyes. She hoped her grey pants and simple waist-nipped blouse and sweater were acceptable for whatever activities he was planning.

  He waved her in and pointed to a chair and narrow desk in the corner. She walked quietly to it and draped her overcoat over the back of the chair.

  “...asking you for your opinion,” said the man on the other end of the call. “It’s not every day we could get the benefit of the preeminent reconstruction expert in the galaxy.”

  Foxe rolled his eyes at the blatantly insincere flattery. “As I said, I have an exclusive contract with La Plata. You’ll have to ask them.”

  “I looked up your record. You used to be a good cop.” The tone was accusatory.

  “Yes,” agreed Foxe blandly, unmoved.

  “Fine. I’ll see if La Plata is interested in doing its civic duty,” said the man, the barb thinly veiled. The call disconnected.

  Foxe turned to her and shoved his hands in his pockets. “The Etonver police have finally discovered who I am. They want me to reconstruct the Amhur murder scene for them for free, conflict of interest notwithstanding. I respectfully declined.”

  She was glad he refused. He didn’t need to go through that again. “Cheeky of them.”

  He smiled at her words, then swung his arms wide. “Welcome to my new office. I guess they got tired of me monopolizing the conference rooms.”

  “Perhaps it was the wear on the carpet,” she said, giving his pacing feet a pointed look.

  “Or that,” he chuckled. The sound of it washed over her like a balm.

  “Would you like some coffee?” he asked, pointing to a new, elegant-looking dispenser on the credenza. “I made extra, just in case.”

  She shook her head. “I’m allergic to caffeine.” He looked disappointed, and she regretted making him feel that he’d somehow failed her.

  She walked with him to the conference room for what he promised was his last meeting of the afternoon, then took her customary post near the door. When he realized she planned to wait for him, he shooed her away.

  “The only danger here will be terminal boredom during the finance discussion. Go use the gym or relax in the lounge or something. It’s going to be at least two hours. I’ll ping you when I’m done.”

  She didn’t know what to do with herself. She went back to his new office. She decided to think like a tracker planning an incursion, and examined the office more closely to determine its security strengths and weaknesses, then checked the locations of available exits. She noted the nameplates for all the offices so she could look them up and know who should or shouldn’t be on the floor.

  That only ate up seventeen minutes, so she grabbed her overcoat and walked downstairs to the lounge on the second floor.

  There was some sort of celebration going on, so she avoided it and continued down the hall toward the back stairs. From behind her, she heard her name called, and recognizing the voice, turned to see Beva walking toward her, waving with one hand and carrying a covered plate with the other.

  “Just the person I wanted to see!” Beva said with a smile as she caught up. She petted Mairwen’s upper arm. Where once Mairwen would have flinched at being touched, she now found it wasn’t objectionable, at least from Beva. Perhaps it was a side effect of liking Luka’s touch.

  Beva smiled even wider. “Nice sweater. I hate you. You make even off-the-rack clothes look trés chic. Get you to a good autotailor for something flattering, and you’d be plasma hot.”

  Beva, bubbling over with good humor, steered Mairwen into a tiny office that turned out to belong to Beva. “There’s a mess of berry seedcake left in the lounge, so help yourself. My co-workers are so sweet. They brought it in for me because I got the promotion.”

  “Congratulations,” said Mairwen. She was surprised to find she meant it, even though she hadn’t interacted with Beva often.

  “How do you like your new job?” asked Beva. “Got to be a nice change from working for Isak Malamig.” She winked.

  “So would working the night shift in a riot zone.” Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have said anything, but Luka responded positively when she expressed her odd sense of humor. Her brain grumbled that he was a bad influence.

  Beva let out a huge laugh that shook her whole frame. “Mais oui, ain’t it the truth!”

  Mairwen saw Beva was about to drop the plate of cake she was carrying, so she caught it in time and put it safely on the desk.

  “Merci, cher. Reason I ask about your new job is because my new job is to direct a new division for providing personal security services. I want you to come work for me when your assignment for Foxe is done.”

  Mairwen was nonplussed. “I’m not qualified. I’m not… good with people.”

  Beva laughed again and waved away the protest. “I’ve seen your record. You’re plenty qualified. As to the other, you’re quiet, is all. It’s nice to have a friend who talks less than me, and clients are looking for competence, not conversation. Besides, Luka likes you, and I like you, so you can’t be that bad.”

  Beva looked at the clock and gasped. “Oh my, gotta run—our youngest son is graduating tonight. All his aunts, uncles, and cousins are coming. We’re taking up an entire row in the auditorium. You think about my offer, hear? We’ll talk again.” She hurriedly rolled her thincomp and thumbed the desk lock.

  “Yes,” agreed Mairwen, because it was simpler that way.

  Beva grabbed her overcoat and the plate of cake and was out the door in a flash. Mairwen felt like she’d been caught in a whirlwind.

  She wondered when Beva and Luka had talked about her and why. Or perhaps Beva had merely observed Luka’s ease with her. She wasn’t as bothered by the thought of being noticed as she was before, but it still made her uneasy.

  She also wondered what it would be like to be a part of a family, even a small one. Mairwen remembered Beva saying she’d been happily married to the same woman for nearly thirty years. Mairwen couldn’t begin to imagine what that kind of familiar, trusting relationship felt like, but it sounded surprisingly appealing.

  She walked down to the first floor to find the gym, which she’d seen but never used, since night-shift guards had little need to visit the office. The gym was larger than she’d remembered, but perhaps its size was dictated by being d
irectly over the basement weapons range. The exercise equipment was well maintained, and the human smells not overpowering, suggesting the room was cleaned daily. The company had posted instructional displays in several common languages on how to use each machine, and the employees had added the funny, mostly sex-referenced, illustrations to go with them.

  Since she still had well over an hour to fill, she got her spare running clothes from the vehicle and used one of the booths to change out of her civilian clothes. She supposed she’d have to buy more of them if she took the job Beva was offering, or for that matter, stayed with Luka, if he wanted her. Perhaps Beva, who was evidently interested in such things, would help her select appropriate clothing, regardless. She was still baffled by the choices available when shopping, so she avoided it as much as possible.

  She didn’t want to try a new exercise machine without first seeing how normal people used it, so although she was alone in the room, she selected one of the force isolation machines, and kept the isolation net mass within a believable range for someone her size. In full-tracker mode, she could handle significantly more, though without eating well, she’d pay with sore muscles and joints later.

  It felt good to build up heat and sweat with the steady repetitions of each pattern, to use her upper body’s physical exertion to keep her thoughts grounded, and not on the entirely too good-looking man who was now her boss. She stopped in time to shower quickly, change back into her civilian clothes, and stash her exercise clothes in the car. Though it was humid and chilly in the underground parking area, she was still feeling warm, so she carried her overcoat instead of wearing it as she walked back.

  She was just approaching the door into the building when it slammed open, propelled by Malamig as he barreled through. His jacket gaped open, and his unflattering orange shirt looked wrinkled. The angry look on his face had her instantly wary, and when he saw her, he veered toward her with stiff strides.

  “What are you doing in here?” he demanded. The wind shifted, and she got a good whiff of fresh bourbon from his clothes and breath. “Oh, right, you’ve got a vehicle now that you’re a satellite to the star, the heir to the fecking throne.” His regional accent was thicker than usual.

  Mairwen stayed neutral and silent. Drunk or chemmed people were irrational.

  “You think you’re set now, don’t you? Movin’ up in the world?” His lip curled in a sneer. “Well, don’t count on it. This company does what it fecking well wants, and to hell with rules.”

  He leaned closer, and Mairwen zeroed her offended olfactory sense.

  “I should have been made director.” He shook his finger in her face. “I have the seniority, and I worked my ass off for it, and they gave it to that jumping Rienville slut because she has ‘field experience.’ That’s fecking code for ‘gives great tongue.’”

  So Beva’s promotion was the directorship Malamig had been convinced he’d get. Probably wiser not to mention that Beva had offered her a job. She kept her face blank.

  Malamig eyed her up and down with contempt. “But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? You’re probably bobbing and spreading for Foxe every chance you get.” He stared at her crotch, then gave her a sloppy leer. “You owe me some of that. I was nice to you for three and a half feckin’ years.”

  It suddenly occurred to her that now that she worked for Foxe, she didn’t have to stay and listen to Malamig. She started to step around him, but he countered to block her.

  “You need a lesson in cooperation,” he hissed, and reached out to grab her arm.

  She evaded him easily and he staggered, off balance, but he recovered and spun on her faster than she’d thought possible. He was fumbling at something under his jacket, and she belatedly remembered he carried a handgun.

  She dropped into full-tracker mode and time slowed...

  Mairwen counted the security eyes and calculated their angles. If she could lead him two steps to her left, the eyes would only see the back of him and nothing of her. She slung her coat at him from the right, causing him to shift and trip over his own feet in the direction she wanted him to go. Taking a chance, she followed with a slow shove with her shoulder, causing them both to step out of eye view. She used her foot to sweep his legs out from under him, and as he fell, she cocked her left wrist to release the hilt of a flat stiletto into her waiting fingers.

  She waited until he was mostly down, then lunged and pressed one knee on his rounded stomach and sternum and slid the knife to his throat. She allowed him a few thousand milliseconds to register where he was and the threat she posed. She eased time into half speed so she could form understandable words.

  “Be still.”

  Even as she spoke, she saw the raw panic in him, causing his head and shoulders to buck in an effort to throw her off. She didn’t move the knife away fast enough to avoid a shallow slice on his neck, and blood welled up.

  She put more of her weight on him and, with her free hand, pushed his head back down to the plascrete with more force than was strictly needed. She leaned in closer to his face, ignored his putrid breath, and stared into his wide eyes. “Be. Still.”

  He froze. Finally. She fished under his jacket and found his gun still in its unsnapped holster. She lifted it out with two fingers, then rose up off his chest and stepped back. She breathed deeply and allowed time to come back to full reality.

  She took another small step away, still out of camera view, and showed him his gun as she flicked the safety on. “This will be at the front desk.”

  He must have felt something wet at his neck, because he felt for the cut, then looked at the blood on his fingers.

  “You horse-shagging, helio skag! You cut me!” Malamig was trying to sit up, holding his bloody hand out in front of him, staring in disbelief. “You feckin’ stabbed me!” Adrenalin was making him shake.

  She slid her stiletto back in its sheath. “Perhaps you should see a medic.”

  She folded her coat over her arm and walked back into the building, ignoring Malamig’s increased bellowing. She took the gun to the front desk and said she’d found it in the parking area, then rode the lift to the fourth floor rather than chance meeting someone on the stairs. She likely had at least another fifteen minutes to wait, so she used the fresher down the hall from Luka’s office to clean the few drops of Malamig’s blood from the stiletto and its sheath.

  She examined herself in the mirror, but she looked the same as ever. Her asymmetrical spiked hair, her only vanity, didn’t even look out of place.

  In retrospect, it was reckless to have visibly injured Malamig, but she’d underestimated his ability to function while impaired. She felt no remorse for hurting him, but knew it might well cost her the job with La Plata. That thought brought a strong wave of regret. She now had two friends where she’d had none, and in Luka, maybe more.

  She sighed. When she’d first met Luka, she’d wanted nothing to do with him, and now here she was, wanting to do nothing without him.

  Emotional pain was worse than physical pain, but she couldn’t afford to wallow in it. She forced it into a mental hypercube and stored it away as something to deal with later, when she was alone. It was cold comfort knowing CPS training was good for at least that. She went back to Foxe’s office to wait to take him home.

  When they finally got to his townhouse an hour later, he asked if she was up for a run—he was desperate after two and a half hours without being able to pace.

  “Let’s run to the cul-de-sac and back,” he said.

  She met his smile with a small one of her own and agreed. That direction was the longest distance he could have chosen. After the day she’d had, she might have suggested it if he hadn’t.

  She changed into her running clothes and added a hooded waterproof jacket to ward off the chilly fog that had never lifted that day. She liked fog better than wind because it carried scents better. Maybe they’d even see the early first moonrise.

  When La Plata terminated her contract, she was going to m
iss the quiet camaraderie of loping along just behind him on his favorite scenic running trail. Most of it was wide enough for four or five people to run abreast, but the fog made it seem like they were cut off from the rest of the world. She indulged herself in opening her senses to him, letting his fog-borne scent slide across her thoughts like the caress of a silk scarf.

  “Help me think, Mairwen,” he said. He slowed his pace to make conversation easier. He hadn’t used her first name often, and she decided she liked the way he said it, as if it was a new word he’d found.

  “About what?” She eased closer so they were running side by side.

  “The lab results on the vaccine packets. The DNA tests were ‘weird,’ to quote Dr. Tewisham.”

  “Technical term, is that?”

  Foxe laughed. “‘Weird’ as in completely unknown basal structure.”

  She edged forward a few paces in front of him when another runner came into view up ahead, although she’d been hearing the sound of feet and fast breathing for some time. She kept herself between the woman and Foxe until she was gone, then evened up with him again.

  “Before you ask,” he said with a smile, “it wasn’t a testing error, it’s not registered for research or license, it wasn’t a corrupt clone, and five other labs, including Concordance Prime, all said the same thing. That’s what took so long, because Tewisham got stubborn and called in favors.” At their slower than usual pace, Foxe was running and talking easily. “I’m out of probable explanations, so now I’m looking for the improbable.”

  She was flattered he imagined she would have thought of asking any of those questions. “What does ‘unknown basal structure’ mean to a biochemist?”

  “Something about epsilon aminos with isomers that aren’t right or left, and I have no idea what that means. Tewisham thinks he’ll get at least a top journal article and a galactic conference tour if he can figure it out.”