The Socialite girl who’d been comforting the mother was in his way. “Nice job, man.” Resting a be-ringed hand on his arm and tilting her head, she gave him a coy smile. “Just like yesterday, on the shuttle; you move quick. Never saw anything like it. ‘Cept on the adventure vids, you know? Exciting.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for keeping the mother out of the way.” If your crowd of ‘Lites hadn’t been so careless with the running game, the mother wouldn’t have been distracted and the child probably wouldn’t have had a close call at all. This girl had at least tried to be useful, so he held his criticism in abeyance.
“Yeah, it was like we were a team there, man,” the girl went on, in her artificially dreamy, lilting voice. “Name’s Twilka, Twilka Zabour. Never did nothing like this before, man.”
“Nick Jameson.” He pulled his arm free of her grasp, not rudely, but firmly. Up close, she was surprisingly older than he’d assumed, but even so, not his type. He did have to admit, her multicolored, totally impractical crocheted bikini fit her slender curves amazingly well. “Nice to meet you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late,” he said.
“Yeah, man, sure, late, I know.” Twilka didn’t show much surprise about his obvious eagerness to get away. She shrugged and strolled over to her group, standing in a clump, giggling and laughing as usual, watching the med team. Several of the young men were wrestling, trying to throw each other to the sand. It seemed the novelty of the near-drowning and rescue was wearing off fast for the jaded crowd.
Everything loses its edge for them in a short time. Nick yanked his sweatpants on over his swimsuit, grabbed up his towel and left the beach as fast as he could, not wanting to be further involved with any of them.
He spent the rest of the afternoon in his cabin, trying to think rationally about the career choices he was going to face once he reached Sector Hub and reported in. The prospects were so depressing he was tempted to indulge in another round of either brandy or vodka – not both. Tiring of indulgent self-pity, which wasn’t his normal style, he engaged the accommodating AI in an old-fashioned game of Terran holographic chess instead.
After sampling a disappointing room service evening snack and finding it cold, even slightly frozen in spots, Nick donned his new, expensive black and gold dress uniform and ventured out to the Casino Level. Retro only went so far on the Nebula Dream. When it came to winning the passengers’ credits away from them, SMT was all business, with only superficial lip service to establishing mood. The casino occupied two-thirds of Level A, and had table after table, holo booth after holo booth, of all the most modern games of chance, as well as some of the traditional ancient varieties. There were even some requiring humans to physically deal cards or game pieces for the players, Nick noted, something he’d only seen in adventure vids. The overall atmosphere was noisy, bordering on raucous. Drinks were on the house, unceasingly offered by scantily clad attendants.
SMT evidently wants to be sure its guests have no unsatisfied desires.
Taking a small glass of Taychelle vodka, more to keep from being pestered by the overly attentive servers than because he was thirsty, Nick wandered through the casino, sticking to the periphery of the noisy, colorful expanse, observing. He risked a few of the bonus credits on the roulette wheel, playing black in deference to his mood. Allowing the credits to ride for a few spins, he called it quits after doubling his small bet. Walking onward, he heard a loud burst of laughter and realized his earlier question about the proprieties for the D’nvannae where gambling was concerned had been a waste of time.
The Brother was the center of a large crowd of excited gamblers, playing some game of chance unfamiliar to Nick. It would appear the Brother was winning, and so were more than a few people in the group, betting with him. Half the crowd was ‘Lites. In fact, the girl who had more or less helped Nick earlier in the afternoon – what was her name? Twilka Something – was among the laughing cluster. Catching sight of Nick, she waved her glass in invitation to join them.
Well, why not? It’s not as if I’m doing anything more important. Walking across the casino, he studied Twilka, who’d been drawn back to the action at the gaming table.
She was wearing a beaded, red, purple and orange striped skirt ending after about ten inches, with a thick layer of gold and red fringe extending a few more inches, providing a dubious nod to modesty. Randomly patterned red and orange tights covered her long legs, made even more shapely by the purple, four-inch stiletto heels she had on. This outfit was topped off with a big, plain white shirt, carelessly misbuttoned to reveal flashes of a skimpy red beaded halter. Her short black hair was slicked down and swept to the side. Her female companions were similarly garbed. The men wore tight, black, beaded pants and the big white shirts.
They’re as much in uniform as I am, only they undoubtedly wouldn’t see it.
Shaking his head, changing his mind as abruptly as he’d accepted Twilka’s unspoken invitation in the first place, Nick put his glass on a passing server’s tray and walked on, not caring if she noticed. It was quieter in the next quadrant of the casino, with individual games of chance. These were more passive, players pushing large, brightly colored buttons before holograms whirled. If five matching holograms ended the dance together, then chimes sounded and golden casino credits rained from thin air for the lucky gambler to catch.
Nick stopped his restless progress, having found the quarry he was unconsciously searching for. The businesswoman from the shuttle was playing one of the machines and appeared to be having quite a bit of luck, judging by the pile of golden credits in the tray. Nick walked over to the machine next to hers and began playing.
“That one’s cold, Captain,” she said, not breaking her concentration on the whirling holograms.
“I beg your pardon?” Not expecting her to make the first move, he’d been racking his brain what to say. Ballsy, takes the initiative all right – I like it.
Tilting her head, she gave him the radiant smile that had caught his attention on the shuttle, when she was playing with the children. “I said, it’s cold. Wasted most of my free credits there first, before I moved over one machine.” A slight frown creased her high forehead as he remained silent. Eyes narrowed, she studied him more closely. “You are the man from the shuttle yesterday afternoon, aren’t you? The one who saved that poor woman’s life?”
“Yes, I’m Nick Jameson, Special Forces.” Nick swore at himself. Something about this woman reduced him to tongue-tied stammering. Taking a calming breath, he referred to her comments about the events on the shuttle. “I don’t know about saving the lady’s life, though.” He rejected any claim to heroism, with his customary modest honesty. “Her dagger wasn’t exactly a serious weapon. I was more concerned she’d get the hatch door open somehow. You’re –”
“Well, I thought you were incredibly brave,” she answered with a smile. Tossing her beautiful hair, which tonight was a luxurious cascade of curls held off the perfect oval of her face by a blue band matching her evening gown, she extended a shapely hand. “I’m Mara Lyrae.”
They shook hands, Nick taking note that she wore no rings, although in this day and age, that didn’t necessarily mean anything about a person’s availability. It was encouraging, considering she’d remembered him from the shuttle. She had a firm, no-nonsense handshake.
The next minute he realized with a pang of dismay she was opening her embroidered evening purse.
Please don’t let her hand me a business card, brush me off.
But instead Mara was gathering up her credits, sweeping them into the elaborate purse, obviously preparing to leave. “Here, you can take over this machine, if you’d like,” was her only offer. She slid off her stool, smoothing the folds of her closely fitted evening gown. It was low cut but elegant, leaving her glowingly tanned shoulders bare.
Neither the dress nor the woman needs any further embellishment.
“Well, I’m not actually much of a gambler,” Nick said, glancing briefly, with no pretense of interest, at the
slot machine she was vacating. “I was thinking it might be nice to go grab a bite to eat, some dinner? Would you care to –?”
“Oh, I am sorry,” she said, so sweetly he almost believed she was actually regretful, rather than merely polite. “I already have an engagement for the evening, Captain. Some other time?”
“Yeah, well, whatever. I’ll – I’ll call you.”
“Please do. I might be free in a few days,” she invited over her shoulder, with one last smile, as she stepped off into the crowd. “Good evening and good luck! It’s a hot machine, I promise – or at least it has been for the last hour.”
“Oh, well, thank you.” Nick wasn’t a fan of losing credits to holo slots, but he didn’t want to offend her. He inserted one of his casino tokens in the slot, opened his mouth to say something further to her, but she’d already gone, hidden by the crowd. Her perfume lingered subtly behind, crisp, like her – faintly spicy and with a hint of some sultry floral tone. More memorable than any other woman I’ve ever met. The machine went cold with her departure, taking all he’d won at roulette and then more.
Disgusted, Nick stopped feeding it. He was bored with the casino, but not yet ready to slink back to his cabin and face a whole other kind of total boredom. After the encounter with Mara Lyrae, he felt even less inclined than he had been earlier to try to locate the attendant, Helene, and see if she was free for the evening. While he was debating what to do next if he was ruling out female companionship for tonight and didn’t want to gamble, Nick strolled past the border of the holo slots room. Beyond the rows of brightly lit gaming devices, he found a small sign giving directions to the observatory.
Intrigued, Nick decided to explore, following a narrow corridor, then up a winding staircase, all metal and wood anachronism. Wherever else SMT might have cut corners or scrimped on costs, they certainly have been lavish with the elements of the retro decor, at least on this level of the ship. As he climbed the last risers of the staircase, Nick stopped short. He was rarely astonished by anything after all his years in the service, but the builders of the Nebula Dream had created a breathtaking illusion that, on this wooden deck, one was standing completely exposed to the starry heavens.
Slowly, Nick came up the final five stairs and walked away from the elaborate wrought iron guardrail, staring at blazing constellations of stars.
“Amazing, is it not?” came a woman’s voice from the far side of the observatory. The tone was husky, faintly amused.
Surprised at himself, Nick wheeled reflexively. How did I fail to notice I wasn’t alone? Inattention could get a man killed in his line of work. Lucky for him, attack and assassination were not too probable on this luxury liner.
Despite her alluring voice, his anonymous companion proved to be elderly, her pale white skin translucent. Huge blue eyes glowed in the semidarkness, like a Terran feline’s would. Dressed completely in black, she wore layer upon layer of elegant, expensive black lace to the floor, subtly patterned with tiny diamonds and other gemstones he didn’t recognize. Her left hand was curled tightly around a massive carved ebony walking stick inlaid with silver runes. At its top was an enameled knob, some kind of picture painted in delicate tones on ivory. Her hand obscured the details of the artwork. She was seated on a bench, a shawl lying carelessly draped beside her.
And she was unmistakably a native of the planet Mellure.
Realizing he was staring rudely, Nick belatedly saluted her.
“Very proper, indeed,” she said, with only a simple nod, as befitted her far superior rank in the galactic order of things. “You’ve been to my home world?”
“No, my lady, I was raised from the age of nine at the Star Guard Orphanage, which is visited from time to time by Mellurean consultants.” Nick hesitated. Entranced though he was with the observatory, he didn’t wish to intrude on her. It was folly to intrude on a Mellurean. “I’ll leave you to your contemplations, madame. Unless you’d like me to stand guard while you’re here? Ensure your privacy?”
“Outstandingly proper,” she complimented him again, her voice warmer. “No, stay and enjoy the scene with me.” Patting the empty area of the bench beside her, she moved the shawl aside. It fell to the deck in a shimmering cascade of ebony silk. “You may sit, if you would like.”
Nick walked to her but declined the invitation to sit. Picking up the shawl, he carefully set it on the bench. Standing with his head thrown back, staring up at the astounding array of stars, he chuckled. “Either this ship is wildly off course, or else you’ve been influencing the AI ganglion in charge of this chamber.”
“And why would you make such an accusation?” She tilted her head with the coyness of a woman two-thirds her age and gave him a half smile.
“Because that star is Mellure,” he said, pointing at the brightest light pulsing directly above them, “and her attendant twelve planets. And as they are firmly located in Sector Seven, while we’re cruising through Sector Sixteen, this is not a possibility.”
She laughed outright now, her amusement rich and genuine. “I doubt anyone else would have caught the change. I am Lady Damais Niklaeson.” She introduced herself as if it were a reward for his cleverness. “Yes, I’ve tweaked the stellar display of which SMT is so proud.”
“Captain Nicholas Jameson, Sectors Special Forces, at your service,” he said. “Since there’s nothing to actually see in hyperspace, I don’t think anyone could be much offended by your superior choice of stars and planets for their faux observatory.” Being careful not to exert too much force, Nick took the slender, warm hand she extended to him and shook it. She seemed fragile, not well. Something in the lines of her face hinted at pain held at bay with great deliberation and effort. “Mellure is certainly a beautiful star. Its lavender flares are so rare, indeed, unequalled in the galaxy, as far as I know.”
But when he would have released her hand promptly, as etiquette demanded, her fingers curled around his and she stared up at him. “Nicholas, you say? And I am of the House of Niklaeson.”
“An odd coincidence,” he agreed with a smile.
“Perhaps.” Now she did relinquish his hand, without further comment on their names. “I have a feeling most of the passengers on board this great, racing vessel could care less about the stars we pass on our journey. The AI tells me SMT is already talking of converting this space for the next run, either to expand the casino, or cabins. Something revenue-producing, at any rate. Pity.” She stared wistfully at the representation of her home sun, blazing fiercely above them, as if she could bask in its warmth. Nick saw her shiver slightly, but nevertheless, the elderly woman refused the shawl when he would have draped it over her thin shoulders against the drafts.
“I don’t think SMT quite knows what to do with this ship,” Nick said. He told a fascinated Lady Damais about the half-finished gym on the Fourth Level, and the advertised, but missing, amenities on Level Five. “A bit rushed at completion, I guess. They must have prioritized some things and hoped to satisfy the majority of their passengers.”
“Neither of us is exactly their target demographic, I’m sure.” Damais agreed with his underlying assumption. “Nor are they my choice of companions, either. I venture to assume you feel the same?”
The face of Mara Lyrae flashed through his mind briefly. She’d be on my short list, my very short list, if I was choosing companions. Then Nick shook his head ruefully, recognizing the improbability of any further encounters with the elusive Ms. Lyrae. “I’m more used to traveling on a military ship, among my own kind.”
“And I with my own people, when I have to travel at all.”
There was companionable silence for a few minutes. What could have brought a high-born, elderly Mellurean to this far Sector, alone? Nick sneaked a sideways look at her, not wishing to seem disrespectful by speaking. Minds of her caliber weren’t often permitted by their people to venture off Mellure unprotected, no matter how high their rank, or how great their age.
“And so, what brings you to this time and
place?” Damais was quizzing him, fixing her bright blue eyes on his face and tilting her head to the side, coy again.
He knew she could easily read his mind, his deepest thoughts and misgivings, going right past any mental barrier he might attempt, but to do so would be an incredible breach of interstellar etiquette on her part. Mellureans had strict, well-publicized standards of conduct, enforced by treaties.
“I only ask,” she said, “because you remind me of my son, who was also in your Special Forces, in this same Sector.”
“Based on Glideon?” Nick was doubly astounded. If there’d been a Mellurean operating out of my own headquarters, I’d have known about it.
“Many, many years ago, yes.” Damais smiled. “I am much older than you gallantly assume. My son was here in the earliest days of the conflict for Sector Seventeen. He was lost on a mission behind the enemy lines.” She glared at him, one hand raised, forestalling any expression of sympathy. “There was a reason for his choosing to go there. My son foresaw he would die, but the cause was worth it, to him.”
“And to you?” Nick asked softly.
There was another moment of silence. Shaking her head, Damais raised her eyes to the glorious stars projected above. “No. I understood his reasons, let me leave it there.”
“Did he accomplish his mission?” Adrenaline pushed through his veins, asking this high-born Mellurean such personal questions, but Nick couldn’t stop himself tonight. Too much vodka.
“As a matter of fact, he did.” Damais’s voice was low, her face set in serene lines. “I have no other children and my son died childless. The House of Niklaeson ends with me. An ancient, famed line, and we flicker out.”
Licking his dry lips, Nick searched for some words of comfort. “Madame –”
Turning her head, she stared into his eyes, one hand raised a second time to silence him. “No sympathy is required, although I appreciate the thoughts you’re holding.” A slight smile curved the thin lips. “I crave your pardon for reading them. My son died content, having accomplished the purpose for which he fought. I can’t dishonor his sacrifice or his memory by wishing otherwise.” Damais leaned in to study Nick’s face. “I don’t sense the same content in you. Not leaving Sector Sixteen with a calm soul, are you?”
Wreck of the Nebula Dream Page 4