Elan wanted nothing from her at first. Everything they said to each other was about the curriculum and the ways to design meaningful lessons that would help the children learn that the “other” was a label, an artifact of tribalism, and it had been an important thing once upon a time, long ago. But now it was detrimental to progress. As Holly learned more about the ways that she could help the children appreciate the other races, she discovered a profound respect within herself for Elan and the Yaso people in general.
And then he began writing her the letters.
Eventually she found herself waiting for them. Longing for the words that would awaken the sleeping parts of herself that had gone into hibernation, that she had shut away from the world.
But soon enough, reading them only brought her the most poignant sadness she had ever known, much deeper than anything she’d experienced with Graf, and sharper than even the loneliness she felt in the cover of darkness, alone in bed beside her husband.
It took her weeks to realize why and to put a name to her new suffering.
It was the ache that she would never be able to possess Elan, to hold him, to touch him, to be made beneath the gentle caress of his fingers as he held her and breathed her and created her. Because that was what it was to touch a lover. And she finally understood it. Graf undid everything sacred and beautiful about Holly. He destroyed her in a single word. His violent touch shattered her. He wanted to own her, to unmake her, to break her into a thousand pieces of nothing so that she was afraid and needed him, because no one else would ever want such a broken person.
Elan’s kindness was soft. He’d never touched her, but she knew that like his words which were as tentative and soft as the wings of a butterfly and as cautious as the probing flight of said butterfly, that being close to him would be a mutual, slow exploration. It would never be only about Elan. It would be about Holly as well.
But she would never have him.
And when she knew this, she truly did want to die.
The complications had multiplied like some kind of mythical beast that could never be slain or satisfied.
As Holly dug through the past in the dark of her present lonely night, the salad lost its flavor and she pushed it aside. Her beer became bitter, a mockery of her sorrow, and she pushed it aside as well.
There were no answers in the past.
But she would not stop now. This had to be dealt with.
One day, Holly had touched Elan. It had felt like lightning. She recalled that his touch had evoked a tremor in the world, or perhaps it had been only in her that the planet had seemed to shift and send her careening into a vortex of desire, a fire, an urgent, desperate need, that even when it was finally fulfilled, had only been satisfied a fraction of its total size. She’d been ripped in two figuratively speaking, but it had felt like new life, new creation erupting in her body. The fulfillment of her longing had culminated in something that her mind had not been able to comprehend. The understanding of it spilled out of her and littered the floor like doves, like the petals of a thousand flowers the were swept away on their breath, their sighs, their whispers. She remembered the moment that Elan touched her cheek and drew his hand away, and stared at her in confusion. “Why do you cry?” he’d asked.
In the drunken, intoxicated state of finally having what she’d so desperately wanted, she’d said the first thing that came to her, “Because you make me want to live.”
“Then it is worth it,” he’d said, and then he rolled into her, his body like paint, and she the canvas. His loving touches creating beneath his fingertips a Holly Drake that wanted to live.
FIFTEEN
“FUCKING Po,” Holly said, sighing. Her earpiece and mic were on. Darius had just passed the crew news that there was going to be something big on Po. Not three minutes after Darius let them know, Holly got a call from Xadrian about the same drop.
Dread filled her as she stared out at the morning. From so high up, the sun rose earlier. It twinkled between the spire tops, bouncing off the jade colors.
“Cheer up Ms. Drake, Odeon will be there. And there will be drinks.”
“Thanks for the reminder Shiro. Charly is going this time, definitely, right? We need you on this one, Charly. Could be a trap—we’ve broken up some drops, and they took Charm. Which makes me leery of walking into this one like they don’t know we’re coming. So I’ll want the manpower.”
“Sure thing, Holly. I can leave Torden in charge. He hates it, but you know what? I think he can buck up and take the reins.”
“Right, then, Darius. You’ve got our details. Would you mind booking passage on the next flight to Po?”
“No problem. I’m at home but I can patch into the v-screens at the Bird’s Nest and access everything from here.”
“Great,” she said weakly, drawing out the vowel. It wasn’t great. She didn’t want to fly again. It was torture. She let out a breath. Did she have to do this? She did, didn’t she? For Charm. For Lucy. And Meg and Gabe. It was personal now. “So has anyone been to Po?”
“Does anyone go to Po on purpose?” Shiro asked with a laugh.
Darius laughed. “I’ve been there. Not too bad. Definitely not a resort place, but not as bad as Paradise.”
“Anywhere is better than Paradise.”
“So we’re lucky we’re going to Po and not Paradise,” Charly said, then, in the background, they could hear Torden. Charly’s voice again. “Yeah, no you’ll be in charge. It’ll be a quick trip. You can handle it. It’ll be cool. I’m the boss. I’m the owner. You got it. Fine. Geez.”
Everyone else listened in amusement. Holly heard some soft huffs from the others on the earpiece as they laughed.
“OK, yeah, Torden is fine with being in charge while I go.”
“I am not!” Came Torden’s voice from the background of Charly’s mic.
“Alright. You guys ready for this? You leave at noon,” Darius said. “Pack your shit. Get on the next elevator.”
***
The Wicked Enigma was a top of the line space Zeppelin. Holly had never been on a ship quite so nice. The floors were covered in marble tiles and plush rugs. The walls were paneled in dark woods. Enameled banisters and handrails glimmered in the soft accent lighting. Polished brass door-handles reflected Holly’s image back at her as she strode down the corridor with her crew in the passenger’s quarters, their footfalls quiet along the carpet.
“Damn, this is nice,” Charly said. “If I’d known it was so luxurious, I would have gone on the other jaunts.”
Holly scoffed. “They weren’t luxurious. And believe me, it’s terrible once the ship unmoors and we float away from anything solid.”
“Ms. Drake is exaggerating, Charly. It’s lovely. I’m looking forward to the meals and the entertainment,” Shiro said. He was wearing his bowler hat and traveling clothes. In one hand he carried a bag and his lionhead cane in the other.
Holly shook her head. “Not exaggerating.” Except for a tall Centau dressed in cream robes and a sash that passed Holly and the rest of the crew, the corridor was wide and mostly empty. “Why are all these Centau going to Po? It’s a trash heap, right?”
“Ah, Ms. Drake, advice? Feign that you know why. Anyone hearing you not know will know that you’re not from the upper crust of society,” Shiro said as they came to their rooms.
“Totally fine, because I’m not. This is me,” Holly said, opening her door. “See you in a few minutes—I’ll be in the dining room as soon as possible for a drink.” Shiro and Charly laughed and teased her, but Odeon touched her gently on the shoulder and leaned close to tell her that he’d be with her soon in case she needed him. Her cheeks went hot and she ducked into her room. The other room doors were clustered around the same area. The ship would disembark in twenty minutes. Holly hoped to get situated and then to the dining area quickly to avoid needing Odeon to sing calm to her.
She preferred drinks versus pills or other drugs to get by. Deep down, she was still that elementary
school teacher who clung to the idea that clean living would keep her mind clear and help her achieve great things. By now she realized that ideas like that were as flimsy as the ancient religions that begat them. The best thinkers from human culture, who furthered the earthly advancements prior to Centau Contact, were haunted by demons and passions that drove them to succeed—a sort of madness that could only be fed by breakthroughs or silenced by the numbness of alcohol or the satiation of other passions.
In her room she threw her overnight bag onto the bed. The walls inside were paneled with dark wood that soaked the light in some areas and reflected it in others. Soft yellow sconce-lighting adorned the walls. Holly paced across the soft rug covering the wood flooring. The hull of the zeppelin and everything in it was metal, but the craftspeople who outfitted the interiors of the passenger area turned the ship into a replica of old transport. Space-travel could be a sleek, progressive, sanitary experience. But some flighty facet of the minds of the Centau grabbed hold of the fanciful sense that travel was a romantic adventure, not just a means to an end, but the end itself. Together with humans, the venture became a grandiose frontier, constantly evolving to explore new ideas.
And none of it mattered to Holly. Because all of it was a select form of torture that haunted her. Out beyond the clear window, the void taunted her. She sat down on the edge of her bed, paralyzed. Get up and go to the water closet. Splash your face. Get to the dining room. Her gaze was fixed on the window. Sunlight refracted across the atmosphere of Kota. She could see the faintest suggestion of another zeppelin at the corner of her window, being held snug against the space platform. Soon, it too would be cut loose to sail across the aether streams that wove the path of the various moons into a tapestry capable of being traversed.
There are no monsters out there. And if there are, we are safe here. The Centau travel. The Centau know.
Her door slid open. She hadn’t shut the curtain of the windows that looked out on the corridor, so someone had known that they weren’t interrupting something they shouldn’t.
She half-expected it to be Charly.
“Holly,” Odeon said, breaking her trance.
“Odeon, hey.” She pulled her gaze away from the view outside her window.
“Let’s go to the dining area,” he said. He reached down and took her hand in his long, lithe fingers. Against her skin the violet of his hands was startling, but beautiful, like a painting.
She let herself be pulled away from the vortex of fear that her room had become. Out in the corridor, he let go of her hand and some of the anxiety returned. She took a deep breath. I’m going to be ok, she coached herself. I can do this.
“Why did I pick a job that travels so much?” she muttered.
He let out a soft laugh. “Job hazards. But the job picked you. You just trusted it.”
“There was almost no choice.” The corridor absorbed much of their sounds as they headed for the dining area.
“Someday I hope you will tell me why you’re so afraid of space travel.”
“I might. Someday.”
They were the first of their party to arrive in the dining area. Holly went to the bar and ordered a drink. Odeon did as well and then they sat at a table at the edge of the vast room, where they would be shielded from too many wandering gazes and there would be fewer chances for their conversation to be overheard. A waiter brought Holly her Kotan double IPA and she sipped the golden liquid immediately, practicing restraint. She didn’t want to get too drunk this time, recalling how terrible she’d felt the day they’d arrived on Itzcap the first time they’d traveled as a crew together.
Odeon swirled the wine in his glass, his vibrant multi-colored eyes studying her. “Smarter this time?”
“Trying to work and plan with a hangover is terrible.”
“The pressurized atmosphere in the Zeppelin exaggerates the effects of the alcohol. It should take even less to get you feeling woozy.”
“And why didn’t you tell me this last time?” She grinned at him, feeling better already.
He smiled. “There were a lot of distractions.”
“Yes, you did have a lot on your hands. A grown woman behaving like a child. I didn’t envy you, but I did feel eternally grateful.”
“When will you tell me, Holly Drake, what happened to cause you to fear it so?”
She shrugged. Odeon took a drink of his wine as Shiro showed up.
“Hello chaps,” he sat down, doffing his bowler and balancing his cane between his knees. “What are they calling this? Dinner? It’s always dinner, isn’t it, even if it was morning when we left Kota?” A server dressed in a cream-colored, silk dress coat with large buttons up one-side appeared with a menu, which she gave to Shiro. He ordered a cocktail before she disappeared. On stage a band prepared to perform. There was an Earth-style grande piano and three other chairs arranged for the other band members.
Shiro began his ritual of talking to himself about what sort of meal he wanted to enjoy on the exquisite ship during their journey through space. Holly listened, feeling amused. She was a tad pleased with herself for keeping the gnawing anxiety corralled in her chest and isolated. It was observable from here, from the vantage of slightly buzzed, prior to the ship sailing away from port. Once it pulled up anchor and sailing motion away from the space platform began, she would probably have to drink a bit more, but she refused to indulge to the point of forgetting like she had last time.
“What do you think, Ms. Drake?” Shiro asked, absently, the menu propped in front of him as he leaned back in his seat. “Hmm? The seared, crispy tofu with Yasoan and Centau vegetables in a lemon and white wine butter sauce or a hand-raised Centau icthyian—that’s a fish of some kind, it says here—tossed in a Thai-influenced sauce with a variety of squash from Earth and Yaso. I love these fusion dishes.” He studied the menu, his brow knit together, one finger touching his lip thoughtfully.
“I won’t be eating, Shiro. It doesn’t mix well with my natural abhorrence of this ride.”
“You must eat, Ms. Drake. Who knows what strange and unpredictable things await us on Po.” Shiro glanced at her over the top of his menu. “What about you, Odeon?”
He tilted his head, a gesture that Holly had learned loosely correlated with a shrug. “Whatever the server recommends.”
Holly saw the look on Odeon’s face before she saw what caused it. First panic, which relaxed into a sort of pleased indulgence, which then took on a strangely diabolical glee. Shiro saw it too, then turned toward the focus of Odeon’s gaze. His eyes widened and he fumbled with the menu, struggling to place it on the table as he rose, knocking his cane onto the floor.
Holly had seen Odeon’s look of panic only a few times. It didn’t bode well. “What’s wrong?”
“It seems Charly has caught a stray,” Odeon said, just as Holly’s gaze alighted on Charly, who was just passing the bar and approaching their table.
Charly’s hand gripped the arm of none other than Aimee Voss.
Holly groaned inwardly. Fuck.
“Found her snooping around your room, Holly. She might have gotten inside. I don’t know. She won’t tell me.”
“Voss,” Holly said, not trying to keep the bitter tone out of her voice. Voss’s name tasted bitter.
“Holly, Jace—or whoever you are, and you, the Druiviin,” Voss said, her gaze flicking over the seated crew. She still hadn’t learned Odeon’s name, or Shiro’s real name (fake, but the one he currently went by). “And whoever this one is.” Voss jerked her chin back to Charly.
“Your worst nightmare,” Charly said, crossing her arms.
“Oh please,” Voss said, smirking. “You don’t frighten me. You may be larger than me, stout, if you will, but I’m quick as hell.”
Cute trick with her words. Holly rolled her eyes—an immature gesture that hailed back to her elementary school teaching days. But she didn’t care. The moment called for it. In fact, Holly wanted Voss to see it. To feel reduced or shamed by Holly’s utter dis
dain for her.
“What are you doing here, Voss? And what do you want with my room?” Holly asked, remaining seated.
“Aimee,” Shiro said, moving around the table to her. Voss watched him, her eyes glittering with dark interest.
“Jace.” She put her hand out to let him shake it, but he bent over it in a dramatic, romantic gesture and kissed the back of it.
Holly watched. She would have felt shocked if it wasn’t completely in line with the strange worshipfulness he’d developed for her. It was ridiculous.
Shiro moved back to his seat. “Would you care to join us?”
Holly answered before Voss could. “No, I don’t think she would.”
She felt something bump into her leg beneath the table. “She may want to talk trade, with us, Ms. Drake.”
Odeon exchanged a look with her, as did Charly, and so Holly conceded. “Fine. Have a seat, if you wish, Voss.”
Voss stepped away from Charly and pointedly pulled a chair out and sat down. Charly sat down next to her.
“I’ve got my eyes on you, lady,” Charly told her.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Stout,” Voss said.
“Neither would I,” Charly said.
“Nor would I,” Voss said.
“Enough,” Holly said. It was funny. But annoying, and got them nowhere. “What are you doing, Voss?”
“Heading to Po, what does it look like?”
“You mean, planning to head to Po. I should make you get off the ship,” Holly said.
“As if you could.” Voss’s expression didn’t look concerned.
“And why can’t I? Four of us. One of you. We could walk you straight to the hatch and throw you out.” Holly felt Odeon’s colorful gaze on her. Shiro looked about to say something and Charly simply grinned at her.
Voss blinked at Holly as though confused. “Are you quite serious?”
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