Sight Unseen

by AnonYMous

  She never took her eyes from him. Take it or leave it, Donny thought with a grin, as the drums pounded on like a heartbeat.

  *

  “Well. That was beautiful. Brought a tear to my goddamn eye,” Dud said.

  Donny sank onto the greenroom sofa and lit a cigarette.

  Dud paced, hands in his pockets. “I don’t get it. Was that a stunt?”

  Donny didn’t respond. He looked out the window and blew a cloud of smoke toward the twinkling lights of Sedalia.

  “Because you’re about to have the media on you like a pack of assholes.”

  Donny just smiled.

  “I’m serious, Donny. What do you want me to do about what’s coming? These headlines are a wet dream come true: You ditched the Hand. You’re in love with CJ. You’ve been fucking her for the past ten years. She has a secret husband and two little kids. The cannibal cult leaders are about to come after you . . .”

  “You don’t have to do anything,” Donny said softly.

  Harbor came in then, cradling his keyboard, which he never allowed the stagehands to touch. It rode to and from venues and hotels in Harbor’s lap. He stopped cold when he saw Donny. He was wearing his Roy Orbison sunglasses, so Donny couldn’t see his expression. Then he strode to the corner of the room and picked up his leather bag. He grabbed a Styrofoam cup from the stack on the table and placed it between his teeth while he balanced the keyboard on his hip and slung the bag over his shoulder. He filled the cup with water from the cooler, said, “Good show,” and left.

  Donny found that silence was easy. None of it mattered: the words, the couch, the smoke, Dud Smats-Hinkle. Harbor Ruse, whose real name was John Showell.

  Dud flapped his hands and coughed. “I’m gonna get on the phone with Donna first thing tomorrow. She’s good. Things oughtta be settled down by Wichita.”

  “I’m not going to Wichita.” Donny stubbed his cigarette out.

  Dud Smats didn’t move or speak for a moment. “What?”

  “I said I’m not going.”

  “Ookay,” said Dud Smats slowly. “And just where are you going, Don?”

  Donny smiled and looked up at the ceiling. “Probably Boston. I got friends there.”

  “I give up,” Dud said quietly. “Ohhh.” He paced some more, shaking his head. Stopped suddenly. “God. I should have retired before Zeppelin broke up. That was really the end of an era, you know. And then there was . . .”

  Donny let Dud’s voice fade to nothing.

  *

  The knock came at a little after one in the morning. Donny was in bed, wearing jeans and no shirt. “Who is it?” he called.

  “Hey.” CJ’s voice.

  Donny got up and opened the door. Was just climbing back into bed when CJ entered, silhouetted in the doorway. Donny’s flight left in twelve hours. He bundled the covers around him and faced the opposite wall, away from her.

  CJ didn’t say anything for a while. Donny lay tense, wondering if he should ask what she wanted.

  Finally CJ said, softly, “Now that’s what I call makin’ a song mean something.”

  “Terrible song,” Donny said.

  “Maybe.” She was silent another moment. “Dud says you’re leaving.”

  “For a while, yeah. To Boston.”

  He heard her approach the bed. Felt it dip as she sat on the edge of it. “Are you going to talk to me?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment.

  “Why?”

  “For what I said last week. And for . . .”

  A too-long silence. But he felt no urge to break it.

  “Sorry too,” CJ said. “I know you’re trying to do what’s right for you.” She shifted, making the bed creak. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Could I . . . just get in bed? I won’t—I just wanna lie here with you.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. But he already had so much to confess to Christopher Ainsley during their next phone call. He might as well go all in. “Yeah.”

  He released his grip on the comforter. Let her pull it back. His dick stirred as she climbed in beside him. Her feet were cold; it startled him when her foot accidentally grazed his calf. She pulled the covers over both of them, and then they were lying there, no sound but the pounding of blood in Donny’s head and CJ’s soft breathing. He let it go on for as long as he could stand.

  “I might love you,” he said hoarsely. “Really love you.”

  She didn’t answer. He sighed. Fuckin’ idiot.

  “Look at me,” she whispered.

  He rolled so they were on their sides, facing each other. Her expression was gentle—more relaxed than he’d seen it in a long time. But there was a sadness in it too.

  “Can I tell you something, honestly?” She lifted the vessel around his neck, toying with it gently. Ran her finger along the tube and flicked her gaze up to meet his. “I don’t know if love can survive this noose you have around it. I really don’t.”

  His throat tightened. He moved his hand up to take the vessel from her. Curled his fingers around it.

  She placed her hand around his. He couldn’t breathe. Her mouth made a quiet, wet pop as she prepared to speak. “Did you ever ask your Guide why you can’t sing about love? I mean, sex is one thing. But love? Why is that . . . bad?”

  He swallowed. Forced himself to speak. “Because the romance the media shows us is all based in lust. It’s commercial; it’s . . . it’s not . . .” He exhaled. “Real love is private.”

  “Okay.” She smiled at him through the near-darkness. “Okay, we can work with that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She ran her thumb along his knuckles. It should have felt strange, to be here with her, like this. “Are you going to keep making music?”

  “I don’t know.” His voice was hoarse. “I’m so confused right now.”

  She nodded.

  “You?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said firmly.

  He gazed past her for a moment. Blinked at the wall. “I used to feel so deeply when I listened to a song. With my entire fucking being, just . . . it hurt. Feeling that much at once. And then I heard so many songs. It all started to sound the same.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “I miss the seventies.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I do.”

  “Quit feeling sorry for yourself. For us.”

  He laughed. “I do, though.”

  She adjusted her head on the pillow, still smiling. “Right before our first tour show . . . April twelfth, 1973. I was nervous. You said, ‘Don’t be. We’re everything.’”

  He let out an uneven laugh. Swallowed again. “I don’t want to be everything. That’s so cheesy.”

  Her smile faded. “Mmm. But it helped.”

  He was still holding his vessel. He felt like he should release it. Take it off. Promise CJ he was done with all that. But he couldn’t. It felt oddly safe, to be wearing it. He leaned forward slightly, ready to pull back if she didn’t want this. But she leaned forward too and kissed him.

  It was such a gentle kiss, considering all the times he’d looked at her and felt that his need for her was something ferocious, untamable. Her lips were soft, and she tasted like cigarettes and mint. He placed a hand on her cheek. They stopped for a moment to look at each other.

  “I been waitin’ so long,” she sang quietly. “To be fuckin’ buried . . .”

  He laughed abruptly, the sound cracking across the stillness of the room. They sang together, “By the dump truck of your lo-o-o-oo-o-ove.”

  They broke into hushed laughter. CJ rolled onto her back. Is that it? Donny wondered.

  “Dud says we can’t afford to cancel the tour,” she murmured.

  “Dud said we could cancel the next few dates. So I can have a break and think about . . . about what to do next.” He shifted. “He says the media’s already running with this. Christopher called and left a message. I don’t want to talk to hi
m. Not yet.”

  CJ snorted. “So, a few days in Boston, then?”

  “Yeah. You guys gonna look for a replacement? In case I don’t come back?”

  She sighed. “Can’t replace you, asshole.”

  “I’ll try to come back.”

  “Do what you need to do.”

  “Mark’s never gonna speak to me again.”

  CJ rolled onto her side once more and covered his lips with hers. “Stop talking, please,” she whispered when she came up for air. He stopped talking and pushed himself up, kissing her more deeply. His bare chest met her tank top, and instead of feeling fire, he felt a deep ache.

  He wanted to know she’d still be there if he came back. That she’d always be there.

  She followed the movements of his body, arching her back, lifting her head as he shifted positions. Then suddenly she dropped back against the pillow, gazing up at him, looking as peaceful as he’d always wanted to be.

  “You’re trouble, Donny.” A quick grin, there and gone.

  Donny lowered himself next to her, dropping one small kiss on her shoulder before curling beside her. This close, he could watch the small twitch of her breast under her black tank top as her heart beat. “Not too much, I hope.”

  He could sense CJ’s smile, and for just a second, the area under his right eye throbbed. “No,” said CJ. “Not too much.”

  THE HEART IS A UNIVERSE

  On the remote planet of Pax Cara lies the greatest secret of the universe. Once every generation, the inhabitants must offer up an exceptional young person—the Chosen One—who sacrifices his or her own life for the sake of that secret, and the planet itself.

  However, Vitalis, the current Chosen One, is desperate to free herself from the yoke of destiny. An unexpected invitation to an aristocratic summit seems to be the perfect opportunity for escape. But almost as soon as she arrives, the most eligible prince in existence proposes marriage.

  Sparks fly, but Vitalis is wary. Eleian of Terra Illustrata can have any woman he wants. Why has he set his sight on Vitalis, who, unless she manages to flee, will die in sixteen days? Is he hiding an ulterior motive, one that could put everything in jeopardy—her plans, her life, and her heart?

  Chapter 1

  The story began long ago, before the birth of the universe.

  Before the births and deaths of many older, greater universes.

  This is not, however, a narrative of the births and deaths of universes—though it might be that too. In the main it is about a man and a woman, their lives and circumstances.

  They met at a ball, an opulent affair held on a luxury liner. He was making his way to her and she was pretending that she hadn’t noticed, when his every move was eagerly followed by the entire gathering.

  The beau of the ball, if there was such a thing, the one who shook hearts as easily as a spring storm laid waste to the tender blossoms of May.

  She was not a tender blossom. She thought of herself as one of those twisted trees that grew on sheer cliff faces, a stubborn, lonely thing, not beautiful but splendid, because her entire existence hung on the edge of a precipice.

  Or rather, she had thought so, when she had believed wholeheartedly in her destiny as the Chosen One.

  Her existence on the edge had since become an exercise in desperation: each and every moment she felt as if she clung to a fraying rope, swamp beasts gathering in the ravine below, devouring one another while they waited for her to fall.

  Her panic did not show. She had long ago learned to keep her face smooth and her stance relaxed—no tight jaw or white knuckles to betray the inner tension. And her choice of attire further contributed to the image of the young heroine of Pax Cara: she was the only woman at the ball not in a fantastic concoction of silk and film, but in her dress uniform, a crisp, slim, short black tunic over equally crisp, slim black trousers, the enameled thornrose of her office pinned prominently above her breast.

  As she’d intended, the guests were agog at the sight of her. Yes, she played it well indeed, the role of the simple, serene martyr, giving up her life and all its brilliant promises to save her people from annihilation.

  Once, she’d basked in such attention. Now she broiled in it. This had been the part of the Task she’d loved the most—that was, before she’d come to hate the Task itself. She still got shivers, even at this late stage, from the way some people looked at her, in sincere, head-shaking admiration.

  And then there were others who watched her because she was the freak, a dead woman walking.

  Sixteen days—before she marched to her doom.

  “May I have this dance?”

  She turned around slowly. There were exactly nineteen mobilecams bobbing in the air about her. Several represented media outlets from her home planet of Pax Cara, the rest bore logos of the interstellar communication conglomerates that were on hand to cover the glamorous goings-on at ConsortCon, the short-name for the once-every-three-standard-year courtship summit hosted by the thirty-seven princely houses of the Sector.

  The event had once been exclusively aristocratic. Now the proceedings had become somewhat more democratic. Princes and princesses still predominated—they were guaranteed attendance by virtue of birth—but a smattering of plebeians had secured invitations by dint of their achievement.

  Or fame, as in her case.

  The mobilecams had been trained on her as she gazed up at the dance sphere, her expression the tranquil wistfulness she’d long ago perfected for such occasions. She knew what the voiceover would say, above heroic music played at a muted volume: What is going through the mind of this young woman, knowing that the fate of her people rests on her shoulders, that her life will end before it has fully begun, yet her name will live on forever?

  The man who had asked for the next dance had just as many mobilecams hovering around him. Eleian of Terra Illustrata, the most beloved prince in living memory, and the one person she resolutely did not want to meet.

  The heir of a non-ruling house, he’d come of age during a time of great instability for his thirty-system principality. A long civil war that had begun before he was born had produced a dictator who held power by brutal oppression. After the dictator’s death, chaos had threatened to reign once again.

  With almost unbearable courage—for his life could have been forfeit at any point—the young prince had stepped in and stood up to those who sought power solely for their own gain. Against all odds, he had guided his people back to their nearly forgotten tradition of representative government.

  “Your Highness,” she said with a searing admiration. And envy. And a resentment that almost choked her.

  His had been true valor, whereas hers was but the appearance of it.

  And he had survived.

  “My lady.” He inclined his head.

  She was a commoner. But here the media had taken to calling her a prince of her people, and styled her accordingly.

  The mobilecams swarmed close, eager to capture her reaction. What would they see? She had not practiced for this, for dealing with the one man whose very existence reminded her of the fraud she was—and the traitor she planned to be.

  “Will you honor me with this dance?” he repeated his request.

  “The honor will be mine,” she said.

  Mobilecams were not allowed inside the dance sphere. At least there would not be a record of the excruciating minutes she would spend in his company.

  The dance sphere, fifty meters across, shimmered above them. From the outside it looked as if it were made of water, a giant, perfectly round drop, grey and pearlescent. Long pale shapes undulated inside, weightless dancers soaring and swooping.

  She placed her hand on his arm. The mobilecams parted and they walked together toward the center of the ballroom, where couples from the previous dance were dropping out of the sphere in pairs, messily festooned—some fairly mummified—in ribbon streamers. Dancers and ribbon streamers both appeared shockingly vibrant, after the elegant but anemic shadows th
ey had cast upon the surface of dance sphere.

  A few dancers wobbled as they landed. One stumbled back a step. She observed the more successful exits. Future traitor or not, she was here as a representative of her people and she was not going to fall on her face.

  A young male attendant with an awed gaze held out a tray of folded ribbon streamers toward her. She chose a brilliant red streamer and presented it to Eleian of Terra Illustrata. Light hues conveyed interest. Deep hues, respect—the deeper the shade, the greater the respect.

  In return he presented her with a white ribbon. Instantly, the hum of conversation hushed. The mobilecams all but blocked out the light overhead as they jostled to get a better shot.

  Like gravitational waves expanding outward from the collision of massive singularities, shock ripped through her. Of course she’d expected a light-colored streamer from him—a man did not ask a woman to dance to express his respect. And white, on its own, was but another light color of no greater significance.

  Except he was wearing white. When a man—or a woman, for that matter—presented a streamer the same color as his attire, it constituted a proposal of marriage.

  She tamped down her dismay and did her best not to gape at the prince, who looked at her calmly, as if he hadn’t done anything completely demented.

  The attendant cleared his throat, reminding her that she had yet to respond. She lifted her right arm a fraction of a centimeter and caught herself: the right arm was the only polite response to a show of interest, but in this it would signal her acceptance of his proposal. Instead she extended her left wrist for the attendant to tie the ribbon streamer, to indicate that she would give the proposal every consideration.

  For this particular dance, the attendant informed them, another royal scion had yielded the place of honor: she and Eleian of Terra Illustrata would ascend into the dance sphere at the head of the line. They stepped onto a small platform and faced each other. The stranger who wished to marry her studied her openly, with a curiosity that felt benign, but was no less penetrating for its apparent kindness.