Starstruck

by S E Anderson

  “Oh,” said Gerald, bringing his wide frame into the executive break room. “Oh!”

  “Get out, Gerald,” I snapped, throwing him a glare. The man, however, brimmed.

  “You two?” He chuckled. “The two of you?”

  “Gerald, the lady asked you to leave,” Zander insisted, a grim look on his face. “Please.”

  “I would never have suspected,” Gerald continued, wagging a pudgy finger in the air before us. “Inner office drama. Gossip. Romance.”

  “Oh, grow up.” I rolled my eyes. I so didn't need this. No one needed this.

  I took the steaming cup of coffee into both hands,

  “As I was saying, Zander, Mr. Grisham is impressed with your proposals for increased profitability. He'll want to see you later today. There was a hint of some opportunities, if you know what I mean.”

  “What, for him?” Gerald scoffed.

  “Anyway, I'll let you know when Grisham has time to see you,” I said to Zander then scowled at Gerald. “Good day.”

  I left the executive break room and made my way to Grisham's office. To my doom, my subconscious said. The coffee shook in the mug, or maybe it was me. I forced myself to hold the cup steady, placed it delicately on the small wooden tray on my desk, and added the day's paper and a fresh Danish pastry next to it.

  Then I took a deep breath, gathered my wits, and knocked on the large wooden door.

  “Come in,” Grisham called from the office beyond. I pushed my way in, gripping the tray.

  Just a normal day, I repeated on a loop in my head. A completely and utterly normal day.

  “Ah, Sally,” my boss said. He had a wide grin, somehow cheerful amidst all this. It was as if the events of the previous day had never happened.

  It's weird how one day you think you know someone completely, and then you see them again and think you're meeting them for the first time. The boss I had known for the past two months was a humanitarian, a philanthropist—not an alien and a murderer.

  I tried not to think that aloud, but nothing seemed real anymore.

  “How are you feeling today, sir?” I asked, placing the tray on the cleared spot, covering the spirals of the otherworldly wood.

  “Magnificent, Sally, magnificent,” Grisham replied, leaning back into his chair. “And you?”

  “Well, I …”

  I reached for the newspaper, eager to show him the report about the murdered woman, when my hand slipped, knocking the mug off and throwing scorching coffee over the front of Grisham's coat. My breath caught as the dark liquid stained the gray fabric.

  “I-I am so sorry. A-are you all right, sir?” I stammered. I threw the cloth napkin at him. Surprisingly, the man barely reacted. The smile neutralized, and. he glanced down then back up, unsure of how to react.

  “I have your dry cleaning in your private bathroom,” I said, rushing to the somewhat hidden door and springing it open. “I'll rush your coat to the cleaners so the stains don't set. I am so sorry, sir. I don’t know how that happened.”

  “Ah, no harm done,” he said, backing up his scooter and driving it down the ramp toward me. “Is everything all right, Sally?”

  “Yes. Yes, sorry,” I replied. “The holidays are coming up, Mr. Grisham. My head is a little bit of everywhere else at the moment.”

  “Understandable.” He tossed his coat, catching me across the face. “Just keep it at home, you get me?”

  “Of course, sir.” I tugged the coat from my eyes, peeling it off like one would remove an alien face hugger.

  I waited for him to change, taking his clothes wordlessly from his hands as he exited his bathroom, clean and fresh. As I closed the doors of the office behind me, a weight lifted off my chest.

  “How did it go?” Zander asked, gazing at the pile of clothes in my hands.

  “Easier than anticipated.” I handed him the key card I had taken from Grisham's coat pocket during the confusion.

  “Good luck with the dry cleaning,” Zander said. “Looks like a serious mess.”

  I ripped the key card back. “You don't get rid of me that easily. You said I could come, and I'm coming.”

  “It's dangerous—”

  “I was Blayde, once,” I insisted, “and we fell out of a spaceship together. I'm pretty sure a recon under my office won’t be any harder than that.”

  Zander didn't say anything, and I knew I had won. He stood in the corner of the elevator, staring at the balled suit in my hands as if staring at it would make it turn into something more interesting.

  The second the doors slid open, Blayde slipped into the elevator along with us. “So?” she asked.

  “Got it,” I said. “Ready for the tour, inspector?”

  “Intently.”

  I stepped aside to let her through, and she stood next to her brother.

  I dropped off the clothes at Sophie's desk, spewing out a sob story about Grisham needing me to stay here but the stain setting in, and just like that, I had cleared the lobby of a receptionist and delegated my laundry duty. Score!

  I started thinking of myself as a sort of top-level secret agent, slipping around undercover like a chameleon, changing my identity to fit any situation. I felt a surge of power rushing through me, adrenaline maybe, as I found myself becoming comfortable with the deception.

  All I had to do was believe what I was saying. After all, I did work here. I would only look out of place if I started acting shifty, and I wasn't going to fall into that trap.

  “Gotta admit, the Terran isn't bad,” Blayde muttered to her brother, just loud enough for me to hear. “It's nice to know you've thrown your lot in with the only person on this planet who can lie as effortlessly as you.”

  I ignored the last remark, turning around in the elevator to find the keypad on the wall. I slid the card over the black panel. The familiar blinking red light turning a vivid shade of green. I gave myself an imagined pat on the back, watching the doors slide shut—

  —A hand came between them, and the doors slid back with a ding. My heart skipped as he appeared—Matt. Where had he come from? Somehow, it was as if his existence had paused since Blayde arrival. But now he was here, and we were still mad at each other.

  I hadn't texted him in almost two days and hadn’t been on the Internet. So when he shoved a bouquet of flowers into my hands, I was both flattered and terrified.

  “Zander, mind if I borrow Sally for a minute?” he asked, then added his familiar good-natured smile, the edges unnaturally cold. I clutched the flowers, overwhelmed by the fresh scent of lilies in December.

  “As a matter of fact, we do.”

  I barely recognized Blayde’s voice. Her tone had changed, and the words came out an octave lower, making her sound like the stern headmistress students loved to hate.

  “And you are …?” Matt asked, squinting.

  Blayde stepped forward, extending a hand. “Francine Hartwell, health and safety,” she proclaimed, shaking his hand in greeting. “I am a power plant inspector, here to inspect your plant. We need Ms. Webber to show us the way.”

  “Why wasn't I informed?” sputtered Matt, his eyes darting from me to Zander then back to me. “Where's Mr. Grisham? Or Sophie?”

  “Grisham asked me to show Mrs. Hartwell around,” I blurted out, looking to Blayde for advice.

  “Nice flowers,” pointed out Zander from the back of the elevator.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Um, Sally, they're for you.”

  “I assumed as much when you handed them to me,” I replied, though it came out wrong, harsh and hurried and sarcastic. “Thank you, Matt, they're lovely.”

  “Do you mind if we talk? I want to—”

  Blayde let out a loud sigh. She threw a hand out to hold the elevator doors from closing, glaring openly at Matt. “Well, this is sweet and all, and I'm sure you'll be able to joke about it over lunch,” she snapped, “but right now, I need to inspect this plant. So please, save it for later.”

  “Of course, of course,” Matt stamm
ered as if suddenly realizing he was holding up a very important woman. “Wait, why is Mr. Smith going with you?”

  “Mr. Grisham asked him to join us,” said Blayde. “Now, please—”

  “But I know the plant better than anyone,” Matt said. “Are you sure you wouldn't rather have me come along? I'd be happy to show you around.”

  “That's not necessary,” she continued. “I would much rather Ms. Webber gave me the tour. I want to see what I see, not what I am told to see.”

  “May I at least make sure Sally is keeping the facts straight?” he practically begged. My own eyes pleaded for the opposite: keep him out of this, Blayde, keep him safe.

  “So, are you familiar with the lower floors?” she asked.

  “Um …”

  “Then I'd rather you not. Good day, sir.” She threw her hand upward, out of the way of the door, ripping the bouquet from my hands and shoving it back at Matt. “Keep these on water until lunchtime.”

  “But—” Matt looked like a dejected puppy as the doors shut in his face. Blayde wiped her hands palm against palm, loud, with the same stern look on her face.

  “And now Matt is probably going to be asking questions,” Zander interjected. “We should have dealt with that another way.”

  “Because answering his questions about his boss being an alien is much easier than dealing with the boss in question,” scoffed Blayde. “Yeah. That would have gone over well. Sally, text him something sexy. I dunno, distract him.”

  I'm so sorry, I was already spelling out on the keypad. We really should do lunch though. Talk this out.

  I knew Matt would know better than to barge up to Grisham to demand explanations, so I wasn't worried about him interfering with the recon, but I was incredibly worried about the conversation we were going to have later.

  As if I needed something else to stress about. My stomach was already in knots as it was.

  Ping. The elevator doors slid open to reveal the small security checkpoint I had seen during the short plant tour. The same security guards stood there—well, sat. They looked surprised to see us.

  “What's this now?” The security guard with his feet on the machine straightened up, grabbing a clipboard from the desk his associate sat on. The latter slammed his book down. “We don't have anyone scheduled to be down here today. So, who are you?”

  “I'm the inspector,” Blayde proclaimed, striding forward, the heels of her stilettos sending shock waves through the air with every step.

  “Not on the list,” the guard said, jamming a thick finger on the clipboard. “Turn around and go back.”

  “Really? What's the point of a surprise inspection if everyone knows you're coming?” Blayde sighed. “Look, would I be down here if I wasn't supposed to be?”

  The men pondered this for a minute. The first one stood up, sighing heavily. Blayde waved the key card in the air. When had she gotten a hold of that?

  More to the point, how hadn't I noticed?

  “Reception’s not answering,” the second guard muttered, looking to his partner for support. “Should I call Grisham?”

  “No need,” I said, taking a tentative step forward. “He sent me down with them. He's incredibly busy. There's a reporter snooping around upstairs. He's been trying to get rid of her since yesterday.”

  The first guard nudged the other. “That's his PA,” he muttered in tones he probably assumed no one could hear. “Remember? The one you—”

  “Shut up and call Grisham,” his partner hissed.

  “He really should not be interrupted right now,” I snapped. “You don't want to get on his bad side, do you?”

  “Just let them through, Hal. I'm sure the inspector is eager to get going.”

  Hal nodded his head. “Sure, there’s nothing to see here anyway. Come on through, one at a time. Thank you.”

  Blayde strode through first, the detector silent as she walked to the other side. I followed close behind, saying nothing, feeling vulnerable under the arch. Again, silence. Hal nodded.

  The second Zander stepped through, the arch beeped wildly, red lights flashing. He sighed as if bored.

  The guard ordered him back. “Please empty your pockets first, sir.”

  “Sure. Sorry,” said Zander, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a pack of gum, and some scraps of paper with numbers scrawled on them. The second pocket contained the crappy cell phone. He dropped them into the little plastic bowl.

  Free of the contents of his pockets, he walked through again. The arch went wild, but before the men had a chance to react, they hit the floor. Zander clutched the stunner to his side, eyeing his handiwork with a smile. The men hadn't even blinked.

  “See?” He grinned, taking back the burner and slipping in into his pocket. “Not altogether useless.”

  “Slower than you should be,” Blayde snapped. “He's got his hand on his sidearm.”

  “Or, you know, he just fell like that,” muttered Zander. “They'll be out for ten minutes or so. Not sure how it’ll affect their nervous system. Let's get going.”

  I checked the unnamed guard's pulse, amazed to feel the heart pumping steadily, his breath slow and even. The man was asleep, comfortably so. It was much more effective than simply knocking him out.

  “You coming?” asked Zander. His sister had already disappeared through the white door.

  “Yeah, sorry,” I replied, getting up and trying to put the stunned guards out of my mind. If there had ever been a chance to turn back, it was gone now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I Actually Can’t Handle the Truth

  “I thought this was just supposed to be recon,” I muttered as I stepped out of one gray room into another. Zander pointed at his sister, as if to say, tell her that.

  “What's this place supposed to be, again?” Blayde asked as we joined her, unaware of our side conversation, if you could call it that.

  She checked a map pinned to the side of the wall, which showed the entire layout to the subterranean facility. The place was entirely empty. Gone were the two men who had been working the controls when we had come through on the tour. The entire desk was unmanned, if it even was supposed to be controlling things in the first place. Spelunking equipment still hung on the walls, and the buttons still flickered and flashed.

  “So, this is the primary control room,” Zander said, running a hand over the large blue panel. “Who’s monitoring this place? You'd think there’d be someone down here. There was last time.”

  “You'd think, yes,” Blayde agreed. “Grab a hard hat, and let's get going. Sally, you sure you're up for this?”

  “Positive,” I replied.

  “Really? Because whatever's on the other side of that room could mean you've been part of some seriously illegal activity. Also, it could be terrible. No promises, though.”

  “What are you expecting to find?”

  “If we find a gas chamber and turbines, then everything is fine. We go home, but we’ll go after Grisham for that woman’s murder. We find anything else, anything at all, and we've got him dead to rights.”

  “So long as we can get the American justice system to deal with this,” Zander added. “Chances are, it's out of their jurisdiction.”

  “Yeah, again, big ifs.” His sister shrugged.

  “What would happen if it's beyond anyone's control?”

  “We handle it,” Zander said, sternly.

  There was a lull as if they were waiting for me to say something, but I had nothing to contribute. I would join them in opening that door. What happened next would depend entirely on what we found.

  “So, if the place is legit,” I said, “wouldn't that mean the gas beyond this point is incredibly volatile, like the man said?”

  “Oh, yeah, that's always a possibility.” Blayde grinned. “So, ready?”

  I swallowed hard. “Ready.”

  “Want to do the honors, Sally?” Zander offered.

  “Hell, no,” Blayde snapped. “If you wanted the honors, you w
ould have come down here months ago when you were supposed to be examining this place.”

  Before anyone could object, she stormed to the door, grabbed the handle, and pushed it open, throwing it against the wall and striding into a large, cathedral-like room.

  “I see a cavern,” she said, pointing at the rocky walls. “No gas, though. Unless it's odorless. It could very well be. But, hey, check out these turbines.”

  “They're not running,” Zander said as he tapped one with his fist. You could hear an echo; it was entirely hollow. “We wouldn't be able to speak if they were turning.”

  I stepped onto the metal grate and froze. The platform extended across a huge cavern, so wide and high you could probably play Quidditch here. The fake floor had been hastily added, and the ground beneath me was a long, long way down.

  Lights turned on automatically when the door had opened, flicking on one by one, and they still hadn't reached the bottom. Maybe it went to the center of the earth?

  Or maybe there was something down there we shouldn't see.

  My heels slipped through the grating, making me feel like I was tripping and falling every time I tried to take a step, not helped by the fact I could see right through the floor. The memory of falling out of that ship, the earth rising to meet me, rushing to kiss my face overwhelmed me. The wind burned against my eyes, my cheeks, not letting me breathe …

  I forced myself to take a breath. You see? You can breathe. You can breathe just fine.

  Unless this was noxious gas and breathing faster would kill me at a faster pace.

  “So, what kind of gas did Grisham claim to use?” I asked.

  “You're the one who worked for him,” Blayde pointed out. “Seriously, think back. We're trying to save millions of lives here.”

  “He claimed it was hydrogen,” Zander jumped in, “or at least, a hydrogen-like gas. I think.”

  “You think?” his sister replied. “You have to stop thinking and start asserting. Veesh, you have gotten so slow. Haven't you been training?”

  “As much as one can,” said Zander.

  “I have a question,” I said, making both their heads turn. “If there are no turbines, how come there’s a … a hum?”