by Viola Grace
Verda let out a long breath. “Who pronounced the sentence?”
“His daughter Janine.” Brock took her hand. Verda felt dizzy. “She wept. And then she oversaw his execution.”
She sat very still, staring down at her legs. The scars were all but invisible. The pain was a phantom of what it had been. Her uncle had ordered those injuries.
“I can’t imagine the cover-up being worthy of a death sentence. Perhaps exile, or imprisonment.”
Brock bit his lip. “He wasn’t executed for the cover-up. There was another charge.”
She looked at him in question.
“Regicide. Fratricide. He was convicted of killing the king and queen. Your parents.” She said nothing, so he continued. “Witnesses came forward on your behalf, recounting his mistreatment of you, and the maiming of your legs.”
“This case was argued before his daughter?”
Brock nodded.
Her heart was beating so hard that Verda felt like she was panting. “Do you—you knew her in a different way than I did. Do you think this is a power play on her part? To claim the throne?” Yet who would want to reign over a broken planet?
Brock shook his head. “She sent an offer to you. A fiscal settlement and the throne. She says she’ll accept exile, if necessary.”
Janine. Janine was offering Verda the throne. Riches. She shook her head, as though to clear it. “Message her. Say the proper thing, Brock, but I don’t want the throne. The money belongs to the people of Attigua. It should be used for the recovery.” She nibbled her lip. “I believe my cousin might be exactly the right ruler for the planet now. She’s obviously got a conscience. And she’s tougher than I’d be. I may not like her, but I have to admire what she’s doing.”
Brock reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Now that all that is out of the way, I’m told that you’re being discharged.”
“When?” She sat up, excitement warring with the pain and grief. “Where will we go?”
“Are you ready to go home?”
Verda looked at Brock, marveling over how happiness had changed him. His step was light, he no longer looked surly or suspicious. Or lonely.
“I think we should go on a honeymoon. Your family couldn’t begrudge us that.”
“One has to be married—” He blinked. “Are you finally saying yes?”
“It’s what people do when they love one another.” She squeezed his hand. “I just want you to tell me one thing. Why did you leave home all those years ago?” Verda stroked his cheek. His color was good. This planet was light and clean, and they both spent time out in the sun. Brock grew restless when she napped, so he’d resumed training, though not for fighting. He was practicing the forms she’d taught him to keep him alive in the ring. Her parents’ arts wouldn’t die with Verda. She and Brock would teach his nieces and nephews, and anyone else who wished to learn.
Maybe someday their own children.
Brock looked up, out the large window of her room, out to the copious garden that filled their patio. “I left looking for adventure. I thought I could make money fighting, then leave when I chose.” He smiled at his own foolishness. “I never wanted to be famous. I just wanted to see the universe. To chase stars and see amazing sights.”
“Then let’s go see the universe. Let’s go find adventure. Your family will understand, and your home will still be there.”
Brock clasped her hand and kissed her knuckles, and then her lips. He rested a hand over her heart. “Verda, my love, my home is right here.”
About Belinda McBride
Belinda is an award-winning, top selling author of erotic romance, speculative fiction and LGBTQ romance. She lives in far Northern California with her family and a pack of Siberian Huskies.
A graduate of CSU Chico, she managed to attend the notorious party school without once getting drunk, arrested or appearing in a “Girls Gone Wild” video. Her main focus of study was classical and archival history, cultural anthropology and theatre arts.
After several years in the workforce. Belinda purchased a laptop computer and from there, knew that her childhood dream of being an author would come to life.
Xanadu
By
Astrid Cooper
Xanadu
“Is the bitch coming to the party?”
“By that, do you mean Doctor Duran?”
Suleah gasped and swivelled around in her chair to confront the speaker. She grimaced. Someone had left the audiocom switched on. As she reached out to disconnect, another voice joined the others.
“Even the ice-maiden has to celebrate Empire Day!”
“I’d rather not with us.”
As Tracey laughed at Mik’s retort, Suleah snapped the connection closed. For a moment her eyes flooded with uncharacteristic tears. She was a bitch. A cold-hearted bitch. She had worked long and hard to earn the distinction. A slave to her profession, ice-water flowed in her veins—these taunts, and more, she had heard from colleagues on every assignment she had taken.
But today it hurt. Today...
She pushed away from her console and strode to the wall. At the wave of her hand, part of the wall grew transparent. She gazed upon a vista from hell. Red sky, red soil, it was difficult to tell where heaven ended, and earth began. Overhead the single red sun shone feebly. A dead world with a dying star—nothing to interest Imperial Exploration, except for the disappearances.
A thousand beings in the last ten years had vanished within the star system, one scientist from the planet’s surface. Not a great number in comparison to the millions who traversed the space-lanes, but an anomaly to interest some bureaucrat, perhaps prodded by the relatives or friends of the missing.
Missing—how she hated the word! Suleah bit down the regret, the recriminations, her attention diverted. Outside, thirty feet beyond the base perimeter, she saw the twisting rainbow. On this world, the light played strange tricks on the Earth-born. They saw coruscating lights that did not register on any sensor, and rainbows shimmering over land where rain had not fallen for millennia. These miniature light-tornadoes were the only remarkable thing on the planet, that had, so far, defied explanation. She squinted at the apparition until her eyes stung.
Ah, Suleah... Sweet Suleah!
She gasped at the words echoing in her mind. His words from a time long ago.
Turning away, she saw the bottle of Moet on the table. Vintage champagne; nineteen-ninety-nine. Bottled two-hundred and forty years before he had died.
He’d given her the Moet. His, an old family, wealthy beyond imagining, thought nothing of such gifts, such indulgences. Yet, he had not evaded his duty to the Empire, though his family connections could have seen him take a safe posting. No, he loved the danger, the adventure. A commander of a fighter squadron, he’d flown that extra mission, standing in for a friend, just hours before the truce. He had died for nothing, as others before him...
War never decided who was right, only who was left—a Terran saying, centuries old, but still apt. She’d used it often to challenge Gilland’s commitment to the war, the futility of blasting and being blasted out of existence. And for what? Possession of a disputed piece of space, when there was, surely, enough space for everyone? Gil had said she didn’t understand. He was born into politics—she was not.
Suleah walked to the table, voice activating the 3-d memory disc. The hologram hovered before her.
She saw his face, the lop-sided smile, his dark hair tied elegantly back with the black and gold Imperial Ribbon. The black, high-necked uniform hugging his tall, lean torso. She closed her eyes to remember the feel and smell of him. Now, so difficult.
Oh, God. Panic clawed at her. Her memories were fading! She’d clung onto those images, with the hope that one day he would be found alive, as others before him were found alive, having been presumed lost in the far-flung battles for independence.
Four years she had waited. Four long, lonely years. She had studied and finished her planetology and terraforming deg
ree, her distinctions allowing her to choose whichever lucrative post she wanted. To forget, she took the distant and the difficult. But she could not outrun the pain.
On every anniversary of Empire Day, the day the old Earth confederacy had gained its independence from the Jalak oppressors, the memories returned, biting deep. Haunting.
Just this once she had thought to share the celebration, to break open the Moet and drink to life with her outpost colleagues. To call a truce to her own private demons.
Is the bitch coming to the party?
I’d rather not with us.
Suleah grasped the bottle and ripped off the foil wrapper, wincing as her third finger caught on its jagged edge. She ignored the cut, eased off the cork and poured the bubbling liquid into the glass. Delicate gold-edged crystal, it was an anachronism amid the plastic and metal of her quarters. The goblet’s mate she had broken the day the space-gram arrived... Commander Gilland D’Ambrose missing in action.
Missing implied a possible return. Offering hope.
It had taken her months of persistence to discover the details. Years to understand that ‘missing’ meant lost forever.
Gilland was gone, but she remained with one glass and an ancient bottle of champagne—his last gift to her, delivered with his last kiss.
Suleah drank the first glass without thinking. The second glass she savoured, as Gilland had taught her. He’d taught her a lot. His aristocratic ways, his tastes. How to love.
The third glass of champagne caressed her mouth and throat, warming her emptiness, its sweetness replacing the bitterness.
Sully...
The hairs on the nape of her neck lifted. Only Gil called her that. She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see him leaning against the wall, arms folded, that smile of his, which turned her inside out ...
“Suleah! Doctor Duran, are you there?”
She drew in a breath. Not his voice, but Connor’s, the CEO of outpost twenty-three, Rigel sector, coming from her wristlet hailer.
“Yes, I’m here. What do you want?”
“Sorry to worry you. I need someone to check out station six. It’s not registering. Can you?”
Was this a clever ploy to get rid of the bitch, so they could party on without her? Suleah forced a bitter smile. “Sure.”
“When you get back, join us in the lounge. We always celebrate Empire Day.”
I don’t, she wanted to scream.
“You will come, yes?”
“I’ll try.”
Connor’s eyes had been warm, frankly admiring, the last time they had spoken. He’d continued with his pursuit, even in the face of her frostiest responses. The man must be space-happy, or desperate. Probably both.
Suleah downed the last of the champagne, ignoring the giddiness. She hadn’t been drunk in... stars! Four years. Hadn’t been laid either in four years. That thought she quashed. Ice-water ran through her veins.
The small reconnaissance ship flew over the flat terrain. Occasionally the vehicle bucked, caught in a crosswind. The movement made Suleah queasy. Too much champagne on an empty stomach.
She halted the rover, and it settled with a hiss against the sand. She checked her enviro-suit one last time and dragged on the helmet.
The door slid open, and she stepped outside. The dust, like fine powder, floated up, swirling around her. It stuck to everything, that red dust. Invaded, permeated. Long after she left the planet, she knew she would remember its gritty, bitter taste. Even with the pressure locks, the sand managed to infiltrate every building of the outpost, glitching equipment and giving everyone a rash.
Suleah strode to the monitor, sending up puffballs of dust in her wake. “Stars curse it!” She saw the equipment casing had broken free and a dozen fibre wires dangled from the mainframe, the wind, and the dust acting in concert—planetary saboteurs against the alien intruders.
“Suleah!”
His voice, again. The wind whipped around her, whispering, dragging at her body like fingers. She shook her head.
“Suleah, remember! Remember!”
“Go to hell!” she yelled at the tormenting wind. The champagne made her think and feel things better left unthought, unfelt.
“Suuulllllyyyyy!”
She turned. In the distance, maybe twenty feet away, she saw it—a twisting cyclone-rainbow of red, gold and blue. The phenomenon was rarely seen so close.
Suleah fumbled with the recorder at her belt and aimed the sensor. Nothing registered; it never did. The light edged closer, retreated, moved closer, before vanishing abruptly. She returned the recorder to her belt sheath.
Suleah laser-joined the wires and snapped the housing closed, soldering it for good measure. The wind stepped up its moaning and its speed. Time to get back to base.
She climbed into the rover and tore off her helmet as the hatch sealed behind her. Outside the wind whipped up the dust so that it scraped against the sides of the rover like a million scratching nails. The noise always set her teeth on edge.
She switched on the engine. Nothing. Stars! She tried again. Deader than... Suleah bit back the thought. The rotors wheezed and slowly kicked into life. She punched in the autopilot and co-ordinates.
The rover shuddered amid the squeal of protesting grav-rockets. The thing would have to be serviced and soon! Like everything on the outpost, it was falling apart because of the dust. The ship finally reached altitude, fifteen hundred feet, just above the seething cloud.
She settled back and closed her eyes. An hour to base. Time enough to get rid of the lethargy from too much champagne. And then what? Return to her quarters or join the party. So not spoiled for choice.
The rover lurched, startling her awake. Another jolt sent the vehicle dipping sideways, flinging her from the seat. She had forgotten the basic safety precautions of the harness and paid the price as she collided against the instrument panel at her left.
Suleah dragged herself, hand over hand, to the control panel and flung herself into the chair, snapping on the harness.
The rover coughed and bucked. For a moment it halted, before slowly rotating nose first towards the planet’s surface. The cyclonic wind lifted the vehicle, flipping it end over end.
Suleah desperately fought the controls, trying to re-start the engine, while the computer screamed Danger. Proximity. The rover fell metres, then heaved upward in a cyclone stream. Up and down.
She punched out a distress call...
Suleah awoke to the distant sound of running water. A fragrant coolness soothed her skin. Familiar, that scent. Through the fuzziness, she struggled to remember. Honan, the rarest of spices. Six-months pay just for a drop. On leave, before his last mission, Gilland had massaged a full bottle of it into her body, lavishing her with his hands and his kisses.
She snapped her eyelids open to find herself lying in a rose-covered arbour, naked save for the sheet of white silk draped over her. Beneath her were cushions of velvet and satin. What the... She pushed herself upright.
“Awake at last. You’ve slept the day away, darling.”
Suleah gasped and turned. Smiling, Gilland strode to her, dressed in a long flowing robe of azure silk. His grey eyes were alight to her.
“Gilland?”
“Who else?”
He laughed, and the sound of it was like... It had been so long since she had heard his laugh! So long. She struggled to remember—something important. But what...
Her, but not her, crashing some stars-forsaken machine in a hell-hole. She shook her head. No, it was only a dream. Gilland was not dead. He was here with her in their garden.
He squatted before her, stroking her feet. His smile was teasing, light. His hands touched, while his eyes promised. Ah, what they promised!
Gilland leaned forward, straddling her, his mouth over hers. For a moment she melted into his embrace. His strong arms about her provided a gentle sheltering. She breathed in his spice-scent as she kissed him. A soft, intense kiss...
But not Gilland. N
ot as she remembered... Something, a subtle change. She tore her mouth from his. “Who are you?”
He laughed. “How can you forget me, the man who worships you with his body? Ah... Sully, now I understand. You are disoriented. I gave you too much honan.”
She glanced down. Her skin shone with oil, and she smelled the unmistakable honey-musk. Silence stretched between them, and the only sound, her heart thudding in her ears.
Suleah swallowed against the panic in her throat. The panic of her dream. “I was asleep?”
He grinned. “You needed to rest, after my demands of last night...”
Her blush heated her skin from her head to her heels. Their appetites for one another had always been voracious. How she wanted him inside her, now, filling her with that distinctive, intense possession of his. Her body ached...
She drew a hand over her face. No! Gilland was dead, four years dead. She knew it for a certainty. But how? How?
“I’m dreaming because Gil is dead.”
Smiling, he sat back on his haunches, his eyes darkly intense. He held out his hands, flexing his fingers. “I am alive. Touch me, feel me. In fact, I insist you touch me, just to make certain.”
“I—”
His gaze traced over her and she snatched up the sheet to hide her breasts.
“Sully.”
“You know my name?”
“Of course I do, as I know you in all ways.”
“You aren’t Gilland.”
“Then who am I?” he demanded, irritation crisping his voice.
“I don’t know. I remember an accident. I was in the rover on...” A hand flew to her mouth. “I must be dead. Or delusional.”
Gilland frowned. “Neither. You are being difficult. Too much honan, too much champagne, too much sex. I shall have to ration you.”
Suleah gasped. These words of Gilland’s had been spoken so long ago in the heat of their first quarrel. Their acrimony had dissolved as they had both laughed. Who would be the rationer and the rationee? They could not make a decision, so had retired to bed for an intimate debate.