~~~*~~~ Chapter 2 ~~~*~~~

Some things are so secret they become myth.
--Wayist Maxim, Sister Leonie Ellia Vin, CY 8,777

Trance stood where Rommie positioned her beside the door. The two women smiled and greeted the guests as the line of people passed into the conference area. The room was now decorated in the silvers and greens of the Soltan government, which in the dim light was barely visible to the human crewmembers. As with Dylan's other negotiations, the soft blue lighting had been installed in deference to the aliens' sensitivity to regular yellow light. Local blue flowers adorned the walls glowing with self-luminescence. Quick, bouncy music that was sent ahead by the Regent's staff piped through the air. Along one wall was a long table stacked with the delicacies of the planet, Solta Uno, and the exotic delights from other systems that the Regent favored.

Trance's attention wandered as her gaze followed a tall, broad shouldered man in a bright green tunic and gold pants through the door into the growing crowd. His muscular arms showed despite the willowy tunic top that the men all seemed to favor.

Rommie elbowed her in the ribs and shot her a piercing glance for ignoring the other guests. This wasn't the time to shirk one's duty. She shrugged apologetically and flashed the avatar a guilty smile. Bored, she tried to pick out environmental changes in the Soltans. They were obviously descended from Homo sapiens, though eons on a planet with a single dim blue sun had given them very pale grayish skin and enormous eyes. The lines on their faces were said to be ritualistic scars; inflicted on children as a passage into adulthood. Barbaric, she thought, but cultural. They resembled a white spider web overlaid on their features. The gravity must be very low, she thought, to let them grow so extremely tall. Most were at least as tall as Tyr, her Nietzschean crewmate.

Ship's Engineer Seamus Zelazny Harper strolled in, tugging at the starched collar of his shirt. He stopped beside the women, giving them a 'why me?' look that fit in perfectly with his unruly dark blond hair and the twinkle in his blue eyes made iridescent by his turquoise shirt. "So, how'd Rev luck out? Why isn't he stuffed into a sparkly foo-foo shirt?"

Rommie shrugged. "A prayer session, he said. Something about imminent prophecies."

"What? Did he read that this was gonna be the dance of the dead ... literally?" he whispered, shooting a sideways glance at a nearby alien with grayish skin and scars crisscrossing his face. He winced.

"Harper!" she hissed. "You will keep your voice down and show our new compatriots some respect. You are an adult, not a hormone-ridden teenager. Do not say everything that comes into your head or you'll start a war."

"War, shmore. They have puny mudskippers, not interstellar travel," he whispered. "What're they gonna do, catapult rocks at us? Besides, they look like zombies." He waggled his fingers in front of the avatar's face, widening his eyes and making ghostly sounds.

"Funny." She frowned. "Their skin is nearly translucent because they've lived so long under a very dim blue sun."

"And they were once human, Harper," Trance added.

He wrinkled his brow. "How do you figure?"

The acting medical officer continued, "Look at them! Look at their environment.

They're obviously humans who adapted over the eons to their planet. Can't you see that?"

"Nope. So, you mean if I homestead on a dim Drift my grandkids will look like bug-eyed cadavers?"

She frowned, looking slightly hurt. "That's one possibility."

"Terrific." He shrugged sarcastically and sauntered off with a smirk.

Trance sighed at his seeming ignorance and plastered a smile on her face.Thoughts of the bubble bath in her room made her smile waver. It was going to be a very long night.

The plum colored girl tried to be gracious as the guests filed in and Rommie welcomed them. Most of the Soltans returned the smile and ignored her android companion. As she smiled and pointed the way to the refreshment tables, she noticed a lone woman tense when spoken to, clutch her oversized soft bag, and then visibly relax.

Trance mused, "How odd."

The woman strolled into the crowd and stopped near the food table, eyeing the Regent, who stood speaking to Dylan Hunt, Captain of the Andromeda Ascendant.

Abruptly, a man bumped into Trance breaking her concentration. She stumbled backward. Strong hands caught her and steadied her on her feet.

"Ah, forgive me, please, Miss," the man apologized in a soft alto, releasing her and bowing before her, revealing a shining high forehead.

Her large dark eyes widened as she gave him a quick appraising glance and blushed a deep plum. "It's all right. You don't have to do that," Trance said, giving the room an embarrassed glance. Her long lavender tail twitched nervously behind her.

He straightened, extending a hand with six long, slender fingers.

Trance grasped the offered hand. She gazed up into his deep green eyes and knew she could like this man. It happened that way sometimes. She just knew things, felt things, even saw things occasionally. She had learned early in her travels not to attempt to explain her abilities. She'd made that mistake when she was very young. Those who could not understand her powers or her people feared her. Those who could comprehend wanted to exploit her. Ignorance is bliss ... for some.

"I am called Morsay," the tall man introduced himself.

"Trance Gemini," she replied coyly, cocking her head and favoring him with a white-toothed innocuous smile.

"I have not seen your species before, he remarked, studying her figure.

She shrugged with a giggle and played with the end of her tail. "We don't get out much."

"Neither do we." He chuckled low in his throat, giving the room a sweeping glance. The aroma of sweet roasted meat mixed with the flowery scent of the table decorations. "They're playing a rousing Marshland tune. The Marshlanders have little to do all day but compose frilly songs."

Trance caught the trace of sarcasm in his voice and wondered at it before he smiled. He certainly looked happy and successful. Why was he so bitter?

Morsay leaned closer to her. "Still, they do compel one to dance." He motioned toward a flurry of whirling dancers in the middle of the room.

"I'd love to," she accepted eagerly.

He pulled her into the crowd.

Rommie smiled wistfully as the sight of her crewmate's dance. However, her pleasure soured as she gazed upon the refreshment table's many empty platters. The Soltans descended upon the table like ravenous wolves. The platters were picked clean, shining as though freshly washed. Not a single crumb lay abandoned. Performing a quick mental calculation, she decided they would soon run out of food and drink. Stepping out into the quieter corridor, she activated her intercom and called, "Beka."

"What?" snapped Beka Valentine's harried voice.

"You've been granted a reprieve," the avatar informed her. "We're going to run out of refreshments. I need you to return to the Castle and speak to the Regent's man for more supplies. Are you willing?"

"Whoo hoo!" Beka crowed through the intercom. "I'll be back soon."

"I'll take that as a yes," Rommie said dryly and returned to the party, amazed at the other woman's utter lack of respect for diplomacy. Beka's in- your-face style often complimented Captain Hunt's diplomatic grace, as alarming as she found the notion.

^j^

Harper scanned the crowd, picking out the viable women. True the Soltans were a bit on the gruesome side, with their almost translucent gray-white skin and the scars carved into their bodies during the adolescent rites of passage. But, hey, a female was a female when you'd been alone long enough. He rubbed his palms together like Scrooge salivating over a pile of unclaimed cash and went to test his pickup lines on each woman in turn.

Thirty minutes later, slightly discouraged but still determined he approached a tall woman in an electric red tunic dress. Her stringy hair was the same barely grayish blue that marked all of her people. Her eyes were a huge deep green. Her face and small nose were covered in a spider web of thin white scars. If he squinted, he thought she could pass for pretty in the dim light with high-sculpted cheekbones and large eyes. So, he tried his best line.

"So, what's a willowy babe like you doin' so far from the center of the universe?"

She turned and ran her gaze over his body boldly. Then she smiled and perched on the very edge of the table so that their eyes were level. "I'm a pawn," she said in a husky voice as smooth and soft as velvet. She blinked slowly, like a cat studying dinner.

He shivered. Outer beauty? He no longer cared. "Yeah? In whose game? Cause I, Seamus Zelazny Harper, know a lot of games."

She laughed, a clear sound like a cascade of tinkling bells, and ran one long, short-nailed finger along the side of his face. "So do I."

A lopsided smile broke out on his face. "More wine?"

"Mmm ... " she purred.

^j^

Tyr scowled at his mirror, inwardly cursing the frivolity of yet another diplomatic excuse for a party. Of course, the humans all loved the music and dancing, no matter how they might complain. Nietzscheans took their dancing as seriously as their fighting. For the hundredth time, he straightened the sparkling blue Delvian silk shirt that Rommie insisted he wear. He shook his head slowly in frustration. There was a time and a place for decorative clothing. A frivolous show of diplomacy to a tiny back-drift world with little power and no space fleet did not demand any niceties on his part. He whipped the shirt off, careful not to rip it in deference to the ship's avatar, and hung it in the very back of the tiny closet in his quarters.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Yes, he made the perfect picture of Nietzschean strength; chain-mail tank top allowing his burgeoning muscles to show that he could crush them in hand to hand combat. Chain-mail wasn't comfortable to wear, however it was a daunting symbol of strength. Long black braids spoke of the unbridled passion of an ancient Highland warrior, and the force lance slung low on his leather-clad hips stated without a doubt that he was always prepared to defend himself. He allowed himself a small cocky grin. Yes, he was ready. A show of force was always best in a new situation, particularly for such a weak ally.

With a quick glance around his Spartan quarters, he dimmed the light and slipped down the hall toward the music. Behind him, the door slid shut automatically. He sauntered along the corridor, neither eager to attend the party nor happy to be in a large group of loud, fragile-looking people.

TBC in ch 3.