~~~*~~~
Chapter 3
~~~*~~~
He will lead us from chaos. He is the Way. The Way is Light. Chaos will be tamed. Light will reign.
--Oral History of the Essiiv
Saraann eyed the crowd with mixed emotions. The plum-colored woman was here. The pieces had all begun to fall into place. There was no mistaking her. The woman was unlike any other humanoid she had ever seen. Yet, they knew her kind. The believers, the Essiiv, the followers of ancient prophecy and protectors of the future would recognize one of the Ancients on sight. The color of the Kvilain sky just before sunset, their existence was a carefully guarded secret. The Ancient had gazed at her when she entered as though she could see her hidden purpose and reap the very depths of her soul. Perhaps, she could. It was said her kind could see and manipulate the unseen forces of nature, even speak with the plants as they grew. It had to be her. The plum woman would have the Sight.
Perhaps, she was more than just the woman in the prophecies. Perhaps, she was actually the true Saint, Saint Jemi -- the Divine Being who materialized in a silver fog to sit beside Lake Hanna on Elysia 4. She told Valia, a simple native priestess at the time, of the child whom would one- day restore order to the universe after a long and arduous night, four centuries before the Nietzscheans and Magog invaded. Yes, perhaps.
Saraann sank into the shadows; her back pressed to the wall that gently pulsed with the beat of the music, sifting speculations in her mind. Her gaze darted around the room, identifying, cataloguing people present, dangers inherent.
^j^
Basil Fortnoy, Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, stood taller than most Soltan natives. He attributed this fact to his undiluted royal lineage back through the foggy eons to the original settlers of the system whom he regarded as superior beings and not human. This lineage gave him power over the ignorant and superstitious commoners.
Saraann snorted, looking at him from under dark lashes. Little did he know the Believers had a true accounting of history, a written record of every atrocity committed by the major royal lines that vied for dominance in the system. A record that included interbreeding in the Regent's own very human line with every other Soltan major house. The Soltans were indeed undiluted humans, mutated over the eons by their environment and inbreeding. She was thankful she wasn't one of them.
The Regent's broad, toothy smile didn't reach his spider black eyes as the Captain of the human ship directed him with a gracious smile to a seat at the most decorated table. Bile rose in Saraann's throat. To treat that snake with such honor! The Regent folded himself into the seat with the grace of a giant Praying Mantis, snapping his fingers for servants to bring him Worm wine. Only decades of practice allowed Saraann to keep scorn and disgust from pinching her features. Most of the commoners bought the rhetoric that the Regent's staff planted -- that he was descended from ancient gods.
Abruptly wrought with an irrational fear of capture, Saraann bit back the urge to bolt from the room and search for a hiding place for her precious cargo, yet it was too soon. Someone would surely notice. Better to let them consume more of the brandy-soaked sweetbreads and Rakean Worm wine until their minds were too clouded to know who stood beside them. Better to let the woman forget her while she danced with the Plainsman. She soothed her fears with a quick prayer to Valia and Jemi. A small part of her rejoiced in the joy of the partygoers. There was no pain in this room -- none save her own. There were no prayers for the future, no horror at the present. No work. No starvation. No death. Ignorance. Bliss.
The smell of the food table wafted over her. Her mouth began to water, her limbs to tremble. It had been two days since she had eaten, all food going to the precious one she carried with her, mashed and thinned until he could eat it. She drifted closer to the table and scanned the food without touching it. She tore herself away then, admonishing herself for her moment of weakness. She could not put herself before her mission. HE was paramount. His safety was more important than food. She would eat after he was safe ... if she still lived.
The door to the room slid open once more, allowing a tall dark skinned man to enter. Her heart quickened. She knew who he was ... what he was. He was Nietzschean. A would-be conqueror and torturer of the weak. Plus, he was here with the other ... just as the prophecy stated. She forced her gaze away from the imposing man. He should not see her. If he caught her spying on him, her mission was doomed. She took several deep slow breaths to calm her racing heart. He would hear it and become suspicious. After he walked away from the entrance, she tried to appear frivolous and happy despite the whirlwind churning inside her. She slowly worked her way along the wall, through the crowd, toward the door. She had to put some distance between herself and the distraction of the food table. She had to be in position to leave quickly. She could show no weakness now in the vital hour. She stood beside a large potted tree, cradling the bag slung over her shoulder across her stomach and watching the dancers spin to the music.
^j^
Reverend Behemial Far Traveler reverently turned the yellowed pages of the ancient text. The paper crackled beneath his long razor-clawed fingers despite his gentle touch. Tiny flakes came off on his olive drab skin and crushed to dust on his fingertips. He said a quick prayer to the Divine, omnipotent God of everything, to spare the ancient book and its secrets from entropy. There was just something soothing about touching the pages, something serene in the solidity of written words on paper that was lacking in flexis and computer screens. Too many ancient texts had already been lost to time and apathy.
As he scoured the old prophecies an undercurrent of excitement rippled through him. The universe as they knew it was on the cusp of a major event. If one sifted through enough ancient texts and prophecies, one could almost see the pieces fall into place, pieces that clung together with a vaporous hold, yet clung all the same. He could almost ... almost say what the major event would be. He could feel it, like a word on the tip of his tongue, almost realized but not quite grasped.
He closed his eyes, meditating on the words he had studied over the past two months. He had little else to do aboard the Andromeda. He let the words flow through his mind, unchecked, allowing them to mingle and run together. He hoped that his subconscious, into which the Divine whispered, would combine the various prophecies and events into an epiphany.
After an indeterminate amount of time, he sighed. No revelation was forthcoming. Disappointment weighed him down, but he shook off the exhaustion and desire to wander to the observation deck and admire the stars. There was much work to be done.
Laughter echoed distantly in the corridor beyond his room alerting him that Dylan's latest diplomatic ball was underway. He and Dylan had decided he should stay hidden during the negotiations and celebrations. The Magog had, thankfully, skipped over this small system. However, with the World ship in transit, no system was guaranteed a safe future. Nevertheless, the Rev was quick to point out that the Magog reputation was the stuff of nightmares universally. It was safer for him to remain in his quarters where he preferred to be, studying history and the Way of the Divine. After his experiences on the Magog Worldship, his backslide into defensive murder; he had kept mainly to himself. He no longer completely trusted his own self- control, so perhaps it was safer for the guests as well.
Standing up slowly, he stretched his stiff muscles before pulling another tattered paper book from the tall stack beside his altar and resuming his meditation once more.
^j^
Tyr sighed when he sauntered into the room. It was packed with bodies, many unwashed, his extremely sensitive nose told him. With the appearance of ultimate boredom he stopped before Rommie, glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and deadpanned, "I've made an entrance My duty has been fulfilled." She shook her head imperceptibly and disagreed with the man who towered over her. "Not exactly, Tyr. Dylan's orders have been amended to state that all crew members must be in attendance for a minimum of thirty minutes."
"Or?"
"Or, you forfeit your next shore leave."
"Pity." His frustration didn't penetrate his apathetic façade. Shore leave, as Captain Dylan Hunt called it, was the only thing that kept his boredom from lashing out like a ferocious beast at certain whiny shipmates.
His gaze fell upon the ship's engineer, Harper, weaving through the crowd on the heels of a ghostly pale woman with equally pale stringy hair adorned with jeweled butterflies in a hopeless attempt to make her appealing. Tyr assessed the woman quickly; too thin to be a good bearer of Nietzschean children. She had muscle tone but long frail bones. Her gaze showed a marked lack of intelligence as she turned away from Harper. Not a good specimen at all. For a brief moment, Tyr felt sorry for the short, witty and talented engineer, even though he was annoying and immature. If the poor breeding choices shied away from him, would he ever procreate?
"And what happened to the blue shirt and the grey trousers?" she reprimanded.
He turned to her, bent and stared evenly into the avatar's chocolate colored eyes.
"They sparkled," he enunciated carefully.
She returned his gaze without flinching. "So does your chain mail, which you can't always wear."
"Watch me. It presents a formidable persona."
"It wouldn't hurt you to be sociable, though I'm aware that isn't the Nietzschean thing to do."
"We have our own definition of 'sociable' and this is not one of them."
She raised an eyebrow gracefully. "Then what is it?"
"A time to be on guard. Just because Dylan persuaded these people to sign a piece of paper and agree to join the resurrected Commonwealth, doesn't mean they can be trusted."
"Trust may be all we have."
He straightened and scanned the crowd thoroughly. "I hear several heartbeats racing like speeding freight trains. I smell fear in this room. I see deceit in some of their eyes. There is much they are not telling us. Trust is for fools." He strode off toward the food table, shouldering aside a heavyset Soltan who piled his plate with one of everything with hands covered in so many rings that he almost couldn't lift them.
She frowned as he departed, disturbed by his words. The Nietzschean's announcements might not always be polite, but his observations were undoubtedly correct. She decided to inform Dylan just to be safe.
^j^
"He won't disobey orders, Rommie. Every crowd has some intrigue. He probably smelled someone's fear of dancing and Harper's racing heart as he tries to score. Or the clicking of teeth during the feeding frenzy. Relax. Have some fun."
She gave her Captain a dubious look. "If you say so."
"I do. Just look around, Rommie. Your shipmates are all having fun. Well, except Tyr, but that's not unusual. And Beka, who's not here yet."
Dylan chuckled at the sight of Trance laughing out loud, as the tall Soltan spun her around. He nodded in greeting to Regent Fortnoy, seated at the table of honor across the room. The tall, lithe man raised his glass of wine in salute, then bent close to his Second in Command and the Captain of the Guard, deep in whispered conversation. Dylan glanced from the crowd to his avatar. The look of distance on her face made him turn toward her.
"May I have this dance?" he asked hoping to cheer her up.
She blinked at him in surprise. "But I thought we weren't supposed to ... "
"Even friends dance, Rommie." He reached down and took her hand, missing her brief look of wide-eyed fear.
She smiled brightly when he looked at her and allowed him to pull her onto the dance floor. "But, Dylan, I don't know how to dance," she protested.
He smiled. "I'll lead." He pulled her close enough for her sensors to feel his body heat, yet they were not touching. Her skin was thrummed with energy, though she knew that was impossible. The music was unfamiliar to them both, having been sent ahead by the Regent's Second, but he seemed to anticipate its ebb and flow.
She tried to do the same, but the music's uneven mathematical patterns made it difficult to predict them.
Dylan leaned close. "Close your eyes and trust me. I won't let you fall."
Rommie peered up into his blue eyes and realized she did trust him. He was her Captain, her lifeline. She closed her eyes. The gentle pressure of his fingertips on her hip and the others clasping her hand gave her direction. Suddenly, she was glad her ship self had transferred all of her emotions into this body, this avatar. She could feel the music, almost sense the waves crashing on a distant beach and the cool evening breeze. She lost track of the other dancers. Fast. Slow. Fast. Slow. The music carried them away. She imagined they danced on soft sand, the stars in audience above. Alone, together. He steered her with strong and capable hands. When the music slowed and finally stopped, she found she was breathless, despite having no lungs. Emotions roiled within her. She gazed up at him with wide, surprised eyes. Who could know a simple dance could addle her brain, as Harper would say?
He smiled down at her, raised one hand and almost imperceptibly brushed her cheek. "Sometimes it's like that, Andromeda," he said softly. Then turned and strode to sit beside the Regent at the head table as if unaware of how deeply his proximity touched her.
She stood for a moment, staring after him. A hurricane of emotions played out inside her. Love, duty, emptiness, loss and desire, joy and sorrow, these were all human emotions. Did they matter in an Artificial Intelligence? She wasn't a woman. She was a war ship, a machine, and the extension of a man-made creation. She wasn't entitled to emotion, to love ... was she? She wondered about it for the thousandth time, until the notes of the next song echoed through the room. She gathered herself up and decided to ponder these things later.
A man tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to dance. With a last glance at her Captain, she smiled and accepted.
^j^
Saraann watched the crowds slowly get blitzed. Most of the revelers had imbibed too much Rakean Worm wine and laughed or danced with slightly glazed eyes. The Soltans adored a good party, particularly if it was free. The chance to escape the daily drudgery and hardships of a 50% tithe to the Regent was a good excuse to indulge. The aristocracy who crammed the room stuffed their faces and had never worked hard in their lives, never wanted for water or food, heat or clothing. Yet, they acted like starving dehydrated fools. Disgust welled up in Saraann's throat. The opulence in this room alone could be sold for enough Soltan ducas to power an entire village for years. The food on the tables could feed the same village for six months. The waste was obscene.
The recent bought of mysterious fires and infant disappearances added to her malaise. It was the last straw. She'd seen too much death, too much suffering. That was why she had to succeed; to bring light to a universe gone mad. She felt the bag hanging across her stomach twitch. She started. The sedative must have begun to wear off. She would have to move quickly.
Relaxing her shoulders so as not to appear tense or completely sober, she sauntered out of the door into the corridor. The corridor itself held many of the revelers as the party spilled into quieter confines and the aristocracy looked for anything it could get its grubby hands on. She inquired as to the location of a lavatory and followed directions until she came to a corner around which was an empty corridor. She stepped around the corner, pressing her back to the wall while she awaited discovery. No one noticed her passage.
She let out a deep uneven breath. Her bag twitched again. A soft mewling whimper emanated from it. "Shh ... hush now," she murmured and patted the bag.
"Not long now and you'll be safe."
With a quick glance over her shoulder, she jogged down the dim corridor, uncertain of her destination, but quite sure she'd know it when she found it.
^j^
Trance laughed uproariously and took the crystalline glass of Rakean Worm wine. She didn't care if it was really made from worms or if that was just a silly moniker given to it, though if it were made from worms that would be really yucky and she wouldn't want to know anyway. Morsay whispered to her again and she stifled a belly laugh.
"This wine is really strong," she spluttered thinking that killing herself slowly in the human fashion was becoming way too easy. The alcohol made her head spin and her stomach do somersaults that weren't very pleasant. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears nearly drowning out the music.
He grinned, his huge dark eyes twinkling. They reminded her of the small furry animals of home; the ones that scampered around in the caves and seldom ventured into the light. "It was first brewed by the mine workers to escape the pleasures of eighteen hours of daily toil."
"Oh." She gasped, peering down into her glass. The mint green liquid gave no sign that it was a savior of the working man.
Morsay waved a hand in her direction. "No need to feel pity. Such are the ways of the world. Some are born slaves, others to enjoy the fruits of labor."
She gave him a slightly sad look, then suddenly brightened. "Do you like plants?"
He blinked, trying to keep her in focus. He swayed slightly on his feet and gulped the rest of the wine in his glass. "Hmm, yes, as long as they aren't morrax tubers." He leaned close and whispered conspiratorially, "Hideous, awful creeping things. They are flesh eaters. Horrid, horrid."
Trance's eyes widened as she replied, "Well, uh ... I don't have any of those, I'm sure. But, I have a lot of nice plants. Pretty ones. They're all friendly."
He extended an arm, wide smile showing sharp teeth. "Lead the way."
TBC in ch 4
He will lead us from chaos. He is the Way. The Way is Light. Chaos will be tamed. Light will reign.
--Oral History of the Essiiv
Saraann eyed the crowd with mixed emotions. The plum-colored woman was here. The pieces had all begun to fall into place. There was no mistaking her. The woman was unlike any other humanoid she had ever seen. Yet, they knew her kind. The believers, the Essiiv, the followers of ancient prophecy and protectors of the future would recognize one of the Ancients on sight. The color of the Kvilain sky just before sunset, their existence was a carefully guarded secret. The Ancient had gazed at her when she entered as though she could see her hidden purpose and reap the very depths of her soul. Perhaps, she could. It was said her kind could see and manipulate the unseen forces of nature, even speak with the plants as they grew. It had to be her. The plum woman would have the Sight.
Perhaps, she was more than just the woman in the prophecies. Perhaps, she was actually the true Saint, Saint Jemi -- the Divine Being who materialized in a silver fog to sit beside Lake Hanna on Elysia 4. She told Valia, a simple native priestess at the time, of the child whom would one- day restore order to the universe after a long and arduous night, four centuries before the Nietzscheans and Magog invaded. Yes, perhaps.
Saraann sank into the shadows; her back pressed to the wall that gently pulsed with the beat of the music, sifting speculations in her mind. Her gaze darted around the room, identifying, cataloguing people present, dangers inherent.
^j^
Basil Fortnoy, Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, stood taller than most Soltan natives. He attributed this fact to his undiluted royal lineage back through the foggy eons to the original settlers of the system whom he regarded as superior beings and not human. This lineage gave him power over the ignorant and superstitious commoners.
Saraann snorted, looking at him from under dark lashes. Little did he know the Believers had a true accounting of history, a written record of every atrocity committed by the major royal lines that vied for dominance in the system. A record that included interbreeding in the Regent's own very human line with every other Soltan major house. The Soltans were indeed undiluted humans, mutated over the eons by their environment and inbreeding. She was thankful she wasn't one of them.
The Regent's broad, toothy smile didn't reach his spider black eyes as the Captain of the human ship directed him with a gracious smile to a seat at the most decorated table. Bile rose in Saraann's throat. To treat that snake with such honor! The Regent folded himself into the seat with the grace of a giant Praying Mantis, snapping his fingers for servants to bring him Worm wine. Only decades of practice allowed Saraann to keep scorn and disgust from pinching her features. Most of the commoners bought the rhetoric that the Regent's staff planted -- that he was descended from ancient gods.
Abruptly wrought with an irrational fear of capture, Saraann bit back the urge to bolt from the room and search for a hiding place for her precious cargo, yet it was too soon. Someone would surely notice. Better to let them consume more of the brandy-soaked sweetbreads and Rakean Worm wine until their minds were too clouded to know who stood beside them. Better to let the woman forget her while she danced with the Plainsman. She soothed her fears with a quick prayer to Valia and Jemi. A small part of her rejoiced in the joy of the partygoers. There was no pain in this room -- none save her own. There were no prayers for the future, no horror at the present. No work. No starvation. No death. Ignorance. Bliss.
The smell of the food table wafted over her. Her mouth began to water, her limbs to tremble. It had been two days since she had eaten, all food going to the precious one she carried with her, mashed and thinned until he could eat it. She drifted closer to the table and scanned the food without touching it. She tore herself away then, admonishing herself for her moment of weakness. She could not put herself before her mission. HE was paramount. His safety was more important than food. She would eat after he was safe ... if she still lived.
The door to the room slid open once more, allowing a tall dark skinned man to enter. Her heart quickened. She knew who he was ... what he was. He was Nietzschean. A would-be conqueror and torturer of the weak. Plus, he was here with the other ... just as the prophecy stated. She forced her gaze away from the imposing man. He should not see her. If he caught her spying on him, her mission was doomed. She took several deep slow breaths to calm her racing heart. He would hear it and become suspicious. After he walked away from the entrance, she tried to appear frivolous and happy despite the whirlwind churning inside her. She slowly worked her way along the wall, through the crowd, toward the door. She had to put some distance between herself and the distraction of the food table. She had to be in position to leave quickly. She could show no weakness now in the vital hour. She stood beside a large potted tree, cradling the bag slung over her shoulder across her stomach and watching the dancers spin to the music.
^j^
Reverend Behemial Far Traveler reverently turned the yellowed pages of the ancient text. The paper crackled beneath his long razor-clawed fingers despite his gentle touch. Tiny flakes came off on his olive drab skin and crushed to dust on his fingertips. He said a quick prayer to the Divine, omnipotent God of everything, to spare the ancient book and its secrets from entropy. There was just something soothing about touching the pages, something serene in the solidity of written words on paper that was lacking in flexis and computer screens. Too many ancient texts had already been lost to time and apathy.
As he scoured the old prophecies an undercurrent of excitement rippled through him. The universe as they knew it was on the cusp of a major event. If one sifted through enough ancient texts and prophecies, one could almost see the pieces fall into place, pieces that clung together with a vaporous hold, yet clung all the same. He could almost ... almost say what the major event would be. He could feel it, like a word on the tip of his tongue, almost realized but not quite grasped.
He closed his eyes, meditating on the words he had studied over the past two months. He had little else to do aboard the Andromeda. He let the words flow through his mind, unchecked, allowing them to mingle and run together. He hoped that his subconscious, into which the Divine whispered, would combine the various prophecies and events into an epiphany.
After an indeterminate amount of time, he sighed. No revelation was forthcoming. Disappointment weighed him down, but he shook off the exhaustion and desire to wander to the observation deck and admire the stars. There was much work to be done.
Laughter echoed distantly in the corridor beyond his room alerting him that Dylan's latest diplomatic ball was underway. He and Dylan had decided he should stay hidden during the negotiations and celebrations. The Magog had, thankfully, skipped over this small system. However, with the World ship in transit, no system was guaranteed a safe future. Nevertheless, the Rev was quick to point out that the Magog reputation was the stuff of nightmares universally. It was safer for him to remain in his quarters where he preferred to be, studying history and the Way of the Divine. After his experiences on the Magog Worldship, his backslide into defensive murder; he had kept mainly to himself. He no longer completely trusted his own self- control, so perhaps it was safer for the guests as well.
Standing up slowly, he stretched his stiff muscles before pulling another tattered paper book from the tall stack beside his altar and resuming his meditation once more.
^j^
Tyr sighed when he sauntered into the room. It was packed with bodies, many unwashed, his extremely sensitive nose told him. With the appearance of ultimate boredom he stopped before Rommie, glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and deadpanned, "I've made an entrance My duty has been fulfilled." She shook her head imperceptibly and disagreed with the man who towered over her. "Not exactly, Tyr. Dylan's orders have been amended to state that all crew members must be in attendance for a minimum of thirty minutes."
"Or?"
"Or, you forfeit your next shore leave."
"Pity." His frustration didn't penetrate his apathetic façade. Shore leave, as Captain Dylan Hunt called it, was the only thing that kept his boredom from lashing out like a ferocious beast at certain whiny shipmates.
His gaze fell upon the ship's engineer, Harper, weaving through the crowd on the heels of a ghostly pale woman with equally pale stringy hair adorned with jeweled butterflies in a hopeless attempt to make her appealing. Tyr assessed the woman quickly; too thin to be a good bearer of Nietzschean children. She had muscle tone but long frail bones. Her gaze showed a marked lack of intelligence as she turned away from Harper. Not a good specimen at all. For a brief moment, Tyr felt sorry for the short, witty and talented engineer, even though he was annoying and immature. If the poor breeding choices shied away from him, would he ever procreate?
"And what happened to the blue shirt and the grey trousers?" she reprimanded.
He turned to her, bent and stared evenly into the avatar's chocolate colored eyes.
"They sparkled," he enunciated carefully.
She returned his gaze without flinching. "So does your chain mail, which you can't always wear."
"Watch me. It presents a formidable persona."
"It wouldn't hurt you to be sociable, though I'm aware that isn't the Nietzschean thing to do."
"We have our own definition of 'sociable' and this is not one of them."
She raised an eyebrow gracefully. "Then what is it?"
"A time to be on guard. Just because Dylan persuaded these people to sign a piece of paper and agree to join the resurrected Commonwealth, doesn't mean they can be trusted."
"Trust may be all we have."
He straightened and scanned the crowd thoroughly. "I hear several heartbeats racing like speeding freight trains. I smell fear in this room. I see deceit in some of their eyes. There is much they are not telling us. Trust is for fools." He strode off toward the food table, shouldering aside a heavyset Soltan who piled his plate with one of everything with hands covered in so many rings that he almost couldn't lift them.
She frowned as he departed, disturbed by his words. The Nietzschean's announcements might not always be polite, but his observations were undoubtedly correct. She decided to inform Dylan just to be safe.
^j^
"He won't disobey orders, Rommie. Every crowd has some intrigue. He probably smelled someone's fear of dancing and Harper's racing heart as he tries to score. Or the clicking of teeth during the feeding frenzy. Relax. Have some fun."
She gave her Captain a dubious look. "If you say so."
"I do. Just look around, Rommie. Your shipmates are all having fun. Well, except Tyr, but that's not unusual. And Beka, who's not here yet."
Dylan chuckled at the sight of Trance laughing out loud, as the tall Soltan spun her around. He nodded in greeting to Regent Fortnoy, seated at the table of honor across the room. The tall, lithe man raised his glass of wine in salute, then bent close to his Second in Command and the Captain of the Guard, deep in whispered conversation. Dylan glanced from the crowd to his avatar. The look of distance on her face made him turn toward her.
"May I have this dance?" he asked hoping to cheer her up.
She blinked at him in surprise. "But I thought we weren't supposed to ... "
"Even friends dance, Rommie." He reached down and took her hand, missing her brief look of wide-eyed fear.
She smiled brightly when he looked at her and allowed him to pull her onto the dance floor. "But, Dylan, I don't know how to dance," she protested.
He smiled. "I'll lead." He pulled her close enough for her sensors to feel his body heat, yet they were not touching. Her skin was thrummed with energy, though she knew that was impossible. The music was unfamiliar to them both, having been sent ahead by the Regent's Second, but he seemed to anticipate its ebb and flow.
She tried to do the same, but the music's uneven mathematical patterns made it difficult to predict them.
Dylan leaned close. "Close your eyes and trust me. I won't let you fall."
Rommie peered up into his blue eyes and realized she did trust him. He was her Captain, her lifeline. She closed her eyes. The gentle pressure of his fingertips on her hip and the others clasping her hand gave her direction. Suddenly, she was glad her ship self had transferred all of her emotions into this body, this avatar. She could feel the music, almost sense the waves crashing on a distant beach and the cool evening breeze. She lost track of the other dancers. Fast. Slow. Fast. Slow. The music carried them away. She imagined they danced on soft sand, the stars in audience above. Alone, together. He steered her with strong and capable hands. When the music slowed and finally stopped, she found she was breathless, despite having no lungs. Emotions roiled within her. She gazed up at him with wide, surprised eyes. Who could know a simple dance could addle her brain, as Harper would say?
He smiled down at her, raised one hand and almost imperceptibly brushed her cheek. "Sometimes it's like that, Andromeda," he said softly. Then turned and strode to sit beside the Regent at the head table as if unaware of how deeply his proximity touched her.
She stood for a moment, staring after him. A hurricane of emotions played out inside her. Love, duty, emptiness, loss and desire, joy and sorrow, these were all human emotions. Did they matter in an Artificial Intelligence? She wasn't a woman. She was a war ship, a machine, and the extension of a man-made creation. She wasn't entitled to emotion, to love ... was she? She wondered about it for the thousandth time, until the notes of the next song echoed through the room. She gathered herself up and decided to ponder these things later.
A man tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to dance. With a last glance at her Captain, she smiled and accepted.
^j^
Saraann watched the crowds slowly get blitzed. Most of the revelers had imbibed too much Rakean Worm wine and laughed or danced with slightly glazed eyes. The Soltans adored a good party, particularly if it was free. The chance to escape the daily drudgery and hardships of a 50% tithe to the Regent was a good excuse to indulge. The aristocracy who crammed the room stuffed their faces and had never worked hard in their lives, never wanted for water or food, heat or clothing. Yet, they acted like starving dehydrated fools. Disgust welled up in Saraann's throat. The opulence in this room alone could be sold for enough Soltan ducas to power an entire village for years. The food on the tables could feed the same village for six months. The waste was obscene.
The recent bought of mysterious fires and infant disappearances added to her malaise. It was the last straw. She'd seen too much death, too much suffering. That was why she had to succeed; to bring light to a universe gone mad. She felt the bag hanging across her stomach twitch. She started. The sedative must have begun to wear off. She would have to move quickly.
Relaxing her shoulders so as not to appear tense or completely sober, she sauntered out of the door into the corridor. The corridor itself held many of the revelers as the party spilled into quieter confines and the aristocracy looked for anything it could get its grubby hands on. She inquired as to the location of a lavatory and followed directions until she came to a corner around which was an empty corridor. She stepped around the corner, pressing her back to the wall while she awaited discovery. No one noticed her passage.
She let out a deep uneven breath. Her bag twitched again. A soft mewling whimper emanated from it. "Shh ... hush now," she murmured and patted the bag.
"Not long now and you'll be safe."
With a quick glance over her shoulder, she jogged down the dim corridor, uncertain of her destination, but quite sure she'd know it when she found it.
^j^
Trance laughed uproariously and took the crystalline glass of Rakean Worm wine. She didn't care if it was really made from worms or if that was just a silly moniker given to it, though if it were made from worms that would be really yucky and she wouldn't want to know anyway. Morsay whispered to her again and she stifled a belly laugh.
"This wine is really strong," she spluttered thinking that killing herself slowly in the human fashion was becoming way too easy. The alcohol made her head spin and her stomach do somersaults that weren't very pleasant. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears nearly drowning out the music.
He grinned, his huge dark eyes twinkling. They reminded her of the small furry animals of home; the ones that scampered around in the caves and seldom ventured into the light. "It was first brewed by the mine workers to escape the pleasures of eighteen hours of daily toil."
"Oh." She gasped, peering down into her glass. The mint green liquid gave no sign that it was a savior of the working man.
Morsay waved a hand in her direction. "No need to feel pity. Such are the ways of the world. Some are born slaves, others to enjoy the fruits of labor."
She gave him a slightly sad look, then suddenly brightened. "Do you like plants?"
He blinked, trying to keep her in focus. He swayed slightly on his feet and gulped the rest of the wine in his glass. "Hmm, yes, as long as they aren't morrax tubers." He leaned close and whispered conspiratorially, "Hideous, awful creeping things. They are flesh eaters. Horrid, horrid."
Trance's eyes widened as she replied, "Well, uh ... I don't have any of those, I'm sure. But, I have a lot of nice plants. Pretty ones. They're all friendly."
He extended an arm, wide smile showing sharp teeth. "Lead the way."
TBC in ch 4
