Duchess Seonid Min walked down to her private parlor. With a final twirl to display the fullness of the strapless gown, with its fluffy white tulle skirt, yellow satin overlay and white rose corsage, she grinned at the image in the mirror, clicking the heels of her white velvet boots together. She fiddled with her short shiny dark brown hair, admired the shimmering blue eyeliner that brought out her slender winged eyes and the pink in her creamy cheeks. She was no beauty-she was too overweight and too short (4"5 with heels) to look like those models on TV. But she wasn't going to dress like a nun just because she had a big butt and thick thighs, and she could still pretty up her round plain face a bit.

Satisfied that she looked perfect, she sauntered into the pale pink room with its gilded chairs, pausing only to adjust the vase of flowers on the table. For this was her room, and everything, from the matching, rose-printed dishes on the irewood table from the overstuffed, pink velvet wing chair in the corner, had to be just so.

On the opposite corner of the room, a large wallscreen with a holomap of the Rublex Galaxy resided. Seonid marched over to this sleek device, rather out of place in the frilly, old-fashioned room, and used her fingers to zoom in on a small solar system, which she scanned for minutes, her brow furrowed in concentration, until she reached the small silver dot labeled Oriolis. She tapped on it, and a list of figures and statistics appeared on the dark-blue background of the coat of arms of the galaxy.

"The two hundred fortieth meeting of the Rublex Royal Council will now commence," she announced to the crowded room, packed with men and women in expensive clothes, all sampling delicacies from silver platters and sniffing the floral arrangements. "First, I would like to welcome each and every one of you into my humble home. Please, make yourself comfortable. Secondly, we have three proposals we need to address-the Petrochemicals Guild has a suggestion on how to reduce emissions, the Screen Actors Association has been lobbying our local councils with some film-friendly bills, and the demands of the Granjan people and the ongoing discrimination they claim to be facing under our administration." As she spoke, the people in the room listened raptly, politely applauding when she was finished All of the people in the room were older than the Duchess; her round face and innocent brown eyes gave one the impression of a child, malleable and easily influenced. And yet it was clear who the leader in the room was.

Seonid Min had been born in the Earthen ghetto of North Side, a rough section of the Grand Centaurii City. Her parents were the children of Korean immigrants from Earth, and the tiny family apartment was barely big enough for the family's seven children. She was the middle child, the first girl, but expectations were hardly high. Her three older brothers and her father had all done jail time; the oldest, Kivran, had been sentenced to life for second-degree murder, and her father was always in and out of the house, dancing between prison and complete bankruptcy. But Seohyun Min hadn't lost all hope-she'd given her daughter another name-Gim Mirae, which meant "golden future" in Korean, and the names of two great Centauriian empresses (Seonid and Elysei, just to be on the safe side), so it seemed fair to say that Seonid was bound to be an extraordinary child.

Nevertheless, when Seohyun sent six-year-old Seonid to the same inner-city public school she had sent her two brothers, she was completely flabbergasted when the girl came back with a letter the first day claiming that that she has shown "exceptional promise" and would they not mind if they promoted Seonid to the sixth year, as she was not like to learn much in the first? Seohyun couldn't believe it. After all, both she and her husband had barely graduated from upper school. But she signed the form with a shaking hand, and subsequently, Seonid was on track to be very special indeed.

Suprisingly, Seonid didn't like school very much. Oh, she liked learning well enough, but school? Not at all. Pretty soon, she realized she was quite a bit smarter than many of her teachers, and often had to correct them, "to preserve the integrity of the lesson," as she put it. This habit caused two labels to be hung up on her, neither of which she liked very much-"genius girl" and "smarty pants." She didn't like "genius girl" because it implied that she had supernatural abilities, and she didn't like "smarty pants" because it prevented her from having friends. After coming in top in the nation-wide exam required to pass the sixth year, she then moved onto upper school. Upper school was different from lower school in several ways. For one, what year you were didn't matter. You just had to complete a certain number of courses and then you could graduate. Generally, it took students six years to finish upper school. Seonid finished all her required courses in two-and participated in every extracurricular activity her school offered, even sports, which she wasn't much good at.

Most geniuses, the ones you hear about a lot, are famous because of their contributions to math and science. Seonid was different. Her strengths were in language and public speaking. But she had no idea where to go with those skills. A helpful teacher had watched her at a debate team match, and had asked her afterwards, "I know you're finishing this year; what universities are you applying to?"

Seonid told him the names, all local schools, mediocre at best. He shook his head. "You're looking at the wrong places. You should be applying to the best, with skills like yours. Grand Centaurii University, perhaps?"

Grand Centaurii University?! Home of the best law program, the incredibly elite school only accepted-and oftentimes rejected-the very best. But Seonid had taken his advice, and before she knew it, she had applied applied, had been called in for an interview, had been called in for another interview (this one for a merit scholarship), and had finally been accepted.

University has passed by in a blissful blur, and she had come out top in her class again. Many of her peers wanted to go on for internships in prestigious law firms, but Seonid had a different goal. She wanted to help North Side, where she had been raised. And the way to do that? Get elected as Centauriian senator.

The empire divided its powers into Houses of nobility headed up by the emperor or empress, and the elected Centauriian Senate, which represented every single planetary system and galaxy within the empire. There was one representative for every planetary system (a planet and its moons). So politics within the established parties were cutthroat, nasty, and unwelcoming to outsiders. So Seonid and a few college friends founded their own party, put Seonid on the ballot, and waited.

What no one could have predicted was how popular Seonid would become. People, for some reason, really liked her. Probably it was because people liked her whole image-thirteen-year-old inner-city whiz kid Seo Min, her ability to sound smart without sounding pretentious, the way she could talk to all kinds of people, her persistence on issues she cared about but her willingness to compromise, her openness. Without really meaning to, she became a contender. And before long, she was planet rep and galaxy rep (the contest between the planet reps within the galaxy).

She would have been content to just stop there, but fate, as it would seem, intervened. Within a few weeks of her first term, Seonid received a letter that would change her life.

Apparently, the High King Selevar, head of House Onyx (the guardians of Centaurii and the leaders of the military) had caught sight of Seonid's exceptional rise to power and declared her Raised to the Imperium, Duchess Seonid Min of the planet of Oriolis of the Yancyl system of the Adeline Quadrant of the Dencë sector, First Duchess (duchess of the capital planet!) of the Rublex Galaxy of the Grand Centaurii Empire, and eligible for all ranks and privileges of that title.

Which was really a nice way of saying that the High Lord Cielaré, the real power in House Onyx, demanded that she ascend to the Imperium. One did not refuse such an offer, even if one had never heard of the Rublex Galaxy before.

And so, at the tender age of fourteen, she was a planet leader. Royalty.

It was all a bit hard to believe.

She examined the members of her cabinet fondly. Tall, thin Piengo la Chanve, Minister of Affairs. City Magistrate Ala Stinworthy, pale and elegant. Duke Cierno of the nearby planet of Long Gap. Rather unattractive, middle-aged Duchess Cal, Duke Cierno's wife. Other assorted royals, some she liked, some she didn't. And presiding over them all, white-haired ancient old High Lord Dunavain, the leader of the galaxy. She couldn't imagine a better group of people to work with. Or a more unlikely.

Houses Onyx (military) Diamond (diplomacy) and Emerald (finance) together made up the "Big Three." These were the most influential houses, the ones every noble wanted to be a part of, the ones with the most money, influence, and power. But naturally, there was a world of difference within the Houses, made up of multiple families who may or may not agree ideologically. Such was the case with Onyx, where the High Lord Cielaré's ultra-conservative militarism had made him more than a few enemies. So the High Lord had come up with a solution. Anyone whom he deemed likely to make trouble, he banished to the Rublex or other outer galaxies, cutting them off from main channels of power. So the Rublex was, therefore, an enclave of thought quite different from that of mainstream Onyx.

Seonid didn't care. The people she had met here were fantastic leaders, all brave and talented and wise. The High Lord had no idea what he was missing not having these people on his side.

High Lord Dunavain, their leader, stood up feebly. He was getting up there in years, but his mind was still sharp. At his side, his son Milos, the heir to the Rublex, a dignified gentleman who sat with his wife, dutifully giving his father his glass of water. As the older Dunavain rose, he quaffed the drink, then gave Seonid a conspiratorial wink. "Thank you for those kind words of welcome, Duchess. Now, before we address those issues, I have some of my own-Oh! I almost forgot!" He turned to a portrait on the opposite wall and bowed very low. "Good evening, High Lord Ruble."

As one, the leaders of the Rublex rose, and saluted the picture, which depicted a handsome, strong-jawed man with coffee-colored skin and a fall of rich copper hair that fell in long curls to his waist. Despite that, and his flamboyant silken raiment, the angles of his jaw and cheekbones left no doubt as to his gender.

High Lord Rythicæn Ruble was something of a legend among the Centauriians. He had been one of the original founders of the Celestial Empire, as well as the counterpart to the High Lord Cielaré's ideology, the founder of House Diamond. Like the High Lord, he was brilliant, but he was a sworn pacifist, holding to the vows of his religion, the Church of the Seven Angels. Despite his political rivalry with Cielaré, the two remained good friends. That was, until a final argument (no one was certain what it was about) had so angered Ruble that he fled the empire, never to be seen again. The Rublex Galaxy was his legacy.

To salute the portrait, here, under the command of House Onyx, was unthinkable, semi-blasphemous, in fact. But it gave the men and women of the Rublex their own little form of defiance, a small rebellion, in a way. They may have been relegated to the ass-end of the empire, as Dunavain liked to say, but that still meant they could act with style.

The only person who wasn't standing (or smiling) was her bodyguard, Tessa. Just taller than Seonid, the small woman had her perpetual poker face on. As a direct employee of Cielaré, the guard took her responsibilities very seriously.

As Seonid sat down, a tray of food was passed to her. She stared at the "simple and elegant" Rublex dinner in front of her. After two months in the galaxy, she was sick of their food, its subtle nuances and slight shifts in flavor. Today, a light yellow cream and a Rublex roll with fruit, all arranged in the most artful manner. It churned her stomach to look at it.

"Rondeman," she whispered to the uniformed attendant, "tell the chef to fetch me a deep-fried eekak bucket." She longed for the bold flavors of her home planet, even if it did take a toll on her figure.

The attendant nodded, walked away to give her order. As he did so, Dunavain flagged him down. "Oh, Rondeman!"

"Yes, m'lord?"

"Fetch one for me too." Seonid blushed, but Dunavain grinned. "I haven't had eekak in years."

The assembled nobles chuckled, and would have laughed more had not a horrible creak sounded above them, with a nails-on-a chalkboard quality. Everyone stopped, nervous.

Then all the lights went out.

All was darkness.

••

Tessa lounged in her chair, watching with fond disinterest the proceedings of the day. She had never been one for politics, but it did amuse her to watch her small, confident duchess twist these seasoned dukes and governesses around her fingers.

If only they didn't have to salute the portrait. It looked for a second like Dunavain was going to forget, but then he quickly remembered, and everyone got up to salute the damn thing. It always seemed fairly stupid to Tessa, nothing but a petty little way for these third-rate politicians to feel like they had a say in anything. Did they not realize their guards and servants were Cielaré's direct employees?

Many of the guards seemed to be forgetting that. They were wearing Rublex clothes instead of Onyx black, and they laughed and joked as they saluted the portrait.

Well, she wasn't going to do it. Someone had to be professional.

She supposed this was just her punishment. Though why anyone had to be punished for saving their employer's (such a strange word, employer, so technical) life was beyond her.

When she thought about the series of events that had landed her here, it was more like a series of flashes. A fancy ballroom, with long white tables, the flash of crystal and the spray of red wine as the crack of a bullet cut through the soft waltz that was playing. Standing up, fiddling with the trigger of her own gun. Burning pain in her side. Red dots spreading into wet splotches on the man's white shirt.

The doctors said she was incredibly lucky that the bullet fired by the man, who was, rather predictably, an Arkillion nationalist, had lodged in flesh rather than a rib. Even if it had lodged in a rib, she doubted she would have cared much. The High Lord Cielaré was safe. That was all that mattered.

But there was a problem. News of the assault on the palace had spread far and wide. People wanted to know about the brave guard who'd saved the High Lord's life. There would be interviews and fluff pieces and worst of all, photographs. All their work could be undone. And so, for the fourth time, all the files on her were erased, then re-edited into a new alias and a new location. She would travel to the remote Rublex Galaxy to guard someone named Seonid Min, far away from prying eyes and anyone who might recognize her from the Earthen newsfeeds.

She didn't want to. She would feel safer near the High Lord, preferably in his Miramoor Galaxy or in the Imperial residence at Lyria. But it was a promotion, and she had been nearly located with less, so all in all, it was a necessary evil.

Given how out of the way the Rublex was, Tessa saw no need to disguise herself. Few people knew what she looked like, although it was true she did possess an otherworldly beauty. At four feet seven inches, she was tiny, with a pretty, heart-shaped face that made her age impossible to gauge. She had large, dark eyes and dusky red lips highlighted by the barest touch of makeup. Soft olive skin, lighter than her thick dark hair, rounded out her unusual appearance. One might mistake her for a doll, with her haunting eyes and the way she rarely changed her facial expressions. Yet her slender arms were corded with muscles, and the too-large black jacket she wore bulged with knives. But with a face like hers, she was rarely taken seriously.

She was expecting some spoiled little brat, but Seonid wasn't at all like that. No, this duchess seemed like she needed Tessa, in some bizarre way. Needed her experience from four years of watching House Onyx politics, needed a shoulder to cry tears of frustration, anger, and grief on, needed an older sister. And so Tessa unknowingly became all of those things, for a little Earthen duchess who was truly a force to be reckoned with.

Am I getting soft? It was a valid concern. She wasn't supposed to be attached to anything or anyone. After all, her contract was almost up. One more year and she'd be able to leave, go wherever she wanted with as much money as she could ever need. She sometimes wondered if that's why she'd been assigned to guard Seonid-so that she would never leave.

But no. They had a deal. Five years of service in exchange for protection. And the High Lord Cielaré was a lot of things, but never dishonest. At least, not dishonest to her. That was why he needed to stay alive.

Mind on the job. she reminded herself, beginning to stare down Duchess Cal's bodyguard, a pale, nervously freckled young man. Duchess Cal, she had liked. But Duke Cierno always seemed like a false friend of Seonid's. The duke, she suspected, was probably responsible for the mass pullout of troops two weeks ago, an idea that would leave Oriolis completely defenseless. And Duke Cierno had hired this guard, who was probably only loyal to his paycheck.

If you try anything...She was neither the strongest nor the best-trained guard on the Onyx force, but she knew how to break a man. The guard looked away, blushing at the strength of her gaze.

Tessa was about to shift her gaze to Cierno when the lights went out.

All was darkness.

••

All was darkness, but not all was quiet. Some of the richer nobles were tittering nervously. Seonid could not help but smile. These coddled royals had probably never been in a blackout before, but Seonid's years in North Side had resigned her to the experience of blackouts-the way everything stopped, the waiting for the crews to come turn everything back on. She had an idea why the power had gone out, though. The mansion had just installed a new power system that was not all the way stable. But to have it happen now, during a meeting, was just bad luck. Of all the times for an outage...

It would be a pain to fix, though, because the mansion was on an island overlooking the city. They'd have to get Grand Oriolis City power teams up there, which could take weeks.

"Look!" cried Count Behran of the Smelziorg sector. "The city's out! Everything's black!"

"What?" Seonid scrambled to the window, only to see that he spoke the truth. The evening lights of the city, which could usually be seen from the mansion, were black as pitch, as was the sky above. Even the water of the river was shimmering obsidian, rippling below them.

A collective groan from the room. Then, chatter broke out. "What are we going to do?" "They can't get power teams up here for weeks!" "The Miramoor Galaxy could!" "They're too far away." "It must be something really big." "To get the whole city out, no less!"

"Everyone, quiet!" commanded Seonid. "Let us go to the command room and see if it's just our area. There's no reason to panic." Her words, she hoped, concealed the anxiety she felt. She had never lived through a blackout this big before, even in North Side. An entire city out...that had never happened before.

As no one had a better idea (the wall displays were essential to continue the meeting), they all got up and followed Seonid down the ornately carved stairs, the flashlights on their cellphones bathing the floor in a blue glow.

The house was frightening at night, without a doubt. Without lights, especially. Now furniture that was innocent at day took on a sinister feel at night. In the dim glow, Seonid saw Tessa's hand, clutching at her gun. She suppressed a shudder, then remembered how paranoid her bodyguard often was. It was probably nothing. Wasn't it?

The command room in the basement was powered by a generator, so was still lit. It was sparsely furnished, with industrial-grade metal tables and plastic chairs. The real power in the command room came from the new computerized walls which lined the entire room. The room was created to serve in case of extreme disaster, invasion, or war, which was why it was always powered.

The duchess spoke, "Initiating status report."

The walls responded with a series of clicks and beeps, then a map of the whole galaxy appeared.

All dark.

"The whole galaxy..." whispered Cal, horrified.

"I suppose we can call the Miramoor," said Dunavain reluctantly. Everyone knew he and the High Lord Cielaré were hardly on the best of terms. But if the whole galaxy was out he would need to do something.

As if on cue, the Apex in his hand, along with the walls and the halogen lights on the ceiling, flickered, and then went out.

"That...that's not supposed to happen." stammered Seonid. "The generators..."

Suddenly a grinding overhead split the silence, as though from the world's largest electric saw. "A ship." Tessa told Seonid. "Perhaps the Miramoor got a power crew up here."

They heard a thud, a couple crashes, and the grinding noise ceased abrubtly. All was eerily silent.

Then someone kicked down the door to the mansion.

"Oh, God," Seonid breathed. She heard similar exclamations from the assorted nobles below. Each intoned the name of their deity. Some of the really religious ones, like Governess Stinworthy, had set up a small pocket shrine and were actually praying. Though about what, Seonid didn't know.

Centaurii had never been invaded since Amadeus IV had conquered the universe in 1099. Never. But what was the kicking down of the imperial manor if not invasion? And how had the generators gone off?

Calm down. she told herself. There was no need to panic. Not yet. They didn't know who was above them. Beside her, Tessa tensed, listening to the heavy bootfalls of what seemed to be a small squad of...soldiers? They had the voices of soldiers, at least.

"Al-Almiarah, this place is huge!" one said in an unfamiliar accent.

"Centauriian dogs," his companion sneered. "They're all evil, all filthy-rich, bourgeoisie noks." He spat audibly.

"They could be anywhere, by al-Almiarah!" fumed the first again. "This place is huge."

"Will you shut up and look for them, then?" said a waspish female voice. "You're not going to find anything by admiring the furniture."

"Yes, Lady Castella." said the voice meekly.

"I found something!" called a voice triumphantly. "Some sort of secret room, it looks like!" There was a flurry of feet on the stairs. Seonid's heart pounded. He was standing just outside the command room!

"Yes." the acerbic voice of the woman came again. "They did say something about a hidden room." And then, after a pause, "Bring it down."

"Yes, milady!" the men called out enthusiastically. clattered over to the door, grunted, heaved, grunted, heaved, and grunted and heaved again. Boots pounded on the metal in a futile attempt to break it.

Inside, the Centauriians exchanged nervous looks. Their options were limited at this point. Bereft of their usual military escorts, who had pulled out only recently, they had only their personal guard to protect them, and who knew how many men waited on the other side of that door? Seonid looked to Dunavain. "What do we do?"

"Open it." Seeing their stunned faces, he smiled. "I've met this type before. In the Third Arkillion War. All bluff and not very many guns. They rely on a few fancy tricks to conceal their real flaws-like that business with the generators. A real threat wouldn't need to do that. They could just force their way in."

Seonid nodded. He has a point.

Duchess Cal didn't look convinced. "And if it gets hostile-"

"We've faced worse from the Onyx loyalists." said Milos Dunavain, which earned a laugh from them all. He turned to his guard. "Would you open the door?"

••

Tessa observed the strangers who streamed through the now-open door with some trepidation, eager to find out who they were. The majority were standardly trained fighting men, dressed in black bodysuits with new guns. But even from this distance, she could tell that the guns were shoddily constructed and the black suits were cheap. She suspected some sort of illegal private army. Boring.

There were two people in the room she was quite fascinated with, however. The first was, of course, the woman who called herself Castella. Castella was a standard humanoid, with dark blue skin that was obviously home-grafted (you could see traces of a lighter blue skin beneath.) and a shaved head. Yet she had golden flanged armor on that was clearly expensive, and carried two long crystal swords instead of a gun. Yet despite her outlandish outfit and appearance, there was a certain cadence to her accent that reminded Tessa of home. She seemed distinctly Earthen, which was puzzling. Now, where have I seen her before?

The other person was shrouded in a black robe covered in cabalistic symbols. He was also a standard humanoid, only his skin had been grafted on with bright green. Something in the shape of his jaw gave Tessa the distinct impression that this was a man who got his way, even though he appeared to be a mute or too important to talk.

What frustrated Tessa was that she couldn't analyze these people, couldn't classify them as threats because she knew next to nothing about them, couldn't classify them as non-threatening because of the way they had come in. She longed to grab Seonid and go, but even she couldn't fight her way through twenty soldiers at once, not to mention Castella and this man.

Seonid was not taking this well. "Who are you people?" she demanded rudely. Milos Dunavain put a steadying hand on her shoulder, but she threw it off angrily.

Castella ignored the question. "Are you the leader?"

"Who are you people?"

"Are you the leader?"

Tessa held her breath, wondering how the fiery little duchess would respond. In terms of seniority, she was not ranked highly, being only a duchess, but she was obviously the natural leader in all other respects.

Dunavain raised a hand. "I am the leader."

"Your name?"

"High Lord Helios Dunavain of the Rublex Galaxy." Dunavain responded, with a nonchalance of manner Tessa had never seen in him before. It's almost as if he's trying to provoke them. "Now, if you will. Our good First Duchess has raised an excellent question. Who are you and what are you doing in my galaxy?"

"That, I believe, I can explain." the robed man said suddenly. It was the first thing he had said all day. Tessa was stunned by the rich honeyed tones of his voice, strengthened with a fierce steel. Strange...

"Your Grace," he swept an elegant bow to Seonid, "and you lovely lords and ladies," here he made another bow, "it is truly a pity that you had to be involved in all of this...unpleasantness."

"Which is..?" Seonid's tone made it quite clear she wanted answers.

"My dear girl, this is a coup. A coup to restore the galaxy to the hands of its rightful owner, High Lord Regen." Seeing their stunned faces, he went on. "You see, a long time ago, there was a man named Regen, of noble birth, but the High Lord Cielaré saw an enemy in him. An enemy that needed to be snuffed out and destroyed. So he went to the King of House Onyx, who was-and still is-little more than a figurehead and used his influence to get Regen exiled on a wrongful charge. We are Regen's men. We returned today to take back the galaxy that would have been his-the Rublex Galaxy."

There was an unpleasant silence as he allowed this to sink in. Castella picked up. "Milord Regen wished to have all the nobles of the Rublex executed, but my good Lord Sever intervened on your behalf. He sees no reason to spill Centauriian blood. So, we will allow you to live, if you give up the galaxy to High Lord Regen, its rightful leader. We are sorry, my dear, that the High Lord mixed you up in all of this, took a barely trained girl and dressed her up in duchess's clothing. It is nothing short of despicable. "

"And to sweeten the pot for the loss of the galaxy, my good lords and ladies, a sum of two hundred thousand eekaks will be waiting for you on Centaurii when you arrive." Sever added. "Clever girl like you, you can put that to some use, and get a real job."

Two hundred thousand! Tessa's heart could have leaped from her chest. However, Seonid didn't look so pleased with the offer. She was trembling with rage, and her face had been growing steadily redder throughout Sever's speech.

"Don't patronize me." Seonid snarled. "I may be young, Lady Castella-" here she made a mocking suggestion of a bow, "but you will speak to me with the respect I deserve. And you!" she cried, turning on Sever. "You really must take me to be some kind of fool. You think I would sell my planet-my galaxy-for money? For a sum, I am sure, you have no intention of paying?" She was really getting into it now, like she did in her speeches. "I was chosen rightfully by my House and my Empress to lead this planet. It is I, not Regen, who is First Duchess of the Rublex Galaxy. I have far more claim than he ever will. Oriolis has become my home as well as my duchy, and to Oriolis I shall remain, to the death!" With that, she concluded proudly, daring anyone to contradict her. There were some shouts of defiance from the other lords, and Seonid smiled. "We of Centaurii are not so easily bought. Now run along, before we have to make you."

"You go too far!" Castella sprang forward with a cry, swinging her deadly crystalline blades with a skill that would have taken Seonid's head off, had not Tessa spotted this and jumped in front of Seonid, so that the tips of Castella's swords dug into her abdomen. As Tessa aimed her gun at Castella's aquiline neck, it was then that she remembered where she had seen Castella before.

"Careful," she said in a low voice. "Wouldn't want to hurt anyone with that."

A flicker of recognition glimmered in Castella's eyes, only to be replaced with cold concentration. "How's Lucas?"

"He's fine." Tessa replied smoothly, refusing to let Castella break her concentration.

"Castella, enough." Lord Sever's tone was carefully controlled, but domineering.

"But, milord, you must know who this woman is-"

"DO AS I SAY!" Sever's voice cracked like a whip. Castella suddenly froze, dropped her weapon, and slumped against the table, face-first, baring the back of her neck to Tessa for the first time. Embedded in the zaffre appendage's base was a small, silver square. Tessa immediately knew its function, and stared, horrified at Sever. His cold grimace chilled her in a way no one had done in years. Oh God...what did they do to you?

Castella finally managed to get to her feet, but her whole body was trembling, and her midnight-blue eyes were leaking tears. When Tessa attempted to make eye contact, Castella glared at her, as if it were her fault. My fault! Seonid was looking at Tessa and Castella curiously. Someone's been following this little chat.

Sever frowned. "Well, it seems you have left us with no choice, Duchess. If you will not relinquish control of Oriolis, we will have to take you to High Lord Regen." He appeared to sweep his eyes over the room, though it was impossible to tell through the hood. "All of you. You." He pointed at Tessa. "Put the gun down."

Wordlessly, she let it drop to the floor with a thud. The other guards followed suit. It felt like giving up, which Tessa hated. My life rests on the oratory skills of High Lord Dunavain, she reflected, seething. Cielaré would have never attempted to negotiate with these people. The Centauriians were white in the face by this point, but what could they do?

Sever turned, and Castella followed him out of the command room. The soldiers forced them to walk single file, pushing them in line with the butts of their guns. Every head was bowed, grim.

The Centauriians turned, walking up the stairs of the grand mansion, turning again and again, marching, marching, until they finally reached the grand door and the soldiers pushed them through, towards a sleek Miramoor-made shuttle parked on the island. The cries of the dark city could be heard across the water.

••

Sever and Castella were the first to enter the shuttle-Our shuttle! Seonid thought angrily-and then the contingent of soldiers pushed them in as well. The shuttle hadn't been made for quite so many people, but she was a Centauriian, a citizen of a land that thrived on overpopulation, and she'd been in bigger crowds in smaller places when she was a girl with her family of nine.

It took less than fifteen minutes to reach the Grand Old Clam. The Clam was a bulky, old fashioned war cruiser, not sleek like the new models they had in the Miramoor, its black hull and pointed rudders looked more suited to a tugboat than at home among the stars.

A hatch near the front opened, just big enough to fit the shuttle, and they flew in, landing with a thud. Seonid felt a sudden wave of claustrophobia, which was amplified when a soldier roughly tied a black strip of cloth around her eyes, blindfolding her. From the noises of indignation the Centauriian nobles were making, she guessed they were getting the same treatment.

They stumbled out of the shuttle like a troupe of fools. Seonid attempted to peer through her blindfold, making out two pinpricks of light through the sheer cloth. Hangar? Her musings were interrupted when she was shoved roughly from behind by the butt of one of those guns.

Everyone was forced into a kneeling position on the cold Astrotile floor, and with a single motion, the blindfolds were ripped off. Seonid stared into the face of the fattest man she'd ever seen in her life, wearing an antiquated set of golden armor too small for him-she could almost see the strain-with a straggly gold beard streaked with gray, beady black eyes, thick, full lips, and the most ridiculous-a golden helmet in the shape of a clam on his head. He sat upon a throne in the same design, with the words THE THRONE OF CLAMS on a piece of cheap printer paper taped to the base.

He opened his mouth, and she nearly fainted. His voice was high and squeaky, exactly like she thought a chipmunk would talk, if it could. "Welcome, goodpeople of the Rublex galaxy! I welcome you! Behold-" and here he threw out his arm in the general direction of the throne-"THE THRONE OF CLAMS! Tremble before its all-encompassing majesty. Tremble before me-once a lowly General Regen, now the mighty High Lord Regen!"

Seonid realized her mouth was open, and quickly closed it. It would not do for the Duchess of Oriolis to be gaping like a fool. "I know you are confused. Angry, perhaps, but wanting for answers. Well, fear not, my school of benevolent subject-fish. I shall explain everything. But-" he waggled his finger like a schoolmaster. "all in good time. I have summoned you hear for a great porpoise-a porpoise so great, you shall quake like a school of the Quaking Fish of the Reynor Sea-"

"Sir," Sever's voice took on a tired quality, as if he had been obliged to explain this point one too many times. "It's purpose, not porpoise-"

"Well, of course it's a porpoise! And a very good one it is, too!" screeched Regen, producing, rather triumphantly, from somewhere behind the throne, what appeared to be a live porpoise stuffed into a plastic garbage bag filled to the brim with orange juice. Some of the juice slopped onto the floor as he brandished his porpoise.

He's mad. Both Tessa and Seonid reached this conclusion rather quickly.

"His name is Reynor the Destroyer, after my father," explained the madman. "But we have many special names we call each other, such as Rabies and Insanity, Leprosy and Cholera, Fury and-"

The Centauriians made an effort to check their laughter.

Sever said, "Word has reached us, my lord-perhaps you could put away your porpoise-" And he whispered something in Regen's ear.

Regen chuckled. "Is that so? Good, good, good!"

"What?" demanded Seonid.

Castella curled her lip. "Children do not speak until spoken to, girl."

"I am no child!" Seonid exploded, meeting the haughty blue woman's stare head on.

Regen bounced like an excited baby. "Tell her, Sever."

Sever smiled unpleasantly. "It appears that your great empire is wiser than you, Duchess Seonid, or perhaps better at listening to reason. High Lord Dunavain, all the system and sector heads, indeed all the planetary systems, and the Empress herself have signed the galaxy over to us."

"I never signed any such thing!" Dunavain's voice quivered with outrage.

"Perhaps you are mistaken." Sever said smoothly, holding, just out of arms' reach, a paper with signatures on it. Seonid thought she could discern elements of relief in the false Lord's voice. He's worried about the wrath of the empire, and I don't blame him. Yet, he would be smugger if he believed the signatures were a forgery.

Dunavain stood, barely taller than Seonid. "I repeat, that is not my signature. I don't know how you got that, and I don't care to know. But know this, Regen-" he spat out the man's last name as if it were a curse-"I would not hand over my galaxy to the likes of you, not even if the Empress herself held the Twelve Destroyers of Ruble above this galaxy. Which I am certain, she has not."

"Excuse me," said Seonid. "Milord Sever, I have not signed my name to this document either. But according to Article Three, Sublevel Six of the most recent revision of the Cession Agreement, you require the signatures of all the senators and high arbiters also. Anything that could have gotten that many signatures is something that we would have heard about. Land is valuable here-we do not cede galaxies lightly."

Ha!

"Very true, Duchess Seonid." Sever said. "Have a look, if you will, everything is in order."

Seonid glared at him, certain he meant to pull some trick, but he met her gaze with a flat, expressionless stare. Tentatively, she moved toward him, and examined the document. Indeed it looked to be a real Cession Statement, but...

"Lord Sever," She put on her sweetest expression, intending to regain the control he had taken from her inside the house. "My signature is not among those assembled here. And, as the signature of every noble in the empire is required to give up land, it appears, that, for whatever reason, the Empress has declined to give you the Rublex Galaxy."

"Impossible!" Sever whirled to Regen, who had been playing idly with the clam designs on his throne, and said something in an undertone to the lunatic. Both began to re-read the list of names, frantically. Clearly, they could not find her name either, for they commenced doing it again. Castella was even dragged out from a panel behind the throne to read the list, but she too, couldn't find Seonid's signature.

Seonid thought she was going to explode from sheer laughter. This has got to be the most incompetent takeover in the history of the universe.

Finally, the frantic re-reading ceased, and Sever turned back to the Centauriians, who were now whispering and giggling like schoolgirls. His face appeared to have been carved from stone now. "Well, then, it appears we will have to remedy the Empress's incompetence. Duchess Seonid, sign the proclamation."

"No, I-" Seonid started to say, but she was interrupted by none other than the High Lord Dunavain, whose watery blue eyes sparkled with mirth. What little of his white hair remained bristled like a cat's, and his bushy white eyebrows writhed like sto-worms, carving lines on his tanned forehead.

"You, sir, are hilarious," he said, standing up. "I've seen a lot of things in my day, but none quite as ridiculous as this. Forgive me!" and he dissolved into giggles again, then appeared to get himself under control. "This coup, if you can call it that, was doomed from the start, what with such complete dunderheads spearheading the effort. You seem like you can't decide which story you want to spin for the masses-Unjustly Accused Noble Risks The Ire Of The Government To Reclaim Homeland, or The Government Is Letting Us Do This-See The Official Forms. Well, guess what, girls and boys! Show's over! No matter which way you spin it, your forger screwed up. You forgot the duchess-you think she's going to sign your 'completely legal' " (here he made air quotes with his fingers) "form? You, who can't even control your own pawns-" he pointed at Castella "without some sort of gadget on them-you're just going to convince her to sign it? So who's going to make her? Regen, the incompetent madman? So, no, she's not going to sign it, not on her life."

••

Another man appeared from behind the throne. He was as opposite to the the smirking, self-important Sever as one could be. He was tall and slender, and moved with a menacing, otherworldly grace. He had a shock of jet-black hair and dark brown eyes, and he wore a dark wool suit. His voice was pitched dangerously low, raspy where Sever's was smooth. "But her life doesn't have anything to do with it. It's yours she'll have to bargain for."

"Murakami." Sever's voice became cold, and tinged with something that sounded like fear. "We are handling this."

"Oh, I see that," Murakami's eyes swept the room disdainfully. "Allow me to assist you."

Tessa's heart had leaped into her throat, and she could feel it pounding away as if it was fighting to escape her body. No. It can't be. After all these years...Did you really think he was dead? the snide little voice in her head remarked. You've never been that lucky.

She forced herself to take a deep breath, to keep her eyes carefully dull as his own swept over her. I am nothing more than a bodyguard. She pulled her sleeves down until they covered almost her whole hand, pressing them to her side, carefully concealing her inner left wrist. To her relief, he did not appear to notice, but that did not stop the pounding of her heart, nor the unremitting desire to scrabble for a weapon, any weapon.

Regen's face, which had been growing progressively redder during Dunavain's speech, contorted, and his hideous slash of a mouth opened with a spray of saliva to scream out. "BRING OUT THE BONE-CRUSHER!"

"No, really!" Sever called, stating hopelessly at Murakami. "There's no need for this. Come on, milord. Surely you don't want to do this."

What the hell is a 'Bone-Crusher'? Tessa wondered. Her question was answered when three men in dark grey jumpsuits and round plastic helmets with dark faceplates appeared, rolling out what appeared to be a plank of wood attached to some crudely constructed wheels. Tight leather straps were attached to the sides of the device, fastened by constricting brass buckles, rusted with age.

Two men in the jumpsuits forced Dunavain to his knees again, then the third casually pulled on a pair of metal cuffs with embedded spikes, handed to him by Sever.

"NO! NO!" Seonid screeched. She broke away from the clutch of mercenaries that surrounded her, and jumped between the High Lord and his would-be tormentors. The cuffed man lowered his hands, unsure suddenly. "If you wish to get to the High Lord-"

Fast as lighting, Murakami moved, a shiny black staff with a intricately carved top in his hand. Wielding the staff with both hands, he swept Seonid off her feet, pushing her to the side. The cuffed man seized the opportunity to rain blows down upon Dunavain's head and neck. The spikes' cruel points opened up rents in Dunavain's black high-necked Rublex coat, tearing skin and fabric alike. Blood stained his white hair reddish-brown, ran down his unprotected skin from horrible scarlet scratches and holes. He groaned in pain. Regen laughed with glee as the Centauriians cried out in sympathy with their leader.

His bloody bruised body was forced onto the Bone-Crusher, and he was buckled and strapped in place, Slowly, they were forced to watch as the men in gray used the buckles to adjust the straps tighter and tighter, yanking on them to force a hoarse scream from his strangled throat, the leather strap digging further and further into his flesh.

Murakami smiled a tight little smirk, and Tessa shivered, feeling utterly powerless. And Regen, perched on his throne, laughed maniacally as the High Lord screamed, his agonized shrieks reverberating off the metal walls.

••

"Will you sign now, Duchess Seonid?" Murakami called above the screams (it appeared that his right arm and left leg had broken at the same time).

Seonid turned her gaze to Dunavain's broken form. Bloody spittle sprayed from his lips, but he still managed to rasp out, "Don't...sign...it...girl.." before breaking into incoherent screams again.

"Do you want to have his blood on your hands?" cried Sever.

Seonid tore herself away from Dunavain. Tears streaked her face, but her brown eyes smoldered with fury. "I will never sign your-" With a horrible crack, Dunavain's neck snapped, his lifeless head lolling to the side.

"MURDERER!" Ala Stineworthy shrieked. "MURDERER! We of the Rublex will never bow to the likes of you!" The cry was taken up by many in the crowd. In a detached way, Seonid noted that pale, coolly beautiful Governess Stineworthy was the last person she'd expected to have an outburst like that. Her own head was still reeling from the blood on the wooden slats of the Bone-Crusher and the gore smeared on the floor of the ship. It was one thing on Earth, but not here, in the Centauriian Empire.

"MURDERER!" Stineworthy's shrill cry was directed at Regen, who clapped like a child at the circus. "How lovely! Another volunteer." The men seized the Governess, shoving her toward the Bone-Crusher.

Stineworthy's usually calm, chilly voice was low and husky with urgency. "Don't sign it, Your Grace. Whatever you do, don't sign it." Yet when she faced the faceless men and the Bone-Crusher, no matter how hard the men beat her or how tight the straps constricted her, she did not make a sound, even until the end, where she, too, was hauled off the Bone-Crusher lifeless, her proud body broken, blood from her mouth dripping down her chin.

And still, Seonid refused to sign it.

••

Cierno went next, and Cal after. Tessa was amazed at the Centauriians' fortitude. One after one, these nobles, guards, and servants whom she had thought so soft and weak, stepped in front of Seonid and faced the Bone-Crusher stoically. Even when Regen devised new tortures, such as tying them to the Throne of Clams and cutting off one of their limbs at a time, they still defied him, each of them demanding with their dying breaths that Seonid not yield. Though Sever gnashed his teeth in frustration and asked how many deaths Seonid's willful behavior would cause, she refused to sign, though Tessa could tell it was an effort for her.

The last couple of deaths were particularly violent. Poor Piengo la Chanve was drowned in the bag of orange juice, and a young count who's name Tessa didn't know was literally burnt alive, soaked in boiling oil and lit afire. Why am I not stepping forward? I should...but I have to be here to guard Seonid, no matter what happens. But that's not all it is...

I'm afraid to die. I cannot embrace it as these people do.

She had always been afraid, she noted with some finality. She had always been frightened of death, of losing the only thing she had ever had to lose. And she had done anything, would still do anything, to stay alive. Even if that had been something that would haunt her afterwards.

Murakami wrinkled his nose in disgust at the oil on the floor, mixing with the orange juice to create a foul aroma, then composed his expression from one of condescending disdain to a perfect servant's-meek and always ready to please. "My lord Regen, it is clear that the foolish girl isn't quite getting the message. Perhaps some time in the cells will clear her head."

But I'm having the best fun I've had in years!" whined Regen. "Besides, there's one left-and she's pretty! I like you!" he said leering at Tessa. "She'll give good sport, I think."

Sever put on a placating tone, but his voice was shaking. The man had been pleading with Murakami up until the Bone-Crusher had been brought out. Tessa didn't blame him. Something like that-enough to break anyone's resolve. Anyhow, he's as guilty as they are. "That's why we should save her for later. More fun that way."

"Well, I suppose you're right." Regen sighed. "Guards, take them away to the cells!"

The men in grey melted away, dragging the Bone-Crusher with them. As Seonid and Tessa were led away, they looked back once, seeing their terrified expressions cast in the crimson relief that was all that remained of their fallen companions.

••

In her cell, Seonid screamed filthy words at the smooth white walls, willing one of them to morph and descend into Sever or Regen's face, or at least show some emotion. When none of this happened, she turned to screaming filthier words at the walls, then kicked them and beat upon them with her fists, even though all she got for her troubles was sore fingers and toes. After she tore all the skin off the knuckles of her right hand, the pain drove away the superficial façade of anger she had built up, and gave way to sorrow. She curled up on the all-white cot and dissolved into sobs.

It wasn't fair; it wasn't fair! Seonid had never seen murder up close, but that was then, and this was murder. This was the stuff of nightmares. People you knew, good, law-abiding people, weren't supposed to get murdered. But now they had and she had seen and she hadn't done anything, because what could she do? Something. I should have done something, and now it's too late.

Survivor's guilt. She'd heard the term thrown around a lot, in detective movies or Arquillion Massacre history shows. But hearing a word wasn't the same thing as feeling a word. Before, she'd laughed, thought, What do they have to feel guilty about? They've survived because they were clever enough to find a way to evade the injustice. But now she knew that they hadn't-couldn't have-done it alone. The reason that those people had survived was because they hadn't done anything to stop the injustice. I'm alive because good men and women put themselves between me and harm. I'm alive because other people would die rather than see me sell out the Rublex Galaxy.

She could have stopped it. She could have! She could have signed her name to Sever's stupid document, and no one would be any the worse off for it. She could have saved Dunavain and Piengo, and Ala...she could have saved all of them.

No one would be any the worse off for it.

Sitting up, she wiped the tears from her face with her blood-spattered skirt, chuckling at her stupidity. Everyone would have been the worse off for it. The citizens of her galaxy would never forgive her if she signed it over to a madman. She'd be vilified in every galaxy for a thousand light-years. "Duchess Seonid Min-The Traitor of Rublex." Not only that, she'd be shirking her duty. Tessa isn't the only one who guards people. As the Duchess of the galactic capital, I guard more people than she ever has. Because I'm the chief Duchess of my galaxy, I have one other, seldom-used title-The Guardian of the People. What kind of guardian yields to invaders?

No, I'm glad I did this, even though it seems more a loss than a victory. They died because they believed that I could fix this mess. Now it's my job to make sure Dunavain and Ala and all the rest didn't die in vain. I'm not just 'girl', I'm the Duchess Seonid Min, and I've got to make them remember that. Even if it's in their dying moments, I'll MAKE them remember it.

Seonid got off the cot, pulling on the white boots she'd kicked off during her fit of temper. Kneeling on the cold, white tile, she ran her hands over the walls, searching for a panel or something that opened to the outside. After all, there was always something like that in the movies. And there had to be in real life, too, because they had to feed the prisoners. Or not. She pushed that thought away. They would feed her. She was too valuable to waste.

She was scrabbling with her fingernails at a tile in the side, when the air vent in the ceiling clanged open, falling to the ground with a thump.

She tensed, ready for whatever would come out of the duct. But it was just Tessa, garbed in a baggy black shirt and standard-issue cargo pants that had been clearly made for someone a whole lot bigger than her. An impressive-looking military belt secured a small flashlight to her slim waist, and a pair of greasy flight goggles were jammed on her forehead. A long scrape marred her shapely jaw, but aside from that, she looked relatively all right.

Breathing heavily, she said, "Shall we?"

••

The guards hadn't seriously searched Tessa, and at any rate, they seemed a whole lot more interested in discussing various aspects of her body, trying to impress her with their clever lewdness. Needless to say, they had been quick work, and she'd left them tied up in a service chute. Then she'd found a small Splash8 computer on the third guard, plugged it into a port jack and seen a model of the layout of the ship.

Next, she'd gone to than equipment depot and grabbed some standard-issue clothes. Her relatively expensive shirt and pants would probably attract unwanted attention if she intended to sneak out, and Seonid's Rublex lace-embellished gown more so. She'd saved her shoes and jacket from the heap of things confiscated-shoes because she was rather attached to them, jacket because of the collection of knives and six boxes of matches inside.

As she moved from level to level, she'd opened as many of the fuel hatches as she could find, throwing matches inside, pleased when she'd heard the pop that signified the explosion of one of the cells, and the alarm that accompanied it. She'd acquired the goggles on the sixth level, snatching them out of the jacket of a maintenance worker. If she were stopped, she would, hopefully, look the part of a lowly engine repair woman.

She'd then located the air duct and crawled into it, sliding down the metallic tube until she reached Seonid's cell, marked in red on the schematic she'd seen on the computer.

Seonid was, however, being less than helpful. She was shaking, eyes wide, her hands fumbling as she took the clothes from Tessa. Exasperated, Tessa knelt to make eye contact with her. "Listen to me. Listen to me. We don't have a lot of time. I have the layout of this ship, and I know they have small-range shuttles in the hangar bay. We just need to get there."

"But if they catch us-" Seonid suddenly burst into tears. "Oh God, what if they decide to kill us like they killed Dunavain? Oh God, Dunavain had grandkids, did you know that? And now he's gone and so are their parents, you know? It's all my fault-"

"No. No, it's not. It's not your fault. It's the fault of those people up there. It's their fault and it's no one else's. But if you want to live, if you want to show them that you are more than just some powerless little girl, then you should do what I say."

Seonid nodded, nervously. "Can you help me with the back of my dress?"

Tessa attempted to untie the tightly lashed laces, failed, then ripped them off. The dress puddled around Seonid, who unlaced her underdress herself, pushing herself into her new pants and buttoning up the shirt. As soon as she was done, Tessa thrust her into the air duct, then climbed in herself. "Go," she hissed. And Seonid went.

It was dark and cramped in the silver tube, and a bit grimy too, but they ended up on the other side nice and easily. Well, as nice and easily as they could with a crystal sword pressed against both of their necks.

"Well, well, well. Look who we have here." Castella's slow, drawling voice was the most hateful sound in the world at that moment in time, thought Tessa. "Fun time's over, girls. Time to go back to your cells."

"No," said Seonid bravely. "No, we will not. You will get out of our way now."

"And why should I do that?"

"Because Tessa will kill you if I tell her to. Which I am thinking about doing right now. So unless you want your throat cut with your own sword, you will do as I say."

"Is that what you call her now? Tessa." She snickered. "Who would have thought the day would come when the Lady of Darkness would be saving people's lives? Although, to be honest, she isn't doing a very good-"

Tessa didn't wait for her to finish her condescending speech. She grabbed the crystal sword's blade with her hands, not caring about the streaming divots the sparkling weapon was rending in her exposed flesh. She yanked the sword, blade-first, out of Castella's hands, then flipped it around so that her bloodstained hands held the golden hilt. Castella smirked, and she pulled out an identical sword from behind her. As Tessa swung the sword at her head, she blocked it with uncommon ease.

It only took Tessa three cuts and a jab to learn she was hopelessly outmatched. Castella was undoubtedly the superior fencer-indeed, she had already cut Tessa's arm, a small, razor-thin slash on her upper arm, surprisingly deep. The crystal swords were wickedly sharp, and it was all she could do to parry the taller, stronger woman's lunges. I can't beat her with these, but maybe I can aim for another target...

Tessa changed tactics. Instead of swinging at her upper body and head, she fell to the floor, feigning injury. Seonid squealed. Castella was baring down on her, a triumphant smile touching her lips. Quick as a wink, Tessa slid across the sleek floor and stabbed the long glittering blade between the slits in the golden armor into Castella's calf.

Shock registered on Castella's face briefly, yet she compressed it behind a mask of bravado, falling into full-formed fencing. Tessa evaded these wild lunges, than leapt into the air, kicking the sword away, and pinned Castella to the wall by her periwinkle throat. Castella kicked and squirmed, but she held firm.

"Now," she said in a low voice. "What should we do with you?"

Castella spat at her, but her eyes were full of fear. Tessa reached into her jacket and pulled out a coiled length of barbed wire. "I always keep one of these with me. You never know...it just might come in handy. Wishing your neck was a little bigger?" She wrapped it around Castella's slim neck, and was pleased to see the Xia wince as the barbs dug into her flesh. She tied it to one of the utility pipes, suspending Castella by three feet. "You always were too fond of your neck, Miera."

The woman who called herself Castella choked, blood running down the splendid armor. Seonid was looking openly shocked, and Tessa suddenly felt a wave of self-loathing. In the end, this is all I'm good for. Displays of excessive cruelty. At least I left it tied where she can take it off...if she's clever enough.

"Let's go," she said, her voice deliberately hard. And Seonid followed, both of them making a pointed effort to not look back at the pole to which the woman was tied.

The rest of their flight was a blur to Seonid. Tessa had planned the escape well, apparently setting up small explosions throughout the ship. They ran at breakneck speed to the hangar bay, where Tessa commanded the steward to unlock one of the small shuttles. The man was so flustered with the alarms going off everywhere, he didn't even look at them twice.

The shuttle was small and compact. Seonid belted herself into a cramped seat, watching Tessa fiddle with the controls-a silver panel with an array of knobs that baffled her. Her ears began to pop as their altitude increased and they soared towards the hangar door.

The door had to open. It had to..

But she saw through the window the steward talking with some of those hired soldiers. He had not opened the door. Oh no...

And then the tiny shuttle shook with an ear-rattling screech of metal on metal. Again and again, Tessa rammed it into the door, punching a hole in the metal and making bright lights and loud beeps explode from the various panels and screens within the shuttle. The men were screaming into radios.

The shuttle burst through. The black expanse of space loomed before them, a prospect both frightening and exhilarating. Tessa slammed something, and the shuttle zoomed ahead, outstripping Regen's Clam. Lights began to flash, and an automated voice said something in a garbled tone. The ship began to spiral downward....downward...downward...

Her last thought was that Seonid didn't have a seatbelt on.

The building had definitely seen better days, Ramon reflected. The paint was peeling, the windows were in need of a wash, and the knocker on the door hung askew. Definitely not what he pictured when he thought of a manor. Everything from the welcome mat that said "HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS" in loopy cursive to the dented front door screamed "older white woman with decorating problem."

It was, however, big enough to be imposing. The windows, though grimy, seemed to frown down on him as he climbed out of the black SUV, black backpack slung over his shoulder.

Ramon Solis was not a big man, and the mountains of food crammed into his system by the overzealous aunts of his youth had done little to remedy that fact. His black hair was messy as always, and his warm brown skin was smooth and unlined, making him look a lot younger than his forty-five years. His dark eyes were alight with a half-concealed wonder that many took as evidence of his being a soft touch. They would later learn, that, despite his gregarious nature and calm, easy manners, he was anything but.

In truth, Ramon simply had a way with people. It was his gift. He knew how to appeal to their reason, their emotions, could convince them of his truth easily. Originally he had trained as a covert combat specialist, but the physical training had proved too demanding for him, and he had been shunted to operations management, which turned out to be an excellent use of his skills. He was good-no, great-at getting people to work together, at analyzing strengths and weaknesses. In the field, his gift had made him a capable hostage negotiator. He might not have lived out his childhood dream of being a glamorous field agent, but he was a necessary field agent. And his skills had proved indispensable.

Ramon had been born in a poor neighborhood of the city, the eldest of three sons, born to a single mother who supported her family through grueling hours at the local Big'n'Tall.

The doctor and the systems analyst, Zafir and Aza Hamid, respectively, followed him from the car, gazing at the building with some trepidation. The siblings' olive skin, dark eyes, and slender, bird-like frames were nearly identical, except for Zaf's glasses and Aza's green hijab. Ramon smiled. It was expected that the two would be nervous-it was, after all, their first field mission, but Zafir had written an award-winning paper on viral microbes at the age of sixteen and Aza had designed camera systems that could evade any security at the same age. They were the most field-ready agents of the entire crop.

The same could not be said for Damien Wilkes, their trainee combat specialist. At 6"5 and with his curly hair buzzed, the chocolate-skinned young man certainly looked the part of an experienced hand-to-hand-combatant. Whether he was one...now, that was a different story. And Danica Kesley, the last of their team, hadn't even completed her full stint at the academy yet. Technically, she couldn't even be here.

But Ramon had asked for her personally, and what he wanted, he got. His service had earned him that, at least.

The others resented Danica already, he could tell. The drive here had been filled with stony silences and dirty looks. Not that she had noticed; Danica was more than happy to fill the silence. But her nitpicking and pedantic lectures only served to alienate her from the other agents.

Ramon knew why she did it, of course. Working for Federatee Union of Sentient Life was highly competitive, and working for their special operations division, Olympia, was more so. Everyone was highly skilled, so of course egos would butt heads. And putting newbies in their place was a tradition that dated back to his time as a novice. Danica doubtless felt she had to be twice as prepared as everyone else.

She hadn't attempted to blend in, either, a requirement for being an Olympian agent. Her outfit today consisted of skintight leather jeggings, a grey angora sweater, and high-heeled "combat boots" that looked more suited for a dance floor than actual fieldwork. Plus, there was the makeup. Layer upon layer of caky foundation and blush, eyebrows far too shapely to be natural, blue eyes heavily pencilled and framed by unnaturally long black eyelashes. Her hair was the worst, a new job probably picked for this particular mission. The underlayer was dyed white, and cut short and spiky. But the top layer was cotton-candy pink and fell in long and flowing ringlets to her elbows.

She looked utterly ridiculous. But Ramon had faith. She was a genius with computers and could, with the proper training, become a tech specialist-part of the analysis team, like the Hamids, but with light combat abilities. It was a small field, but Danica had expressed an interest. And Ramon saw in her a drive to succeed.

The group filed up to the door, standing on top of "HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS," and knocked. Ramon had double-checked the file before getting here, and he had a good idea of who would open the door-the owner of the house. Duchess Isolde A. Greanleefe. Age:25. Nationality: Centauriian. Family: Trandello C. Greanleefe (husband), Llenwi P. Greanleefe (stepson), and Oceania W. Greanleefe (stepdaughter). Notes: Duchess of the Planet of Orb, House Firedrop (Agriculture). Business friendly, moderate conservative. Educated University of Centaurii. Allegedly a great beauty. He remembered the pictures-green eyes, blonde hair, freckles, sensual, stunning.

So when a nervous little agent, barely past his Standard Field Exam, opened the door muttering. "There's been a change of plans," he knew he was in for a surprise.

••

Agent Eliza Xiao was barely five feet tall in her stiletto pumps, but her glare radiated an authority that made her seem much taller. She had a pretty oval face, smooth black hair, striking blue eyes, and a flawless complexion accented by minimal makeup, and she wore her tailored pinstriped pantsuit like battle armor, oozing importance and respectability. It was hardly surprising. As the daughter of a Chinese multimillionaire and the French ambassador to China, she had been blessed with a privileged childhood, attending the best schools. She had followed that up with a promising academy career, with the notable exception of anything combat-related. But she could speak six languages, held an Oxford degree, and had a dogged persistence that had made her a shoo-in for success-it wasn't all about one's fighting chops, after all. Last Ramon had heard, she had received some sort of position among the upper administration of Olympia.

What is she doing here?

It would have been more awkward if they hadn't been sleeping together, he reflected. Liaisons between agents were forbidden, but that had always been the one rule administration tended to turn a blind eye to. It was true it was over, but it gave him an unpleasant sensation, seeing a woman and knowing that just two years before, they had been seeing each other regularly.

Eric Flynn, too...he hadn't seen Eric in forever. Eric was a traditional combat operative, one of the best in their year. He had always been an arrogant little prick, believing that his skills somehow made him a superior agent. He was a little more haggard-looking, but that douche-y haircut-shaved on the sides and long on the top-remained. Tattoos ran the length of his arms, and he gave Ramon a condescending smirk. Ramon nodded in his direction, but otherwise did not acknowledge his presence. There was no love lost between administrative agents like himself and Eliza, who planned missions, and operatives like Eric, who executed those plans.

"What are you doing here?" The words came out before he could temper them, but he was in no mood to be subtle.

"A gift," Eliza announced. "from our new director."

We have a new director? he thought, but then Eliza stood to the side so he could see the third person in the room, and he stopped breathing.

Kalyani Servai. Dark brown skin, thick black hair falling to her waist in a long braid. Snub nose, small chin, large black-brown eyes. Her ever-present leather jacket and boots. Every inch of her small body was toned with muscles.

There was an awkward pause, in which he opened his arms to embrace her and she held out her hand to shake his, as if they were just being introduced. They stood, two paces apart, frozen. He could smell the scent of her, pine and mint and something else, like the outside. He wasn't sure what to do, but then he took her hand anyway, shaking it like it was their first meeting, which it wasn't, and like he knew why she was here, which he didn't.

Eliza's expression flickered from sour to smug, as if she was the one who had arranged it. "Now," she said, "shall we begin the briefing?"

••

Kalyani Servai was an anomaly, the only child of a prominent neurosurgeon and a well-known trial lawyer. At the age of four, her high-strung parents already had her educational career mapped out, from which extracurricular activities she would participate in to which colleges (only the very best) she would be allowed to apply to. And for the most part, she had fit her parents' model of excellence quite well. The only thing they probably couldn't explain was the martial arts.

It had been her father's idea, the weekly classes at the Sun Po Dojo. "It builds character," he had said. But his small, taciturn little daughter had taken to it. Before long, she was winning city tournaments and mastering the newest techniques. She stayed on top of her studies-Dr. Servai expected nothing less-but the obsession continued, the compulsion to train harder, train faster.

A psychiatrist had once told her she was "addicted to challenge," and Ramon thought that was an accurate description for her. He himself had put himself through the grueling Olympia training because he had wanted to help people. She wanted to prove she could do it. And do it she could. She was the best field agent of their year, the best at marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat. She had achieved a perfect score on the Standard Field Exam, one of a handful of agents to ever achieve that.

Ramon had never been able to relate. He wasn't wealthy-he had grown up in a poor neighborhood of the same city, the child of a single mother barely making ends meet at the local Big'n'Tall. He had never been a prodigy or particularly exceptional. She was infuriating in that way-she never seemed to notice how much better she was than anyone else. But it was also her best quality.

She didn't like to talk, but he did, and he talked enough for two of them. And he wasn't put off by her reputation, like so many of the others. And gradually, awkwardly, they became friends, partners, working in tandem. It was nice, but he couldn't help but long for more. But that had been impossible with the existence of Thomas Lane.

Agent Thomas Lane had been another of the prodigies. He, like her, was a natural, but missing her perfect score on the exam by a point. Lane had never forgiven her for that, but Lane was good-looking and he could be charming when he chose, and he had fallen into a mad affair with her. Liaisons were forbidden, but when Lane achieved the position of Missions Commander, he made sure to overlook any violation of that rule, at least where he was concerned. He was brilliant, but ruthless and cruel in a way that she had never been. And he knew exactly how to get under Ramon's skin. The two crossed each other daily, levying bitter assaults against each other, leaving Kalyani the unwelcome job of peacekeeper.

The last of their missions-a deep cover assault against a deadly intergalactic crime ring-had been Lane's downfall. He had grown increasingly paranoid, drinking excessively, taking painkillers, buying more guns. Eventually, he had stolen on board a flight to Centaurii, headed to a central police precinct, and killed fifteen officers. The doctors had declared him a paranoid schizophrenic, and he had been institutionalized.

Kalyani had thrown herself into work, ignoring Ramon, ignoring anyone else, taking the farthest, remotest assignments she could. He had not seen her in years, had not spoken to her. How strange it was, a little disturbing almost, he thought, that this new director knew exactly what he needed.

••

After the briefing, they moved their things into the rooms that Isolde Greanleefe had set up for them. Eric and Eliza remained as well; they were to retain executive privileges, which made Ramon uneasy. He liked to control his own people, and there was something a little off about this whole mission.

He had been asked to guard a lot of people in his career, but they had always been alive.

He caught Kalyani as she was entering her room. "Do you have a minute?"

She looked surprised. "Of course." Even leaning on the doorframe, she looked graceful, competent. "Is this about when the package is going to arrive?"

"Eliza says it should be about four days, once they convince local police to get their hands off it. They're being terribly uncooperative, considering how important everyone seems to think this is. Personally, I think we should send in some people to negotiate for it earlier-" Ramon stopped. "Actually, what I wanted to know was, how did this new director know that I wanted you?" She raised an eyebrow, and he amended it hastily. "That we work well together. If they're new, they're probably younger, so I doubt they would know either of us personally."

"I have no idea. I didn't even know you were here when I was assigned." She crossed her arms.

"Good luck they did, then, otherwise you just would have gone on ignoring me, eh?" He tried to temper it with a smile, but it still sounded accusing.

She sighed. "I am sorry. Really, I am. But you know how things are. I just...didn't want to bother you."

"You wouldn't have bothered me." Another awkward pause. "How are you?"

"Better. You?"

Mentally? "The same." He shrugged. "What do you think of the kids?"

She smiled. "I can tell you picked them."

"I did." He knew what she meant. The Hamids were far from being the best in their year, but they had a way of synching their lab work that was brilliant. Wilkes had been recommended to the academy for his heroic rescue of an elderly man from a burning building. They weren't the most promising talents, but they could work well together.

"The only one I would have picked is the computer girl."

"I know." If she had selected the team, Kalyani would have picked the brightest, the best, and Danica certainly fit that. But what Ramon had noticed was that the best and brightest tended not to work well together. Egos and awards and authority conflicted, and it was difficult to assemble anything useful.

"So why did you pick her?" Kalyani asked curiously. "She can't cooperate with others. Isn't that the pre-rec for getting on your team?"

"Because I don't want us to just guard the body." Ramon flashed her a crooked smile. "I want us to find the killer."

When he first saw the girl, Llenwi Greanleefe knew she was completely out of his league.

He was helping his stepmother, Isolde, take her bags up to her new office. Generally, Greanleefes didn't get to have offices around important people like the High Lord Cielaré. But Isolde was talented and organized, and the High Lord had taken a liking to her, so exceptions had to be made. That's when he saw her, waiting for the elevator.

She was gorgeous. Long wavy red hair that went almost to her waist, big blue-green eyes, a tiny red mouth, freckled cheeks. She wasn't big, maybe 5"4, but she had the biggest tits and ass Llenwi had ever seen. Not grotesquely large, like some of those porn stars Llenwi had seen on the Internet, but proportional. Her stomach wasn't all the way flat and her legs were thick and heavy, but that didn't matter. She was perfect.

The girl was, unfortunately, not looking at him, but at the cellphone in her hand, texting someone expertly. Once in a while, she would his, "Shit!" or, "Come the FUCK on!" while glaring at the screen in a way that didn't make Llenwi envy whoever she was texting.

Eventually, she yelled aloud, "Goddamn it!" and dropped the phone, which fell to the ground with a clunk. Llenwi and her dived for it at the same time, fingers closing around opposite sides of its rubber blue case. They made eye contact, which she did so purposefully, Llenwi was pretty sure she was staring into his soul.

"If you don't mind-"

"No, not at all." he said awkwardly, releasing it. "Is it cracked?"

She turned it so he could see. The surface was still pristine. "Screen protector," she explained. Then, almost as an afterthought, "Thanks."

The elevator rumbled to a halt with a metallic screech. Llenwi winced, then got inside, pressing the silver 5. "Floor?" he asked the girl.

"Oh." Her eyes were unfocused, still fixed to the screen. "Seven."

They rode up in relative silence until the girl shoved her phone in the pocket of her jeans, and said, "Who are you?"

It was said with mild curiosity that may have come out horribly rude in someone else, but sounded like a normal question when she said it. "Oh, I'm Llenwi. Llenwi Greanleefe." He stuck out his hand, and she shook it. She had a good firm handshake. It suited her.

"Vielene Yvenneth. Vi, actually. Fifteen years of sorrow old. Hopeless romantic with a string of good-for-nothing fuckbois. Now there, you know everything there is to know about me."

Yvenneth?! The Yvenneths were an old House Onyx family, well-moneyed, the sort of people who didn't want anything to do with Greanleefes. But Vi seemed not to mind when she heard his name, and that comforted him. "Uh...I haven't-" He bit it off. Of course you haven't heard of her, idiot. Say something smarter. "Where do you go to school?"

"Kevin Academy. Not right now, of course, with my dad's job being here, but during the normal year...yeah." She grinned. "What's wrong? Haven't you heard of a rich kid going to public school?"

"Of course," he said, a little defensively. "I used to go to your school myself."

"You're lying."

"Am not!"

"Whatever. Who teaches seventh-year history, then?"

"Instructor Grey. He's a big bald guy. Lifts weights. Coaches the wrestling team."

She looked him up and down, appraisingly. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"And where do you go now?"

"Lus Prep."

Vi frowned. "I've never heard of it."

"Lots of people haven't, 'cause it's an, um, special needs school. Not that I'm retarded or something," he added quickly. "I have attention-deficit disorder." Great, now she thinks I'm a freak. Next time, Llenwi, don't start the conversation with a list of all your sexy mental illnesses. "We have a really great arts program," he said weakly.

"Cool." said Vi. Well, at least she's polite. "You act?"

"How'd you know?"

"Your shirt, genius."

He looked down, realized he was wearing his turquoise LUS PREP DRAMA CLUB shirt, and blushed. "Well, yes, but mostly I do set design. It's only this year I actually acted in a play. And I did mock trial for a year an a half so it's really not so different."

"Me too! That's how I met my boyfriend, actually."

Llenwi's heart sank. What? You didn't seriously expect a girl that hot to be single. "Oh. You guys must have a good thing going-team romance and all."

"Had," she corrected with a smile. "As we broke up five minutes ago. That's what I was cussing about. I haven't been single in a while, so that'll be different. What about you? Seeing anyone?"

"Uh...not lately." He'd had a girlfriend last year, from a different school. She'd been his first. Most started dating before, but Llenwi was different. He was tall for his age, and thin, with a sharp pointed chin, shoulder-length blonde hair, and bright blue eyes, not unattractive by any means. But he'd always been shy, not particularly athletic, with a tendency to stumble over his words. As such, he'd been a prime target for the local lowlifes-idiots with nothing better to do, he realized now, though at the time it had stung. Not like his parents had been much help. His dad, Trandello, had a drinking problem that had only gotten worse, and his mother...Llenwi's mother had committed suicide when he was six.

It was an all-too common story. Empress Cayrina IV, the ruler of the time, wanted to extend an olive branch to some of the less-respected families. So she had sent her niece, Maughin Tian, to marry Trandello Greanleefe. She didn't want to, but when one's aunt was the empress, such things did happen. The marriage had been turbulent and unhappy, and Maughin had handed herself from the balcony at their house.

She had been a very beautiful woman, but when they cut her body down she had been unrecognizable.

And then came Isolde. Determined, fierce powerful Isolde Mayhew, who met his dad online and in a month became his bride. Isolde brought something into his life he didn't realize he needed-consistency. She had made sure his sister, Oceania, the smart one, went to the best Valorian boarding schools, had checked their dad into a rehab center, and transferred him to Lus, where he had settled into a semblance of normalcy. Compared to his sister, an honors student who played three instruments and danced at a prestigious classical academy, he knew he was a disappointment. But Isolde had made him feel a little better about his prospects for the future, had actually talked to him about things. True, she was a little robotic and a little brusque. They didn't hug or kiss at all, and she could deliver searing lectures. But at least she cared, which was more than he could say for his "real" parents.

Things were better now. But growing up like that...it messed you up, made you think you weren't worth it. So it had come as a shock when girls started to pay attention to him, for the simple reason that Llenwi had never thought of himself as meriting much attention.

"You don't seem that mad about it." he observed.

"What? He was an ass anyways. Frees me up to meet new people. I will never understand," she said determinately, "why decent, nice people date complete and total assholes who don't deserve them."

"Do you?" he got the courage to ask.

She cocked her head, fixing him with those eyes. "I suppose."

"So you're trying to break a bad habit. That I can respect. But if you're just looking for another asshole to dump, then that's a little hypocritical."

She laughed. "You do have a point. I said I wouldn't before, but that's the thing about assholes. They're like roaches, you know? You think you've gotten rid of them, and then some super-roach comes along that's resistant to all pesticides."

"I wouldn't go out with a roach." Llenwi snickered.

"Fine, a chocolate-covered roach, then. You don't know it's a roach until you put in your mouth. Then the shit hits the fan." She winked. "Oops, that came out really wrong. Now might be an appropriate time for a 'that's what she said.' "

Llenwi snickered. "That's what she said." He couldn't remember feeling this good in weeks.

"But honestly," she continued, "I don't know. I have no idea what I want to do with my life. My whole family thinks I'm insane. I mean, I want to go to GCU, but that's 'cause all my siblings went there, you know? So that's not something I really want to do. I can't find out what I want to do with my life unless I try a bunch of things. Hence-"

"Dating all those assholes, yes." He understood, but he couldn't say anything else. What she had said was so complete, embodied everything that he himself had been thinking, there was nothing else to say.

They rode up in relative silence until the elevator beeped for five. "That was a good conversation." she told him. "Here." And before he could say anything her hand was on his arm, with a bright red marker in one hand, scrawling large, purposeful letters on his arm.

Vi Yvenneth

(453)700-666

The Gardens Apt. 34

And then, towards the end:

THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID! 

Llenwi smirked, pulling the suitcase out of the elevator. By the time he turned around, the elevator doors had closed, taking her with them. But the slowly drying red ink on his forearm remained, a secret part of her just for him.

The doctor here said that I am clinically depressed. Considering that he got this diagnosis out of a single interview where I neither replied to any of his questions nor made eye contact with him, I’m actually kind of impressed.

I’m not quite sure what that means. Can someone be un-clinically depressed? Or somewhat clinically depressed? Or just depressed?

I now get to wear an orange rubber bracelet with the words “clinically depressed” stamped on it in big black letters. They also moved my room to the wing with all the cutters and anorexics. My room is bigger, but these annoying nurses keep popping in all the time to make sure I’m not trying to kill myself. Once I told the nurse that she didn’t need to worry about me. After all, I’m not in here for trying to kill myself; I’m in here for trying to kill other people. She clapped a hand over her mouth and then yelled for the orderly. They searched my room for murder weapons and made me go talk to that stupid doctor again.

I don’t make jokes anymore.

By “here,” I mean the Valorian State Institute for Psychiatry, where I am currently a patient.

My name is Oceania Greanleefe. I’m thirteen years old. Three weeks ago, I was a student at the Valorian Hill Academy, a private boarding school two hours outside of Valori, the Valorian capital city. But don’t get me wrong. Valorian Hill isn’t one of those snobby private schools you see in teen movies, which are always hyper-religious and make their students wear psychotically ugly uniforms. It’s pretty relaxed. We don’t have a uniform, or even a dress code, and we have a bunch of hipster clubs, like the Anime Club and the Photography Appreciation Club, that they don’t have at other schools. There’s always a few stoners smoking weed behind the gym, and hardly anyone goes to the on-campus chapel.

I say “we” but I should be saying “them,” as I was expelled for stabbing this horrible twit Senchila Welke with a plastic knife from the cafeteria, and so technically I do not belong to any Valorian Hill group and have no business using the pronoun “we.” Old habits die hard, I guess.

I don’t remember much about the stabbing. They had to pull me off her. She was screaming, and there was a lot of blood. I can’t say I cared all that much.

I would like to confirm that I’m not a psychopath. It’s just, you know when you hate someone so much that you don’t even wish for their downfall? Like, you won’t even celebrate their untimely death because they matter so little to you? Well, that’s what I was feeling, a kind of detachment, like it wasn’t even me doing the stabbing. I don’t expect you to understand.

So why did I do it? The answer is…hard to explain, but I’ll try. A pair of blue eyes the exact color of the Valorian sky. Freckled cheeks and scandalously short skirts. And at the bottom of my chest of drawers, a pair of thick blonde braids the color of summer straw.

And maybe those aren’t good enough reasons, but if you’ve ever sat down at your table in the cafeteria and some two-faced bitch sat down across from you, chewing too much gum and talking too loud, and telling you how good it was that she was dead, that she had problems and should have killed herself a long time ago, all the while smiling like a fat cat because she knew exactly how close you and her were, you would have stood up and told that little piece of shit that she didn’t know a damn thing about her, that if she didn’t shut up you’d kill her, and the scary part is, you would have only been half bluffing.

Maybe, when she wouldn’t shut up, your friends would try to pull you away. Mine did. But by that point, you would be too hot and burning with rage, and so you would have picked up the closest thing to you and tried to drive it into her eye.

And if that thing happened to be a knife, so be it, because at least by then she would have shut the hell up.

Yep. I’m good at ruining things.

Naturally there was a big blowup, on account of private schools generally don’t want to give scholarships to kids who have a nasty habit of stabbing their classmates. In fact, they like to make sure those types of children don’t attend their schools, period. And the parents of those kids who get stabbed are generally very interested in prosecuting whatever poor son of a bitch stabbed their precious little daughter.

Which put my stepmom, Isolde, in a really awkward position. She’d just gotten this sweet little deal on Earth, working for the High Lord Cielare, the Centauriian senator to the Federated Union of Sentient Life. You see, newspapers like to write stories about fuck-up royal children. And a story like that could destroy her career. But Isolde is twenty-seven and beautiful and used to getting her way. So she hired this absolute crook of a lawyer, Eddie Billet, to make sure I didn’t go to juvie. Not for me, you understand. It was for the Greanleefe family name.

Isolde is very concerned with what other people think. It’s touching, really, how much our reputations (mine and my brother’s) matter to her. Isolde is the reason that I can play four musical instruments, the reason I dance in a professional company, the reason I have been shuffled through several different exclusive private schools, while my brother, Llenwi, has to slum it in public school.

You see, I didn’t use to be a fuck-up. I used to be a good example. I used to be the kid my stepmom would brag about at parties where she pretended to be richer than she really was, the kid that my brother was always held up to, the kid Isolde used as a shield to pretend that she wasn’t born into this life, that she married up, that her “royal husband” was just a drunk old sot and her “children” were the progeny of a suicidal mother and would never, not ever, replace her own flesh and blood.

Oh yeah, I had problems before I started stabbing people. My dad’s had a drinking problem since before I was born. My mother was the victim of an olive branch gone wrong, a gift to pacify my father’s disgraced family. She took her own life when I was two and Llenwi, my brother, was six. I don’t remember her, but I think he does. He and I have nothing in common. He’s dyslexic and ADD, so he’s never done that well in school, which leads everyone to tell him he’s not as smart as me, which leads him to resent me, and then…the cycle starts all over again, resentment and comparison and excelling and resentment and comparison and excelling.

He’s probably celebrating right now.

Anyway, back to Eddie Billet. We thought my case was pretty hopeless. Worst-case scenario I got a few years in juvie and a criminal record. Best case scenario, I got expelled from Valorian Hill, which would probably prevent me from getting into any Centauriian private school ever again, and get a restraining order, which would require that someone watch me and would still require a court date. Either way, it was a big blot on my record.

But Eddie Billet, in his own criminal way, was kind of a genius. Somehow, he convinced the court that I had emotional problems that resulted from my suicidal mom and my abandonment issues, and I was acting out in the only way I knew how-violence. They really sold it-they brought in a psychiatrist and everything. And the court ate that shit up. The downside was my subsequent expulsion from Valorian Hill and my commitment to the State Institute. So that’s how I got here, anyway. But there’s more to the story than that. Remember the hair in my chest of drawers? It’s not mine-it’s too pretty to be mine. My own hair is this stringy brown mess that gets really greasy really fast. I have brown eyes too, persistent acne, and pasty white skin. I’m very thin for my age, and very tall too, but I have absolutely no curves and I’m flat as a board. Which is good for a dancer, but not for a woman. I don’t even have a period yet, not that I’m dying to get one.

In truth, Isolde, with her green eyes and blonde hair and perfect skin, looks more like a Greanleefe than I ever will.

But back to the story. Her parents sent her to a summer camp that year. For rich kids, very exclusive. She didn’t want to go, but they made her. She promised to text me every day. She kept that promise.

She always did.

But somewhere in the middle of her stay, she took a bunch of pills and decided to end her life.

You wanna know the really fucked-up part? Her parents didn’t know she was dead until they came to pick her up from camp. Two days later, they were both dead, OD’d on the same pills she took.

I knew something was terribly wrong. She wouldn’t have killed herself. Not without calling me first. We had made a promise, sealed into law with our own blood, and that’s not the kind of promise you break.

Of course, the police were no help at all. When they determined the cause of death, they interviewed all of us, her friends, about her. You think one of them would have told the truth. But all everyone kept bringing up was the bad stuff. Like the cuts that ran up her arms like sadistic stripes, or the fact that at the parties she wasn’t supposed to go to, she would drink a bottle of beer before she got on the dance floor. They made it sound like she was some kind of stupid druggie slut. But the cops bought it. They didn’t even put my testimony on record.

I guess you only find out who your real friends are in death, huh, Anni? You were always the one who said how those people were actually really nice, that I was too judgmental and bitter. I think secretly, you knew all along. You always smiled, but you and I both knew no matter how popular you got you could only trust a few people.

And at the funeral-speaking of which, do you have any idea how hard that was for me? To get the phone call that said that my other half, my soul, was gone forever? Do you know I was the only one of our classmates who was actually there? People are very good at being disappointing little shits.

And then your brother came up to me, looking totally pathetic and smelling like alcohol, with snot running down his face and pressed those two long coils of your hair into my hands, said, “Keep them,” and then, “She would have wanted you to have them. She was thinking about getting it cut-” and then he started crying, not movie-tears, but loud messy sobs that sounded like they were coming out of his gut. And I wanted to cry too, to comfort him, to say I knew what he was feeling, but I was still reeling from the shock of that phone call, still not wanting to believe you were gone. And so I was stone-still, and silent, and strange.

I want to know the truth. I want to know why you left me, why you left us all. So I called the police and the security at the camp. I pretended to be a reporter. Only later did I realize my mistake. Cops never want to talk to the press. I tried again. I wanted to know if you left a note. And if you did, I wanted to read it with my own eyes. You were nothing if not methodical. I know there was a note. There had to be. There had to be someone to blame for this whole thing.

Your aunt and uncle believed there was. Your aunt and uncle sued the Valorian police for tampering with the evidence. Oh yeah, your body? It was never taken for burial. It was placed in the state morgue for “examination purposes.” Your aunt and uncle, your parents…they have never seen it. And neither have I, though I’ve tried. I have called the morgue seventeen times. Each time, I am told that your body, which by all rights, anyone can view since it is a public morgue, is “off limits.” The police are hiding something. Something big.

And that something else is what I aim to find out.

You were the only consistent person in my life, Anni. I refuse to believe your death was a cruel trick of fate. I want-no, I need-to know why you did it.

Only then can I get you out of my mind.

••

I received a letter today from one of the orderlies. Isolde has pulled some strings and now I can come out of the institute and join her on Earth. She will send some people for me as soon as possible, which in Isolde-speak means tomorrow.

The doctor is very generous. He is allowing me to go into the city to buy some clothes. I am grateful. All of my old stuff was taken from me when I got in, and I’m not about to fly to Earth in white linen drawstring pants. I can buy whatever I want, provided I stay with my chaperone and if I have “an episode” to return to the institute immediately, no arguing.

The Grand Valorian City is much the same as I remembered it. I was born on Centaurii, but Valorian I will always consider home. It is so clean and sparkling it practically shimmers, and you can see all kinds of people walking around. One day, I want to sit at a subway stop and just watch the people.

But today I do not have time for that. I stopped at one of the thrift stores she always loved. She had impeccable taste, always did, and her clothes were always different and imaginative, and all of us would rush out to copy them, but we never fit into them quite the same as her. If only she could see me now, I think idly.

The place looks more like a warehouse than an actual store, with everything thrown haphazardly on top of crates. I go in, the orderly following behind silently. I shuffle through the mess, but nothing seems right until a little black lace dress that laced up the front. Then chunky black boots with platform heels. In the corner, I find a white white foundation and a red red lipstick, plus black eyeliner. Without thinking, I open up the makeup and smooth it onto my cheeks, my lips, my eyes. When I am finished, an unearthly being stands in front of me-a cool, beautiful alternative girl. The person I was trying to be before I got kicked out.

After the funeral, school started, but it wasn’t like it was before. I kind of assumed the five of us who were left-Jessica, Lauren, Berthie Lou, Sheila, and me-would go on being the most popular girls in school, but that’s not what happened. She had always been our leader, and with her gone, we had little to say to one another. We drifted off our separate ways, Lauren to the jocks, Jessica to the artsy kids, Berthie Lou to the smart kids, and Sheila to the alternative kids.

And me? I hadn’t had much of a group to begin with, so I weighed the options. I wasn’t a hard-core athlete, so joining the jocks was kind of out of the question. I really hated poetry and all that shit, so no go on the artsy kids, either. I had good enough grades to join the smart kids, though, and I liked Berthie Lou okay, so I drifted with her to that crowd.

Boy, was that a mistake. I learned the hard way that nerds can be just as disgusting and toxic as anyone else. So I cut them out and started hanging out with the alternative kids, which was liberating in a way. It was a bigger crowd than I was used to, and though at first they seemed loud and rude and pretentious, I figured out they weren’t that bad, just a little fucked-up and a little confused. Which I could understand. So I assimilated. I smoked my first cig and my first joint. I dyed my hair black. I got two more ear piercings. I drank cheap wine in Sheila’s dorm after midnight. It was something else entirely. And since none of them knew me, I felt free. I didn’t have to put on a face. I could see who I really was. And I liked that person.

The pimply guy working behind the counter comes out. “I hope you’re going to buy that.”

I nod and hand it all over. He bags it silently, tells me how much, and I swipe my card. I have forty eekaks left, enough for one more thing. I grab my bag and cross the street to the hair salon, the orderly hustling to keep up.

Once I get there, I start to feel nervous, even though there’s no reason. I look like a mental patient, in my white linen pants and grey sweater, with my hair all tangled and greasy. Then I remember that I am a mental patient, and I smile. When the stylist, a lady with magenta hair, comes up to me, I am master of myself enough to say, “I want a dye.” My voice sounds strange after so long being out of use.

She looks confused. “All your hair or..?”

“All of it.”

“What color?” she asks.

“Uh…” I haven’t thought about this part, but then I see it on a poster on the wall. The woman throws her pale head back so her hair spills down her back. And what magnificent hair it is! It is red and gold and pink all melded together, as if her hair was just splattered with paint. It is vibrant and tropical and somehow, exactly what I need. “I want that.” I tell her, pointing at it.

To my relief, she looks unfazed. Perhaps it’s popular right now. “That’ll be thirty-five eekaks.”

••

The next morning, I put on my new clothes and run a brush through my new hair, which is even better then it looked in the poster. I put on the makeup, then admire myself in the mirror. The dress was made for someone a little shorter than I am and the shoes for someone with bigger feet, but I don’t care. With my hair and face I practically radiate in this drab white space.

Once I’m done, through force of habit, I try to pack, but then I remember I have no suitcase and nothing except what I’m wearing right now. Then I remember the braids. I have to take those with me, but how?

I seize the plastic bag that held my clothes and put the braids in carefully, then start piling old institute sweaters on top of them. When I am satisfied that you can’t see them underneath, I go to the waiting room, wondering all the while why Isolde has selected this particular arrangement. After all, I might be crazy, but it’s not exactly like I’m on some kind of no-fly list. Ever since I was six or seven I’ve been flying to and from home by myself. Why I need an escort now is beyond me.

It’s a strange system, but people can make a good wage that way, escorting rich minors to and from various planets. I’ve never met one of these people myself, Isolde being too cheap to hire one, so this should at least be interesting.

The woman finally arrives, and I study her closely. She’s wearing a cheap blue polyester pantsuit and her makeup is immaculately done, perhaps to make up for her steel grey hair. Her age is impossible to determine-she could be an older forty-something or a younger sixty-something. She introduces herself as Miss Rochelle. I can already tell she doesn’t like me from the way she looks at my hair.

After some paperwork, I follow Miss Rochelle back to a hotel, which has these long dank hallways that smell vaguely of cigarettes. The room that she leads us to is…well, I’ve never considered myself a snob, but the beds are narrow, the water pressure is dismal, and the bathroom is a most alarming shade of salmon pink.

Not to mention the kids. Miss Rochelle has two kids, or perhaps grandkids. They have grimy faces and smell like garlic sauce, and are wearing unfortunate identical pajamas. (Red, with snowflakes on them.) Their names are Gloriabella Lynne and Esmyliaralda Jane, she tells me. I doubt either of them have ever been to school, and I really doubt they have had all their shots. They have ratty blonde hair and look like walking lice farms. I make a mental note to avoid them.

I plunk my stuff down in the corner, standing over it in case Gloriabella or Esmyliaralda turns out to be a thief. Miss Rochelle then informs me that we are going out for dinner, but that she will not tolerate me looking, in her words, “like a homeless hooker.”

Whoa. Did she just say that? I have never in my life had anyone tell me I look like a hooker. This bitch is just asking for it. “Who are you, my mom? I’ll look however I damn well please, so you can just shut the fuck up. Maybe worry about how your own kids look.”

Miss Rochelle shoots me a withering glare, then barks at the rug rats. “Gloriabella! Esmyliaralda! Give me some of your clothes!”

“But auntie-” they groan. They pronounce it “anty.” I decide that they are retarded.

As they say in some classic book that no one reads unless they have to, there is much weeping and gnashing of the teeth. Or rather, there is a lot of screaming bloody murder. I’m pretty sure my ears are going to bleed because they’ve just taken in an unsafe amount of decibels by the time Miss Rochelle hurls the clothes at me. “If you don’t put these on at once, I am not paying for your dinner.” she snaps. “You may be used to getting your way because you’re related to rich people, but my house, my rules.”

“That’s a damn lie!” I shout, because I can’t think of anything clever to say. I’m suddenly wishing I didn’t spend all my money on my hair. But I have to eat, so reluctantly, I grab the clothes and slam the door to the bathroom.

Once I’m there, I examine my haul. They’re in a green Frankie’s Fast Fashion bag, and I take them out gingerly. There is a pink t-shirt with stencilled designs on it, a grey skirt, white denim jacket, pink beanie, and shapeless brown boots. The beanie has gum stuck in it. I throw it directly in the trash. The skirt is either too short or the shirt is too long. I find it is the latter, for when I tuck it into the skirt and lash the dorky little attached belt as tight as it will go, it still protrudes an inch beneath the skirt. Fuming, I grab safety scissors and trim it to a reasonable length. The jacket, the only acceptable piece of clothing, is too short and too tight under my arms. And the boots reek of unwashed feet and flap around my calves. I look terrible, but at least I get to eat.

We go to a fast food joint where everything is swimming in about a ton of oil. Gloriabella and Esmyliaralda take turns aiming savage kicks at me under the table, apparently not over the loss of their clothes. By the end of the meal, my shins are black and blue, and despite my angry outbursts (“You touch me again, I don’t care if you do have mental problems, I’ll beat your ass!”) and their pleading with their mother (“Mommy, mommy, did you hear what she just said?”) Miss Rochelle remains unmoved.

“You have to find some way to get along, if only for the rest of the trip.” she lectures.

“They’re assaulting me, what do you want me to do, take it lying down? You need to control your animals, lady!” I snap.

“I don’t know how your parents let you talk at home, but when you’re with me, sweetheart, you treat me with respect.” she hisses, swerving the car into the fast lane with rather more force than is necessary as podships zoom overhead.

I don’t get a wink of sleep back at the hotel, because I have to share a bed with those ugly kids, and the relentless kicking continues. I end up trying to sleep on the floor, but it’s hard as rocks and I end up staring at the ceiling waiting for God to put me out of my misery.

The next morning, over stale hotel cake and too-sweet potted fruit, Miss Rochelle grudgingly tells me there’s a package for me. She brings it in, a big massive rectangle immaculately wrapped in pink cupcake-print wrapping paper.

The sight of it proves too much for Gloriabella and Esmyliaralda, who as soon as they clap eyes on it, dive for it. Miss Rochelle snatches the poor thing out of the way just in time, and a screaming match ensues. In the chaos, I manage to grab it and flee for the bathroom, whose door I bolt as I tear into it eagerly. It’s a nice red suitcase, better than my own battered purple one, brand new. And inside is a soft pink skirt and glittery shirt, with the silhouette of a familiar building on it-the Eiffel Tower. Perhaps I will see it when I go to Earth, I think excitedly. There’s a smart blue coat, grey shoes, a stupid little hat, and best of all, a box of cookies, plus a handwritten note.

image

I smile, not knowing how best to express my gratitude for this Candie. I’m imagining a sexy, intriguing blonde, someone with excellent taste. A real hero.

••

The next day, I have the satisfaction of throwing Gloriabella and Esmyliaralda’s clothes back at them as I parade around in Candie’s gifts. They practically wet themselves with envy. True, they’re definitely not what I would have picked, but they’re clean and they fit and the coat is long enough to cover the ugly pink skirt.

I hide the hair under the clothes I bought from the thrift shop, which I carefully pack away in my suitcase. I forgo breakfast and lunch in favor of cookies, and when we finally board the ship I’m feeling slightly sick. As we rise up from Valorian soil I feel sicker, and finally throw up all the macaroons. The ship has an observation deck, which passengers can visit if they choose, but I am too sick to try it and spend most of the two days that it takes to make the journey huddled up in our cabin. The kids and Miss Rochelle have no sympathy at all.

When we finally stagger from the ship onto New Rastabaria Spaceport, I’m shivering with fever and exhausted from the gravity difference and two-day lag. The kids kick me all the way through our cab ride, and I arrive on Earth feeling and looking like hell.

As the ship spiraled downward, down, down, down, Seonid gripped the armrests tightly, trying to stay in her seat. Tessa was everywhere, pressing buttons, slamming hatches. Sirens blared, and warning lights everywhere were flashing as Tessa desperately tried to keep the ship steady.

“Shit,” Tessa swore, eyes wide. That in itself was unexpected; Tessa never cursed. “Seatbelt, your seatbelt, Seonid!”

My whaa…Oh. Seonid hastily buckled the device before the floor of the shuttle creaked and tilted, sliding Tessa away from her line of vision. There was a flash of bright light, a thud, and then Seonid remembered no more.

–

“Sit up.” A hand was shaking her, over and over.

“Mmm…” Seonid rolled over, groaning. Her whole body felt like it was on fire, and she just wanted to sleep. “Leave me alone-ugh…”

With a vicious yank, Tessa pulled her up. Seonid yelped as her head struck metal. She opened her eyes, sunlight blinding her as she tried to get her bearings. They were on the roof of a flat, concrete building, the wreckage of their ship strewn across it. A vast, metallic city stretched out below them. “Where are we?”

“Earth. New Rastabaria.” Tessa’s mouth was a tight line, her face smeared with ash and grease, her voice tense. “Come on, we have to go.”

“Earth? But I don’t know anyone here!” Seonid exclaimed.

“There’s a Centauriian embassy downtown, by the Federated Union’s Congress building. You can go there, get help, and…em, tell them what happened.”

She means, how I allowed the galaxy to get taken over by idiots. “Right,” Seonid said gloomily, staggering to her feet. “In that case, we’d best get going. Do you know the way?”

Tessa’s arm steadied her. “Of course. I was born here.”

••

Tessa’s mind raced as they moved through the streets, the adrenaline that the capital of the Federation often inspired coursing through her veins. But for her it was different. As they moved through the streets, the old instincts started to kick in. Duck under awnings, watch for cameras. Even a stray cell phone is dangerous. Hood up, eyes down, but hand on your weapon. Glance behind you ever so often to make sure you’re not being followed. If you are being followed, go into a store, but don’t buy anything. Pay for everything in cash, and make sure you get exact change back. Behind her, Seonid huffed and puffed, but Tessa’s breakneck speed got them to a cheap motel that smelled vaguely of sour milk and cigarettes. This time, she let Seonid take the lead, watching as the duchess did what she did best-talk. Before long, she and the woman behind the check-in desk were chatting like old friends, and a swipe of Seonid’s debit card bought them a room.

As soon as they entered, Seonid declared she was going to take a bath in the terrible shower, then disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Tessa to ponder the implications of what had just happened. The duchess was taking it remarkably well, though Tessa couldn’t help but think that this was a facade to prevent her concern. She is still a child in many ways.

There was a knock at the door. She tensed, called out nervously, “Who is it?”

“Room service.” growled a deep voice.

Room service? We didn’t order any.

She kept quiet, and then, with a crash, the door fell down as a giant of a man rammed into it. He was bulky, immense, dressed in black leather, with olive skin and a shaved head. “Where is the Duchess Seonid?”

Tessa responded with a swift kick to the face, but the man was faster. He grabbed her foot and flung her onto the floor, winding her. Hearing the crash, Seonid came rushing out half dressed, and the assassin lunged for her. Tessa shot upwards, using her entire weight to wrap her legs around his waist and her arms around his head. He sputtered, choking, but then he reached up with his black-gloved hands and wrapped one around her throat. Slowly, inexplicably, she felt her throat bubble and burn, as if fire was on his hands. Acid. With the last vestiges of her strength she kicked him in the stomach and he winced, releasing her. She rolled, grabbed her knife and ran at him.

He was strong, but she was fast and half mad with adrenaline, so frenzied in her furious stabbing she barely could feel his hands groping for her as his blood-slick body slumped to the ground. Gradually, she became aware of someone saying, “Tessa, Tessa…” but the voice faded until she was furiously shaken by a pale-faced Seonid.

“What..?” She was about to say something, but then they saw a line of black cars emblazoned with the Centauriian sun pull up to the motel. She let Seonid pull her to her feet and lead her to the men outside.

What did I just do?

The High Lord Cielaré looked out over the city, mingled distaste and wonder in his eyes. From the view of the Imperium’s complex, the city spread out like a disease, crooked streets radiating outward like scars on the earth’s surface. How people could bear to live in this chaotic mess, which seemed to have no end, no order, was absurd. Already, just two hours after his landing, he longed for the Grand Centaurii City. Or even better, his own Miramoor Galaxy, which had neat orderly streets, industrious citizens, and beauty, real beauty, not any of this “character” that people claimed the island chain inspired.

It was distasteful, true, but a necessary job. As the Empress’s eyes and ears at the Federated Congress, the High Lord was conscious of the enormous power he wielded. And he had no qualms about using it. Two centuries of ruling Centaurii had made him subtle, calculating, adept to the sensitive shifts of intergalactic politics.

He cut an impressive figure, tall pale frame in perfectly tailored black three-piece suits, straight black hair flowing just past his shoulders, oval, high-cheekboned face with a sharp chin, and most prominent, his cold grey eyes. People said when the High Lord fixed you with those eyes, he was seeing into your soul, determining how you could fit into the complex calculus of his plots. It fit with the picture the history books had painted of him-the polymath architect of the realm, richest man in the universe, brilliant general, and the sole originator of Centauriian conservative thought.

But as the High Lord studied the movements of people from the long window, he could, for a moment, remember how small he was in comparison to the vastness of humanity. He could become an ordinary man.

With an effort, he shook himself from these thoughts. I have no cause to entertain such fancies. What has gotten into me?

It must be the impending marriage. Although, in a sense, this marriage would be no different then any of the other nine, his long fingers were still drawn to the rings on his left hand. After all these years, he would finally get what was due him. After all this waiting, he would finally get full control of the country he had built from nothing, the country that was an extension of himself.

He had given his soul to serve Centaurii. And though they had sometimes hated him for it, even still did, no one could deny how he had led the empire to prosperity. They had called him brutal during the Second Arkillion War, but when the Third Arkillion War approached, there was no one they wanted more to lead him. They would never love him, but they would always fear him, always respect him. He had served them well.

Now, it was time for Centaurii to serve him.

“My lord?”

The question startled him from his reverie. “Yes, Sebastian?”

“The Duchess Seonid and her bodyguard to see you.”

“Very well.” He settled himself at his desk. “Send her in.”

–

The Duchess Seonid was as the High Lord remembered her, short, a bit overweight, but with a sweet round face and an earnestness to her voice that made her instinctively likeable. Her politics did not align with his-not in the slightest. But talent was talent-anyone could see that, and he would be a fool to pass her up. She had brought House Onyx that little spark of diversity it was drastically missing.

Ruble would have loved her. But Ruble was gone now, disappeared, overcome with depression and drink. It was strange, lonely, to not have someone like that to spar with. The new head of House Diamond, Julius Mandragoran, had none of that brilliance.

But as the Duchess Seonid told her story, the High Lord found himself mesmerized, then alarmed, at the magnitude of her tale, of its implications, driving his old friend from his mind. She told it well, her hands clasped in her lap, not breaking her composure in the slightest even as she told of the High Lord’s death. A hard passing, for her, at least, as Dunavain must have been her mentor, but aside from a slight twitching around her mouth, she remained calm.

Centaurii had never been invaded since the First Arkillion War. A new invasion would mean catastrophe, Cielaré thought.

There were two possible solutions. One, invade his own empire with his own troops. The document they had, an obvious forgery, was missing Seonid’s signature, therefore they had no right to the galaxy. A simple solution, but one that would make them look weak. Plus, Seonid’s intelligence didn’t say how many of the invaders’ troops were in the galaxy. There could be a few…or a lot.

The other solution was to ask the Federated Union for help. An authorized multi-state task force could swiftly crush the invaders, but getting approval for such a force would need the Union’s say-so. It would still make the Centauriians look weak, but it would make them look willing to work with others, a valuable combination. Yes, it would be simple. Ask for a court audience in the Congress, allow Seonid to tell her story, and the Union would doubtless listen.

As Seonid concluded her story, however, alarm began to rise within the High Lord. The fact that someone had attacked her-that was disquieting. Someone did not want this tale to be heard. It is good she has that particular bodyguard, for I fear that is not the last. But a plan was beginning to coalesce in his mind. After all, he was the savior of Centaurii. And now, for the first step…

“There is one thing I must do, your Grace.” he told her. “As the last of your galaxy, you understand the position you are in. You are now the High Lady of the Rublex.”

She swallowed, but nodded, looking pale. It was peculiar, her reluctance to accept the power that was hers. He knew many that many others would be barely concealing their glee, himself included, regardless of the circumstances. For power was power, and who would not take such a position if it was offered? She is very different from the others I have Raised.

“We will get the galaxy back, never fear.” he told her confidently. “I will send the necessary papers to you for your ascension.”

And then I will need to guide you. I have made a grave mistake, keeping you from me. Your testimony will be instrumental in bringing these people to justice.

–

He sent for the bodyguard next, and she came, prompt as usual. He took in the sight of her-slim silhouette in black denim and canvas, red lips and long lashes framing large dark eyes, smooth black hair, caramel skin, the only change being the red scarf around her neck to hide her bandages. She bowed, and the light made her skin shimmer gold.

With an effort, he pulled his eyes away. There was something about this particular guard, a sort of quiet dignity, that made every move she made fascinating. It almost-almost-made him forget who she was.

Remembering the wreckage of a man they had found at the site of the assassination attempt, he was able to recall her purpose, and his as well. “You are well?”

She barely nodded, her eyes unreadable.

“Doubtless the High Lady was telling the truth about the Rublex,” he continued. “so there is no need to burden you with further questions."And then, in a more serious tone, he added, "Thank you. For everything.”

Her eyes widened a bit. The High Lord never thanked anyone for anything. In truth, he was surprised at himself. But it was perfectly natural, he thought, to tell her so for doing such a deed. After all, she had saved the High Lady’s life.

“Of course.” she told him. Her voice was a rich alto, and like everything else about her, irresistible. “It is the least I can do, for your kindness to me.”

No one had ever characterized the High Lord as doing anything kind, so that left him, who always had the right words to say to everyone, floundering. But he quickly compensated with a bow, which he realized afterwards was highly inappropriate, a High Lord to an inferior…but he was, after all, Cielaré, he told himself. He could do what he wished. Then he thought of it. “You are too generous. Any fool would have done the same. It is not a kindness, but a basic human right, that I have given you, Miss Blackwood.” The name, like so many of her other aliases, rolled off his tongue effortlessly.

“Not every other,” she said, smiling as if to herself. “In my experience, many men think they can help me, but few actually can. You are one of the latter, and for that, I do thank you. For your kindness.” she added firmly.

“Ah. It is good to see you again.”

She cocked her head innocently, which annoyed him more than he could say. “You mean, it is good to see Her Grace again.”

“Her Ladyship. She has assumed Dunavain’s old seat. And I meant what I said.”

Color came to her cheeks, and she rose, bowing as she exited. “Of course. How silly of me. You meant it must have been wonderful to see Her Ladyship again. Thank you, sir. Best of luck on your wedding.”

“Wait-” he started, but she was already gone, disappeared down the corridor.

It was a mistake, he decided, having her here. She would be a distraction, a beautiful, deadly distraction. And with the marriage coming…well, it seemed to him not so attractive as it had before. If she stayed longer, he might forget himself again. Better to send her away.

But here, under his eyes, she would be safer, much safer, if they started to come looking. And with someone trying to kill the High Lady… her talents would be better served here. No, she would have to stay, and he would have to control himself.

Sighing, the High Lord reached for the carafe of wine he kept in his office-the redder the better, the only sort worth drinking, in his opinion. Against his skin it looked like blood. He poured it skillfully into the glass, swirled it around, then drank deeply, letting the acid tones relax his jaw and chin. He poured a bit more, drank, filling his throat with a confidence he did not feel to avail guilt that would not go away, all to save people he could not protect.

Let them never know of my treason.

The house is tall and imposing and silent when Miss Rochelle and those animals she calls children drop me off on the front lawn, leaving me to stagger up the porch steps lugging my suitcase. I bang on the door about eighty times before I hear feet move from inside to open it. “About damn time,” I snarl, ready to see Isolde or my brother, but it’s not either of them. Instead, it’s a girl with long pink hair and a thick layer of makeup on. As I get closer, I can see that the underside of her hair is cropped short and dyed white. She is wearing blue print leggings and loose tank top with one of those racerback designs, and I can see the nude straps of her bra on her thin shoulders. She looks, for lack of a better word, cool, making me feel all the more disgusting.

She stares at me for a while, and I’m starting to wonder if I have something on my face, but then I realize that I haven’t said a word. “Um, is Isolde home?”

She frowns. “Duchess Greanleefe went out a while ago. Who are you?”

“Oh, she didn’t tell you? I’m Oceania.” Seeing her blank look, I say, “You know, her stepdaughter? From Valorian?” Now she’s narrowing her eyes suspiciously, so I hastily add, “Look, just get Llenwi, will you? He’ll know it’s me.”

She motions for me to come inside, and I follow her. The house is dark and big and badly decorated. “So, you’re the new maid?” I ask, then regret it instantly when she narrows her blue eyes at me.

“No. I’m Trainee Agent Danica Kesley. From Olympia.” she spits.

“Sorry,” I say, but the damage is done. “Er, Olympia? What are you doing here?”

“My team and I have been assigned to a top secret mission. It’s classified.” she adds self-importantly.

“So you and your team are staying with us?”

“Of course. Your senator requested it personally.”

Since when does Cielaré ask favors from Greanleefes? But I have no time to ask, because in comes my brother. “Hey,” he mumbles.

“Hey,” I reply. From his expression I can tell he hasn’t quite gotten over me telling him he was a waste of space last summer.

“Your room is upstairs-” he tells me, and then I throw up on him. I don’t do it maliciously, although that is my motivation for many other things. Rather, my nauseousness has been growing for some time, and it’s really now or never.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” I tell him. He just sits there, looking sad and gross and scowling. “Uh, want some towels or something?” What’s left of the macaroons is all over his Brass Mannequins shirt.

“I’m FINE.” he snaps, ears going red. “Just go upstairs, okay? Before you ruin something else.”

“I’m trying to be nice! Why are you being such a bitch?”

“You threw up on me! How is that nice?” He waves his too-long arms emphatically, looking like a cartoon character drowning.

“Whatever. Brass Mannequins suck ass anyway.” I tell him, then stomp upstairs. It has to be an older brother thing, Anni and I decided, this love of atrocious music, where instead of perfectly good, if a bit clichéd pop tunes, one found a love for obscure indie bands that no one actually gave a damn about. Her brother did it too, played Zombies of Centaurii, Klexa & The Demons, and my personal favorite, Zaina Kate’s Survival Guide to Hell, until we begged him to please, please, put on some Pippi Silk or Tylenol.

I wonder if he’s still listening to those songs. If they help, at all, with this.

As I thump up the stairs, I am nearly killed by the scariest short woman I’ve ever seen. She has warm brown skin and eyes, and a long rope of black hair, which may make her sound like a nice aunt, but she’s wearing leather and gold jewelry, and is carrying a legit real actual pistol on her hip. I almost scream as her hand goes to her weapon, but then, perhaps realizing that I am a minor who does not need immediate death, she lets me pass. I sprint to the third floor much faster than is necessary, in case she changes her mind. She must be another one of the special agents, though she appears quite at a contrast to the pink-haired, non-threatening Danica.

My room is on the left, and when I open it, it looks like it’s been painted by a small child. It’s a nauseating shade of bubblegum pink, with a pale blue bed and white daybed set. There’s a dresser, some shelves, and a soft pink couch, complete with an old TV that I’m pretty sure doesn’t work. The bedspread looks like the one I had from when I was six and only liked pastel colors. As I approach it, I see that it is, pdown to the fruit punch stain in the left corner.

The closet is hardly better. I have a whopping two sets of pajamas, in eye-watering neon brights. One has grey leopard-print booty shorts. I make a mental note to throw them out when no one’s looking.

••

Dinner is awkward. First of all, Isolde returns, which is weird enough, considering she never seems to have time to connect with any of us. She’s probably trying to make a good impression on our visitors. To make matters worse, my brother decides to cook for us all. Which would have been a really thoughtful gesture if Llenwi could cook, but quite honestly, no one wants red water poured over limp noodles.

We meet the rest of the team. There’s the scary woman, a brother and sister who look like twins, Danica of the pink hair, an earnest-looking young guy who’s wearing a tactical vest, a dude with a shaved head that looks like a terrorist, a pretty woman even smaller than the scary woman, and their leader, a thin man with sad eyes. Isolde eyes the men appraisingly. Gross, but not as bad as the dinner. I end up scavenging Sheila G’s Brownie Brittle from the cabinet, smearing black cherry ice cream on it, and eating that instead, all the while pushing Llenwi’s foul meal around and making encouraging noises.

I swear, I am a born actress.

The Olympia people are silent, concentrating on their food as if it is going to vanish the second they stop staring at it. Isolde addresses herself to the leader guy. “So, how long do you expect to stay with us?”

“As long as we need to.” interrupts the pretty woman, pursing her lips in irritation. The other man flashes her a dirty look.

“Ah.” Isolde smooths her blonde hair back. “Oceania. How was your trip?”

“It was god-awful, actually. Thanks for asking.” I say.

There is silence. The brother and sister exchange nervous glances. Llenwi looks like he is going to keel over and die. In our classic family hierarchy, we, the plebeians, know we are not to complain, for Isolde, as she always says, is very busy and works much harder than we know. So when she asks “How was your trip?” we are to say, “Fine,” and nothing else.

But liars never win, and the New Oceania always tells the truth. Lies, after all, are what got us into this mess. “That bitch you put me with had these two shithead brats who kicked me and tried to steal my shit the whole way here. It’s amazing I still had the clothes on my back when I came in, really. They made me eat shit food, and quite honestly, I’m pretty sure those kids didn’t know the first thing about dental hygiene. I realize you’re trying to save money on your embarrassing stepdaughter, but that doesn’t mean I have to pretend like we’re some happy little family.”

“Oceania! Not in front of the guests.” Isolde hisses, lovely face flushing, but I am done.

“May I be excused? This food is inedible.”

“No, you may not-” Isolde starts, but I run upstairs before she can get the last part out. Fuming, I slump on my bed so absolutely furious I could spit. How was my trip? Seriously? Not how are you; are you okay; did they treat you right at the institute? She doesn’t care about me unless I’m winning awards to make her look like some supermom.

At the bottom of my suitcase are two braids the color of straw. I take them out, fold them, stick them under my pillow. Then I stare at the ceiling until I fall asleep.

Why did you do this to me?

••

The next day, Isolde leaves early for work, not saying a word to me or Llenwi. The agents keep to themselves upstairs, leaving a note that the last room on the fifth floor is not to be disturbed for any reason. Isolde leaves a second note on a bright yellow sticky note informing us that the agents are in charge when she is gone. She also threatens us with certain death if we break this rule. Oh, and there’s money for lunch in the kitchen cabinet.

Llenwi refuses to talk with me, thumbs moving like wildfire over a cracked phone screen. I decide to take a chance. “What are you doing?”

“Texting.”

“Who?”

He doesn’t answer, and I live in mystery for about two hours while trying to set the Internet up on my tablet, a shitty Modulus-77 that barely does anything. I’ve had it since about the fourteenth century.

At twelve (Earthen time runs on cycles of twelve, like ours) there’s a knock at the door and I go to get it (Llenwi’s upstairs). I about keel over from the shock. A very pretty girl with an abundance of red hair and big blue (or green, maybe?) eyes waits outside, stylishly dressed in flame-printed silk pants, a white tank top and red leather stiletto boots, her toe tapping impatiently. I can’t help but notice how…prodigious…her butt and boobs are.

Her face wrinkles when she sees me, like biting into a sour berry. “Oh, hello. Is Llenwi in?”

If my jaw had dropped any lower it would have fallen off my face, and I would have needed some mad surgery to take care of that one. Since when do pretty girls ask for my brother? I just manage a nod, and she shoves past me. I yelp as her ass nearly decapitates me. “Put this here, won’t you?” she demands, thrusting a red leather purse at me.

Anger rises in me, and I shove it back at her. Who does this bitch think she is? “Hold your own damn purse.”

Confusion spreads over her face. “Wait, you’re not the help?”

Now I understand how Danica felt yesterday. “No, I’m not the fucking help. I’m Oceania Greanleefe. I’m Llenwi’s sister. I live here.” My voice is getting progressively louder and louder. “Next time, do your research before you come at me with this bullshit. God, you actually thought that, you privileged asshole piece of shit-”

She steps toward me menacingly, but I’m at least a head taller than her, so I don’t back up. “I don’t know who you think you fucking are, talking to me like this. I hate to pull the seniority card on this one, but I’m the Lady Vielene of House Onyx, so compared to me, you kind of are the help, little girl.-”

“Get the hell out if all you’re going to do is be a condescending prick. I don’t think me or my brother want to deal with petty s-”

“Vi!” It’s my brother, coming down the fucking stairs with a huge-ass grin on his face. I could kick him. “You came!”

“Of course I fucking came!” She grins broadly, and I have to admit she is really hot. It’s too bad she’s such a bitch.

“I have so much I want to show you-” He leads her upstairs, looking more animated then I’ve seen him in years. I hang back, feeling jealous and lonely and hating this girl more than is necessary.

••

Vi and Llenwi go out for lunch, leaving me to fend for myself. I am eating Sheila G’s again when there is another knock at the door. Probably Vi and Llenwi back, I think grumpily.

But instead, it is an overweight, voluptuous redhead who throws herself at me with a bear hug that about kills me. “Ermf-” I grunt as she slams into me with enough force to break a rib. “Who the hell are you?”

She separates herself from me and I get a good look at her. Large, placid green eyes with an expression of complete innocent stupidity, fashionable blue striped skirt, flip-flops made of wicker, and an Environmental Club tank top. “Hey, Ocie. I’m Candie.”

So this is the girl who mailed me the suitcase with the cookies. “Oh, thanks,” discomfited for the moment by her far-too-liberal use of my childhood moniker. “And it’s Oc-ea-an-ia.” I say, making sure to sound out each syllable of my name.

She claps her hands excitedly. “Ocie. I get it.”

Sweet Jesus, this kid is dumb.

“Anyway, Ocie-O-M-G, what are you wearing?!” she screeches. I blush, realizing I’m in my pink plaid pajama bottoms and blue top, which has a suspicious stain from last night’s garlic-whatever on it. Still, there’s no need for the extreme reaction.

“My pajamas.” I tell her.

“You need a makeover,” she tells me, and with surprising strength, drags me to a fancy green car. “We’re going to my house.” she tells the driver, and we’re off.

On the ride there, I learn way more about Candie then I actually want to know. She is fifteen and a half (she seems about five), likes to ride horses, and actually enjoys temple services (She’s a devout Seven Angels believer.) Her parents are wealthy House Diamond counts who made their fortune playing the stock market. She finds school very difficult, loves helping animals, and thinks homosexuals are going to hell. I honestly don’t know what to say. Also, she is the president of a “VERY VERY IMPORTANT” club that sells baked goods to help various charities, and I am the newest member.

“What?” I never signed up for this.

“Your mom thought it would be a good idea. It’s called the Je M'appelle club. It’s French.” she explains. Candie pronounces it “juh maple.” From my brief stint of French, I know “je m'appelle” means “I am,” so all in all, it’s a pretty dumb name for a club. But Candie seems to think it’s very cool.

“We have uniform days on Wednesdays-that’s those clothes I sent to you-and every week we donate to a different animal rights charity. Isn’t it nice? You wear your uniform to school, and everyone knows how committed you are to helping animals.”

“I’m not going to your school.” I tell her, making a mental note to ask Isolde about all this.

“You will soon,” she tells me.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” I say. We pull up in front of a fancy brick townhouse, then go inside. It is ridiculously clean, so clean it looks like a furniture showroom. It is the sort of clean that cannot be accomplished by human hands. But Candie tells me that they have “a lot of servants.”

We meet Candie’s mother in the model kitchen. She is round-faced pretty and looks a lot like her daughter. You can tell she really wants to talk to me, to see if I am the right kind of friend for her daughter. To prevent from getting kicked out of the house, I say as little as possible. I do not think she would take kindly to having a mental patient in her scarily tidy home.

She offers us some brownies, which admittedly look delicious. But Candie says they’re “nasty” and that she’s on a diet, and leave us alone, Mama. When she’s not looking, I snitch some. They taste like heaven.

Candie’s room is perfect and pink and screams “Candie.” from the motivational posters on the wall to the abundance of stuffed animals. She insists that I try on some of her clothes, which although quite fashionable, do not fit me at all. This amuses her greatly, and I’m praying to God she gets bored of this soon when my prayers are answered and she tells me she is going to introduce me to her “boyfriend.” I am picturing someone bespectacled, dressed like a choir boy, acne-faced. So when she leads me downstairs to a stunning guy with white-blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a killer jawline, I’m more than a little stunned.

“This is Adrian.” Candie tells me happily. “Adrian, meet Ocie.”

“Hello, Oceania.” he says. His voice is silk and honey, soft and mesmerizing. If I were the sort of girl to obsessively drool over guys, I’d be falling in love right now. But I am a girl on a mission, and so such distractions only have so much effect on me. Besides, I already am in love with someone. And it’s not Adrian.

His relative normalcy compared to Candie’s bubbly outpourings leaves me a little tongue-tied, however, so I can only stammer out a quick “nice to meet you.” He takes it well enough, though-he seems nice. I wonder what he sees in Candie.

Candie’s mom bursts in to tell us that my mom is here. “Stepmom,” I correct her. Candie and Adrian say their goodbyes. For some inexplicable reason, they seem to like me. As I leave, I can see him plant a beautiful kiss on her lips, so utterly full of passion it leaves me amazed and full of the same longing that I felt when I saw my brother with Vi.

I wanted that. More than anything. And I could have had it, too. But life, as my friend Sheila used to say, has a funny habit of fucking you in the ass when you least expect it.

••

In the car Isolde gives me a long lecture. Apparently, what I did was very irresponsible, running off like that, I could have been killed, etc, and I was only saved by the good graces of Candie’s mom, who called her to tell her where I was. The fact that Llenwi and Vi went off without me to do whatever is irrelevant.

“Why do you care?” I demand. “I’m making friends-since when was that a federal crime?”

“Since the Duchess of the Rublex returned with news of a galaxy held hostage by terrorists.” Isolde snaps.

“Wait, what?!”

“Oh, watch the news once in a while, Oceania, you’ll be amazed at what you’ll find. The point is, it is no longer safe for you to roam around, especially now that you are on Earth.”

“So Llenwi can go wherever the fuck-”

“You will watch your language in my presence.” Isolde warns, one long red fingernail raised.

“Or what? You’re not even my real mom-don’t tell me what I can or can’t do.”

“You’re right. I am not your mother.” Isolde snaps. “I am not your father. I am not your friend or one of those idiot teachers who worshipped the ground you walked on at your fancy school. I am, however, the woman who paid for your schooling and dance lessons and God knows what else, who payed that lawyer so you wouldn’t have to be branded a juvenile delinquent. So when I say jump, you say how high, get it?”

When Isolde is mad, you can hear a hint of Centauriian street under her crisp diplomat’s voice. That is enough, I know, to get me to shut up.

••

At dinner everyone is talking about the Rublex takeover. It turns out some no-name Duchess saw the whole thing, and her bodyguard too, and they survived some sort of massacre and an assassination attempt besides. It is all very dramatic, and everyone has an opinion. The agents, who were so quiet last night, are in an uproar, and Isolde, too, has to get her voice heard. I sip my watery soup and pretend to be elsewhere.

After dinner, I make a big show of going to bed, turning off my lights and everything. Then, silent as sin, I slip upstairs to the fifth floor. Call it snooping, but something is going on in that room. I am on the last stair when I hear voices. I freeze, afraid I’ve been seen, but no matter, it’s just the leader guy and the scary woman talking about something.

“The duchess is a real character.” the man laughs. “Her kids are a little off, too. This should definitely be interesting.”

“Who? Seonid?”

“No, Isolde Greanleefe.” The man laughs again, harsher. “Can you believe it? I’ve devoted my life to this, and here I am, guarding a dead body.”

I lean in, curious.

“Shh, Ramon, not so loud! What if they hear?”

“And what would be the matter with that? I don’t know why it would possibly be such a secret-the very fact that they ruled it a suicide is an insult to the intelligence of anyone who’s actually seen the evidence…It’s mind-boggling.”

“I know, but we can’t say anything. Complete confidentiality.”

“I don’t see why not. What was her name? Annifrid Lar-something.”

“With what’s happened in the Rublex…you know what her parents did. This confirms what we’ve thought…it may have been premeditated, but we can’t talk about it. You know that as well as I.”

“Ah, but see, now you’re talking about it.” he says. She protests, but it is too soft for me to hear, and by then I am already creeping downstairs like a thief, my head full of what I just heard.

Annifrid Larsson was murdered. There was no suicide, which is heartening in a way, to know that I did know her enough that she would not do such a thing without calling me. But why would anyone murder Anni? Beautiful, brilliant Anni, whose laugh was sunshine and summer, who could kill you with a smile.

And her body is here…in this very house. I shiver. There is nothing to it. This changes nothing. I have someone to blame now, a concrete villain who I can point my finger at, a killer. and when I catch him…

May God have mercy on his soul.

For Ramon, the next couple of days settled into a comforting routine. Wake up, attempt to eat whatever slop the older Greanleefe child had put together, then dig through everything they had on Annifrid Larsson, sometimes with the help of Danica, Zafir, Damien, and Aza, sometimes not. Evenings, drink with Kalyani, as the Greanleefes kept a prodigious liquor stash. Repeat. Lately, his assistants had their eyes on another prize, the famed Rakhsasi, as they called Kalyani.

The name was an utter embarrassment to her, and she refused to tell him what it meant. A Google search had told him it was the Sanskrit name for “demoness,” which didn’t sound like a good thing, but turned out to be a compliment of the highest degree. Apparently, she had become something of an Olympia academy legend.

That didn’t surprise Ramon. No one else, to his knowledge, had ever pulled a perfect score on the Standard Field Exam. His own exam marks were barely above average, a poor combat score balanced by a good tactical strategy one. It was natural that the trainees saw her as a goddess.

After a few days, however, she had intimidated them all out of enthusiasm, and they had begun to stop begging for lessons, even Damien, who as a trainee needed them. Well, all except one. Danica, after a rough start, had really taken to Kalyani in a way the others hadn’t. It was possible she had found someone as neurotically obsessed with perfection as herself. Ramon and the others were treated to hours of crashing and pained grunts. Occasionally, Danica would emerge, sporting a black eye or a twisted limb, but cheerful.

“I hit her,” she told Ramon excitedly, over morning coffee. “In the last few seconds of match. It wasn’t for very long or very hard, but I hit her. You could tell she felt it. I think I’m getting better.”

Ramon smiled. “That’s very good.” Kalyani had told him she was going easy on her, but her version of “easy” was probably a far cry away from most people’s definition of the word.

“So, did you find anything yet? About the you-know-what?” Her voice dropped an octave as she saw Oceania Greanleefe enter.

“Not yet.” She really had to work on this whole being-subtle thing.

“I’m fucking starving,” announced Oceania. “Where’s the food? It better not be any of that oatmeal shit or I’m going on a hunger strike, I swear to God.”

Ramon bit his tongue to prevent himself from responding. Llenwi Greanleefe was pleasant enough, but Oceania was a constant source of profanity, griping, and arguments. Her fights with Isolde were carried out at a decibel that was probably unsafe for human eardrums and ranged from subjects as diverse as who would take out the trash to going to school, which apparently, she was dead set against. “I have PROBLEMS!” she had screamed one memorable time. “I’m clinically depressed!” Apparently, she had been kicked out of her fancy boarding school for trying to kill someone, but he doubted it. She seemed like just another spoiled rich kid.

“There’s stuff in the fridge.” said Danica, keeping her face studiously blank. If Oceania could deduce how you really felt about her from your expression, she would tell you off, even if you were a good ten years older than her. It was kind of amusing unless you were the target.

After some crashing, Oceania emerged, clutching a jar of peanut butter. “Later, fuckers!” she screeched, then barreled up the stairs.

As soon as she was far enough away, Ramon allowed himself to smile. “She’s definitely a character.”

“In need of a kick in the teeth, more like. She told Zafir to suck her dick because he passed her on the stairs.” said Aza darkly, emerging from the kitchen with a cup of black coffee. She snickered. “Not really sure how that would work, but-”

Ramon whistled. “She did? I should talk to Isolde about keeping her away from our agents. We have work to do, and I don’t care how important she is, she needs to control her kid.”

“Can we do that?” Danica asked. “They are royalty, even though they don’t act like it.”

“I could care less. We’re providing them a service, so they should treat us with respect.” he told them. “Now, come on. I think it’s time we reviewed the facts.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Danica whipped out her laptop.

“Wait for Zafir and Damien.” Aza admonished, shooting her a dirty look. “We realize you’re the fastest person to ever use a computer-you don’t need to show off.”

Danica blushed angrily. “Excuse me for trying to do my job. I didn’t realize that was a federal offense.”

Aza began to respond, but Ramon cut her off. “Enough! We are here to work, not to pick fights. If this a personal issue, you two can always resolve it with an incident report filed with the Board-”

Neither of them took him up on this. “Good.”

The men arrived, with Kalyani in tow. “Well, should we get started?” she asked.

“Uh, sure.” Ramon said, making an effort to avert his eyes from her taut frame, still glistening with sweat from this morning’s workout. Focus. She can never be yours, you idiot, don’t you see? “So, what do we know about Annifrid Larsson?”

“She was a twelve-year old student at Valorian Hill Academy.” Aza reported. “Height a bit above average, weight a bit under average. Blonde hair, blue eyes, freckles. Her social media indicates she was fairly popular.”

“Which social media?” Damien interrupted.

“Uh, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. She was a pretty active Snapchatter, too. See-” Danica turned her laptop so they all could look. A spread of photographs greeted them. Annifrid Larsson throwing her arms around a girl. Annifrid Larsson in a formal dress. Always with the same brilliant smile.

“She’s pretty,” remarked Aza.

“Yeah. What else do we know about her?”

“She had transferred to Valorian Hill that year. She was a classical dancer. Decent grades, activities, a social life-she doesn’t quite fit the suicidal teenager model.” Zafir observed.

“Did she have drug problems?” Kalyani asked.

Ramon could feel the mood shifting. She always has to ask the uncomfortable questions. Which is fine with me-I don’t want to do it. “Sort of. The friends of hers the police interviewed said they’d seen her intoxicated on multiple occasions.”

“So young?” Damien asked skeptically.

“She was dating an older boy. Zaren Daves. According to the friends, he was able to get her into some of the older kids’ parties.”

“So party girl.” Kalyani said.

“Sure. What we do know is this. Her parents planned to remove her from Valorian Hill and transfer her to Arcadia Village School.”

Damien whistled. Arcadia Village was notoriously difficult to get into. You had to be smart or rich-preferably both-to even be considered for entry. And even then, there were few accepted.

“They sent her to the Rayquan Woods summer camp that year, hoping she would meet some Arcadia students there-it was a very exclusive spot. But then one night she went missing. Two weeks later, her head was found in the river. A police search found the rest of her body scattered throughout the Valorian capital.”

“Ugh. What did her parents do?” Danica asked. “Clearly, they had a lot of money.”

“They were security experts working with the Rublex military defense command. Very wealthy, well-respected.”

“Wait-the Rublex? Wasn’t that the galaxy that got taken?”

“Yeah. We’d ask them about it, but they committed suicide-for real-when they heard of their daughter’s death. Overdosed on pills.”

“Clever.” mused Zafir. “So her death may have been just a dramatic method of frightening her parents.”

“It almost certainly was. There’s no other motive for it. Kid like that wouldn’t make enemies.”

The click of stiletto heels signaled the arrival of Eliza. Instantly, they scrambled to attention, trying to look innocent. She had that effect.

“Good morning.” Eliza said smoothly, a cup of coffee in her hand. “We have a visitor.”

“Oh?” Ramon asked, instantly on the defensive.

“He’s our new director of operations-Olympia wide.”

“Since when were we getting a new director of operations?” he wondered. Directors rarely retired, the money being what it was.

“Since today. His name is Oliver Branch-” Eric, who Ramon had not noticed until then, slipped a manila folder onto the table. “and he was a big deal at the academy.”

Kalyani picked it up, leafed through it. Then she looked up. “Wait-he’s fourteen? How is that possible?”

“I’ve no idea.” Eliza says acridly. “but he’s coming today and he’s very big on the no-commitments policy, so I expect you two to keep this little liaison under wraps.”

“Who, me?” said Kalyani, nonplussed. “I’m not having any liaison.”

“Don’t try to deny it. You and Agent Solis-I’m not stupid, you know.”

“It’s hard to tell.” Ramon snapped. He was tired of this game, this stupid little game that every supervisor still thought they could play. Rubbing salt in a wound. Every time. He had been professional, he thought. And yes, they spoke to each other often enough, but they were friends, old friends, for Christ’s sakes! What were they supposed to do? Lane had done this; even though he and Kalyani actually were having a liaison, he had taken pains to separate them, playing jealous lover without cause. And to hear this from Eliza, whose liaisons were numerous, was ridiculous. A sham. “I’m not having a liaison with her. We’re partners. We’ve worked together for years. It’s normal that we talk to each other. And coming from you-isn’t that a little-”

Eliza reddened. “I’m not the one carrying out a liaison around a supervisor! You know the rules!”

“But I’m not, and you know it.” Ramon protested. “This is another ploy to make me look untrustworthy in front of the new director, and it’s not very subtle. Try harder.”

“I am your supervisor. Don’t you see? I’m only trying to help. You might have been able to get away with this when Lane was running the show, but we aren’t dealing with Lane anymore, Ramon. Best get used to it.” So finished, she sashayed away.

Kalyani flinched at the mention of Lane, turning away. He wished he could say something, but came up mute. It was better this way. She didn’t want to hear it from him, and it would be insincere anyway. He hated Lane.

••

The Director is a diffident young man, really more of a boy. He is not particularly attractive, with his greasy dirty blonde hair and sallow skin, but his eyes, two chips of blue-grey ice, are sharp and judging. He looks as if he was born to wear a black suit and his coterie of other, young agents are similarly dressed. “Agent Servai. A pleasure. And you as well, Agent Solis. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Only good things, I hope.” Ramon quipped, smiling.

The Director did not smile. Ramon could tell he thought himself too important for such petty emotions. “What work have you done? On the Larsson case, I mean.”

“The case? Em…we just got here. We haven’t really done much work on it. I mean, yet. Training-”

The Director cut him off. “Then we have no time to waste. The Centauriians are in a terrible crisis and require our intervention immediately. While training is all well and good, our agents need to learn how to handle such concerns, and the best method for that is to begin now.”

He weighed his options. On the one hand, he had never liked being lectured at, but on the other, it was better to remain calm. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” said the Director, and Ramon realized, with an odd shock, that the boy had Lane’s eyes. “We have much work to be done…especially in light of what happened to the Duchess Seonid…”

If Alec Adair knew one thing, it was that school waited for no man. Especially not Arcadia Village School.

Once again, he tightened his plaid tie and straightened out the folds of his jacket. Large soy hazelnut latte? Check. Green plastic notebook stuffed full of papers? Check. Half-eaten chocolate bar? Check. Now all that remained was to wait for Rythicaen. Where the hell was he, anyway?

He’d woken up, the same as usual, made himself his coffee, then Rythicaen’s (obnoxiously sweet vanilla whatever). Technically, they weren’t supposed to have a coffee machine in the dorms, or really, any food at all, but Rythicaen had never been one for following the rules. Besides, Alec needed coffee, and it hadn’t taken much to hook Rythi on caffeine and from then, getting him to buy the machine had been easy. Anyway, it was way better then what the cafeteria had. Alec had gotten up to shake him awake, but Rythicaen wasn’t in his bed, nor anywhere else for that matter.

Now the latte was almost gone, and Rythicaen’s coffee was cold. Alec grabbed his cell phone, an ancient thing with a keypad, purchased at a convenience store with what money he made from his library assistant job on campus. Upon opening his chat with Rythi, he was greeted with row after row of his frantic text messages from this hour.

where r u???

no seriously where?

come on u know u can’t be outside past curfew

i’m making ur coffee now if u don’t come back I’LL DRINK IT i sw2g

i’m actually nervous now WHERE R U???

He tapped out another message, this one in all caps, a few times hitting the delete button nervously, so it took him much longer to send the message than necessary.

WHERE THE HELL R U?! CALL ME!!

When no response came within ten minutes, he groaned, than ran his hand through his white-blonde hair. Then, of course, he had to go back in the bathroom and brush it again until it was just so. Alec was a big fan of just so. Rythicaen always made fun of him for it, but Rythicaen wasn’t going to be valedictorian in two years.

Alec was the second shortest person in the honors program. Yep, the only person who he could feel superior to (in the height department) was Tina “Teenie” Galhaut, who was barely four feet tall and probably weighed about as much as Crustiez’s Famous Potato Bagel if you took off the bacon. This might have been because he had skipped two grades, but he wasn’t becoming a giant any time soon. He was ghost-pale, with white-blonde hair and large blue eyes, which, as of late, had made him a figure of some interest to the female population, especially Mira Seidan. Little did she know Alec had been disinterested in her since the fourth grade, after a certain brown-eyed someone had found his way into their class. Oh, Mira was smart and sweet and the president of the Future Doctors club, but she was no Rythicaen Dunavain. Who was?

Rythicaen, or rather High Lord Rythicaen, was the grandson of the current High Lord of the Rublex Galaxy, and the son of Milos Dunavain. As nobility went, the Dunavains were perhaps not the richest, but of an old, proud line. With a pedigree like that, Rythicaen might have turned out horridly stuck-up, but within weeks of moving to Arcadia Village (which had somewhat of a reputation for being snotty to new students) he had achieved widespread popularity for his geniality, good looks, and charm. It had been love at first sight. Rythicaen was smart, if not quite such a good student as Alec, and kind, in a way many others weren’t at first, even if Alec was just a poor kid on a scholarship. This was so weird that Alec assumed he just wanted answers for some test or the other, but that was just Rythi, who wore thrift-store flannel over his uniform jackets and taught Alec constellations, who carried a sketchbook everywhere and bit his lip when he was nervous. He was fearless and brilliant and Alec was in love with him. Even if they were roommates.

Arcadia had a strict no-dating policy (to keep their standards up, allegedly, but everyone knew it was just another way to control tyr students). People got around it, as they always did, with such things, but there was still the rule about homosexuality to contend with. And plus, Rythicaen’s dad was…violent.

Alec had always been an emotional person. Little things drove him to tears, but Rythicaen had always been supportive. But there was only one time he had ever seen Rythi cry, and that was after dealing with his father, nursing a black eye and a bloody nose, and muttering with clenched teeth, “I hate him,” between angry sobs. It was not a memory Alec was about to forget. After all, if anyone could unbalance Rythicaen Dunavain, they must be a true monster.

So when the door to their dorm slammed open, and Rythicaen stalked in, hands jammed in pockets, black-velvet cheeks streaked with tears, Alec leapt to his feet and demanded, “What’s wrong?”

Rythicaen stared at him in tortured silence for a while, then croaked out, “He’s dead, Al. My father is dead.”

••

They sat together in the dorm, not caring for the moment that they were late to class, and Alec’s academic rival, Kai Zadaña, was probably going to make fun of him for it later, and in a hoarse voice, Rythicaen explained how it had happened.

Allegedly, some terrorists had penetrated the defense systems of the Rublex, and they had killed all the leaders, the exception being one duchess who was younger than Alec, by all accounts. It sounded like an action movie.

“I just don’t know,” Rythicaen said hopelessly. “how I’m supposed to feel. On one hand, he was an asshole, but God, he was my dad, right? I mean, what do you do with that?”

Alec said nothing. His own dad had walked out on them not long after he was born, and his mom died when he was ten. His mom had been an angel, and his dad had been absent, not abusive.

“Why did they take the Rublex, Al? Why would they do that? I mean, it’s small and pretty low on resources, not super rich. I just wish I understood some of this.”

Alec put his arm around his friend, squeezing him tightly, but his mind was a million miles away, as Milos Dunavain died in the Rublex.

Princess Nuala Celesora of the Grand Centaurii Empire stared out at the blue planet, watching the swirls of white clouds part to reveal shades of green.

Absent-mindedly, she toyed with a lock of her long curly black hair. She was a pretty girl, with smooth dark brown skin and large amber eyes, offset by her floral skirt and red sweater. Nuala knew how to dress for every occasion. And she would need every appearance of innocence as she travelled to Earth.

But she was not innocent. Far from it. The damage done to her spine had seen to that, left her paralyzed in this chair.

She had ample time to develop her influence, however. She had friends in high places now and more friends in low. People took her as a weakling, a charity case. They were wrong.

It had taken every inch of her cunning and every string she could possibly pull to even get her on this ship, but there was opportunity here. Opportunity she could not squander. It had taken two years of planning to assemble all her people for this trip. And now I can make the difference.

She wheeled herself to the observation deck, tracing the curve of the blue planet. "Welcome home, Nuala," she breathed. "We've missed you."