These Broken Stars Part 1

These Broken Stars.

Amie Kaufman.

For Clint Spooner, Philip Kaufman, and Brendan Cousins, three men who have always been fixed constellations in this ever-changing universe.

"When did you first meet Miss LaRoux?"

"Three days before the accident."

"And how did that come about?"

"The accident?"

"Meeting Miss LaRoux."

"How could it possibly matter?"

"Major, everything matters."

ONE.

TARVER.

NOTHING ABOUT THIS ROOM IS REAL. If this were a party at home, the music would draw your eye to human musicians in the corner. Candles and soft lamps would light the room, and the wooden tables would be made of actual trees. People would be listening to each other, instead of checking to see who's watching them.

Even the air here smells filtered and fake. The candles in the sconces do flicker, but they're powered by a steady source. Hover trays weave among the guests, like invisible waiters are carrying drinks. The string quartet is only a hologram-perfect and infallible, and exactly the same at every performance.

I'd give anything for a laid-back evening joking around with my platoon, instead of being stuck here in this imitation scene from a historical novel.

For all their trendy Victorian tricks, there's no hiding where we are. Outside the viewports, the stars are like faded white lines, half-invisible, surreal. The Icarus, pa.s.sing through dimensional hypers.p.a.ce, would look just as faded, half-transparent, if someone stationary in the universe could somehow see her moving faster than light.

I'm leaning against the bookshelves when it occurs to me that one thing here is real-the books. I reach behind me and let my fingers trail over the rough leather of their antique spines, then pull one free. n.o.body here reads them; the books are for decoration. Chosen for the richness of their leather bindings, not for the contents of their pages. n.o.body will miss one, and I need a dose of reality.

I'm almost done for the night, smiling for the cameras as ordered. The bra.s.s keep thinking that mixing field officers with the upper crust will create some sort of common ground where none exists, let the paparazzi infesting the Icarus see me, the lowborn boy made good, hobn.o.bbing with the elite. I keep thinking that the photographers will get their fill of shots of me with drink in hand, lounging in the first-cla.s.s salon, but in the two weeks I've been on board, they haven't.

These folks love a good rags-to-riches tale, even if my riches are no more than the medals pinned to my chest. It still makes for a nice story in the papers. The military look good, the rich people look good, and it gives the poor people something to aspire to. See? say all the headlines. You too can rocket your way up to riches and fame. If hick boy can make good, why can't you?

If it wasn't for what happened on Patron, I wouldn't even be here. What they call heroics, I call a tragic debacle. But n.o.body's asking my opinion.

I scan the room, taking in the cl.u.s.ters of women in brightly colored gowns, officers in dress uniforms like mine, men in evening coats and top hats. The ebb and flow of the crowd is unsettling-patterns I'll never get used to no matter how many times I'm forced to rub elbows with these people.

My eyes fall on a man who's just entered, and it takes me a moment to realize why. There's nothing about him that fits here, although he's trying to blend in. His black tailcoat is too threadbare, and his top hat is missing the s.h.i.+ny satin ribbon that's in fas.h.i.+on. I'm trained to notice the thing that doesn't fit, and in this sea of surgically perfected faces, his is a beacon. There are lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, his skin weather-beaten and marked by the sun. He's nervous, shoulders rounded, fingers gripping the lapels of his jacket and letting go again.

My heart kicks up a beat. I've spent too long in the colonies, where anything out of place might kill you. I ease away from the bookshelves and start to weave my way toward him, past a pair of women sporting monocles they can't possibly need. I want to know why he's here, but I'm forced to move slowly, navigating the push and pull of the crowd with agonizing patience. If I shove, I'll draw attention. And if he is dangerous, any sudden s.h.i.+ft in the energy of the room could trigger him.

A brilliant flash lights up the world as a camera goes off in my face.

"Oh, Major Merendsen!" It's the leader of a gaggle of women in their mid-twenties, descending on me from the direction of the viewport. "Oh, you simply must take a picture with us."

Their insincerity is poisonous. I'm barely more than a dog walking on its hind legs, here-they know it, and I know it, but they can't pa.s.s up an opportunity to be seen with a real, live war hero.

"Sure, I'll just come back in a minute, if-" Before I can finish, all three women are posed around me, lips pursed and lashes lowered. Smile for the cameras. A series of flashes erupt all around me, blinding me.

I can feel that low, stabbing pain at the base of my skull that promises to explode into a fully fledged headache. The women are still chattering and pressing in close, and I can't see the man with the weathered face.

One of the photographers is buzzing around me, his voice a low drone. I step sideways to look past him, but my eyes are swimming with red and gold afterimages. Blinking hard, my gaze swings from the bar, to the door, the hover trays, the booths. I try to remember what he looked like, the line of his clothes. Was there room to hide anything under his dinner jacket? Could he be armed?

"Major, did you hear me?" The photographer's still talking.

"Yes?" No, I wasn't listening. I disentangle myself from the women still draped over me on the pretense of stepping closer to speak with him. I wish I could shove past this little man, or better yet, tell him there's a threat and watch how fast he vanishes from the room.

"I said I'm surprised your buddies on the lower decks aren't trying to sneak up here too."

Seriously? The other soldiers watch me head to first cla.s.s every evening like a man walking down death row. "Oh, you know." I try not to sound as annoyed as I am. "I doubt they even know what champagne is." I try for a smile too, but they're the ones good at insincerity, not me.

He laughs too loudly as the flash explodes in my face again. Blinking away the stars, I stumble clear and crane my neck, trying to locate the only guy in the room more out of place than I am. But the stooped man in the shabby hat is nowhere to be found.

Maybe he left? But someone doesn't go to the trouble of cras.h.i.+ng a party like this and then slip out without a fuss. Maybe he's seated now, hiding among the other guests. My eyes sweep across the booths again, this time examining the patrons more closely.

They're all packed full of people. All except one. My gaze falls on a girl sitting alone in a booth, watching the crowd with detached interest. Her fair, flawless skin says she's one of them, but her gaze says she's better, above, untouchable.

She's wearing the same hue as a navy dress uniform, bare shoulders holding my gaze for a moment-she sure as h.e.l.l wears the color better than any sailor I know. Hair: red, falling down past her shoulders. Nose: a little snub, but that makes her more pretty, not less. It makes her real.

Pretty's not the right word. She's a knockout.

Something about the girl's face tickles at the back of my mind, like I should recognize it, but before I can dig up the connection, she catches me looking at her. I know better than to mix with girls like her, so I don't know why I keep watching her, or why I smile.

Then, abruptly, a movement jerks my gaze away. It's the nervous man, and he's no longer meandering in and out of the crowd. His stooped posture is gone, and with his eyes fixed on something across the room he's moving quickly through the press of bodies. He's got a goal-and it's the girl in the blue dress.

I waste no time weaving in and out of the crowd politely. I shove between a pair of startled elderly gentlemen and make for the booth, but the outsider's gotten there first. He's leaning close, speaking low and fast. He's moving too quickly, trying to spit out what he came to say before he's picked out as an intruder. The girl jerks back, leaning away. Then the crowd closes up between us, and they're out of sight.

I reach down to lay a hand on my gun, and hiss between my teeth as I realize it's not there. The empty spot at my hip feels like a missing limb. I weave left, upsetting a hover tray and sending its contents cras.h.i.+ng to the floor. The crowd recoils, finally giving me an avenue toward the table.

The intruder has grabbed her elbow, urgent. She's trying to pull away, eyes flas.h.i.+ng up, looking around for someone as though she expects help. Her gaze falls on me.

I get one step closer before a man in the right sort of top hat claps a hand on the stranger's shoulder. He has an equally self-important friend with him, and two officers, a man and a woman. They know the man with the fervent light in his eyes doesn't belong here, and I can see they mean to remedy his presence.

The redhead's self-appointed guardian jerks the man backward to stumble against the officers, who take him firmly by the arms. I can tell he's got no training, either formally or the rough-and-tumble sort they learn in the colonies. If he did, he'd be able to handle these desk jockeys and their sloppy form.

They start to turn him toward the door, one of them grabbing at the nape of his neck. More force than I would use, for someone whose only crime so far seems to be trying to talk to the girl in the blue dress, but they're handling it. I stop by the adjacent booth, still trying to catch my breath.

The man twists, breaking free of the soldiers, and turns back toward the girl. As the room starts to fall silent, the ragged edge to his voice is audible. "You have to speak to your father about this, please. We're dying for lack of tech, he needs to give the colonists more-"

His voice gives out as one of the officers delivers a blow to his stomach that doubles him over. I jerk forward, shoving away from the booth and past the widening ring of onlookers.

The redhead beats me to it. She's on her feet in a swift movement that draws the attention of everyone in the room in a way the scuffle didn't. Whoever she is, she's a showstopper.

"Enough!" She has a voice well suited to delivering ultimatums. "Captain, Lieutenant, what do you think you're doing?"

I knew I liked her for a reason.

When I step forward, she's holding them frozen in place with a glare that could fell a platoon. For a moment, none of them notice me. Then I see the soldiers register my presence, and scan my shoulders for my stars and bars. Rank aside, we're different in every way. My medals are for combat, theirs for long service, bureaucratic efficiencies. My promotions were made in the field. Theirs, behind a desk. They've never had blood on their hands. But for once, I'm glad of my newfound status. The two soldiers come reluctantly to attention-both of them are older, and I can tell it rankles to have to salute an eighteen-year-old. Funny how I was old enough by sixteen to drink, fight, and vote, but even two years later, I'm too young to respect.

They're still holding on to the gate-crasher. He's breathing quick and shallow, like he's pretty sure someone's going to fire him out an air lock any minute.

I clear my throat, making sure I sound calm. "If there's a problem, I can help this man find the door." Without more violence.

We can all hear how my voice sounds-exactly like the backwater boy I am, unpolished and uncultured. I register a few scattered laughs around the room, which is now entirely focused on our little drama. Not malicious laughter-just amused.

"Merendsen, I doubt this guy's after a book." Fancy Top Hat smirks at me.

I look down and realize I'm still holding the book I took from the shelves. Right, because this guy is poor, he can't even read.

"I'm sure he was just about to go," says the girl, fixing Top Hat with a steely glare. "And I'm pretty sure you were about to leave, too."

They're caught off guard by her dismissal, and I use the moment to relieve my fellow officers of their captive, keeping hold of his arm as I guide him away. She's effectively dismissed the quartet from the salon-again her face tickles my memory, who is she that she can do that?-and I let them make their enforced escape before I gently but firmly steer my new friend toward the door.

"Anything broken?" I ask, once we're outside. "What possessed you to go near them, and in a place like this? I half thought you were aiming to blow someone up."

The man gazes at me for a long moment, his face already older than the people inside will ever look.

He turns to walk away without another word, shoulders bowed. I wonder just how much he had riding on this manufactured encounter with the girl in the blue dress.

I stand in the doorway, watching as people give up on the drama now that it's done. The room slowly comes back to life, the hover trays zipping around, conversation surging, perfectly practiced laughter tinkling here and there. I'm supposed to be here at least another hour, but maybe just this once I can skip out early.

And then I see the girl again-and she's watching me. Very slowly she's taking off one of her gloves, pinching each finger deliberately in turn. Her gaze never leaves my face.

My heart surges up into my throat, and I know I'm staring like an idiot, but I'm d.a.m.ned if I can remember how my legs work. I stare a beat too long, and her lips curve to a hint of a smile. But somehow, her smile doesn't look as though it's mocking me, and I get it together enough to start walking.

When she lets her glove fall to the ground, I'm the one who leans down to pick it up.

I don't want to ask her if she's all right-she's too collected for that. So I put the glove down on the table, then find myself with no excuse to do anything other than look at her. Blue eyes. They go with the dress. Do lashes grow that long naturally? So many perfect faces, it's hard to tell who's been surgically altered and who hasn't. But surely if she'd had work done, she'd have opted for a straight, cla.s.sically beautiful nose. No, she looks real.

"Are you waiting for a drink?" My voice sounds mostly even.

"For my companions," she says, lowering the deadly lashes before peering up at me through them. "Captain?" She tilts the word upward, as though she's taking a stab at my rank.

"Major," I say. She knows how to read my insignia; I just saw her name the ranks of the other officers. Her sort, the society girls, they all know how. It's a game. I might not be society, but I still know a player when I see one. "Not sure that was smart of your companions, leaving you unattended. Now you're stuck talking to me."

Then she smiles, and it turns out she has dimples, and it's all over. It's not just the way she looks-although that would do it all on its own. It's that, despite the way she looks, despite where I found her, this girl's willing to go against the tide. She's not another empty-headed puppet. It's like finding another human after days of isolation.

"Is it going to cause an intergalactic incident if I keep you company until your friends get here?"

"Not at all." She tilts her head a little to indicate the opposite side of the booth. The bench curves around in a semicircle from where she sits. "Though I feel I should warn you that you could be here for a while. My friends aren't really known for their punctuality."

I laugh, and I set down the book and my drink on the table beside her glove, sinking down to sit opposite her. She's wearing one of those enormous skirts that are in fas.h.i.+on these days, and the fabric brushes against my legs as I settle. She doesn't move away. "You should have seen me as a cadet," I say, as though that wasn't just a year ago. "Punctuality was pretty much the only thing we were known for. Never ask how or why, just get it done fast."

"Then we have something in common," she says. "We aren't encouraged to ask why, either." Neither of us asks why we're sitting together. We're smart.

"I can see at least half a dozen guys watching us. Am I making any deadly enemies? Or at least, any more than I already have?"

"Would it stop you from sitting here?" she asks, finally removing the second glove and setting it down on the table.

"Not necessarily," I reply. "Handy thing to know, though. Plenty of dark hallways on this s.h.i.+p, if I'm going to have rivals waiting around corners."

"Rivals?" she asks, lifting one brow. I know she's playing a game with me, but I don't know the rules, and she's got all the cards. Still, the h.e.l.l with it-I just can't find it in me to care that I'm losing. I'll surrender right now, if she likes.

"I suppose they might imagine themselves to be," I say eventually. "Those gentlemen over there don't look particularly impressed." I nod to the group in frock coats and more top hats. At home we're a simpler people, and you take your hat off when you come inside.

"Let's make it worse," she says promptly. "Read to me from your book, and I'll look rapt. And you could order me a drink, if you like."

I glance down at the book I plucked off the shelf. Ma.s.s Casualty: A History of Failed Campaigns. I slide it a little farther away, wincing inwardly. "Perhaps the drink. I've been away from your bright lights for a while, so I'm a little rusty, but I'm pretty sure talking about b.l.o.o.d.y death's not the best way to charm a girl."

"I'll have to content myself with champagne, then." She continues, as I raise a hand to signal one of the hover trays. "You say *bright lights' with a hint of disdain, Major. I'm from those bright lights. Do you fault me for that?"

"I could fault you for nothing." The words somehow bypa.s.s my brain entirely. Mutiny.

She drops her eyes for the compliment, still smiling. "You say you've been away from civilization, Major, but your flattery's giving you away. It can't have been all that long."

"We're very civilized out on the frontier," I say, pretending offense. "Every so often we take a break from slogging through waist-high muck or dodging bullets and issue dance invitations. My old drill sergeant used to say that nothing teaches you the quickstep like the ground giving way beneath your feet."

"I suppose so," she agrees as a full tray comes humming toward us in response to my summons. She selects a gla.s.s of champagne and raises it in half a toast to me before she sips. "Can you tell me your name, or is it cla.s.sified?" she asks, as though she doesn't know.

I reach for the other gla.s.s and send the tray humming off into the crowd again. "Merendsen." Even if it's a pretense, it's nice to talk to someone who isn't raving about my astounding heroics or asking for a picture with me. "Tarver Merendsen." She's looking at me like she doesn't recognize me from all the newspapers and holovids.

"Major Merendsen." She tries it out, leaning on the m's, then nods her approval. The name pa.s.ses muster, at least for now.

"I'm heading back to the bright lights for my next posting. Which one of them is your home?"

"Corinth, of course," she replies. The brightest light of all. Of course. "Though I spend more time on s.h.i.+ps like this than planetside. I'm most at home here on the Icarus."

"Even you must be impressed by the Icarus. She's bigger than any city I've been to."

"She's the biggest," my companion replies, dropping her eyes and toying with the stem of the champagne flute. Though she hides it well, there's a flicker through her features. Talking about the s.h.i.+p must bore her. Maybe it's the s.p.a.celiner equivalent of asking about the weather.

C'mon, man, get it together. I clear my throat. "The viewing decks are the best I've seen. I'm used to planets with very little ambient light, but the view out here is something else."

She meets my eyes for half a breath-then her lips quirk to the tiniest of smiles. "I don't think I've taken advantage of them enough, this trip. Perhaps we-" But then she cuts herself short, glancing toward the door.