+++

Beep beep. Beep beep.

The gentle, but persistent sound of the holo interrupted his morning thought-processing. Slightly annoyed, but trying to stay positive, he turned to the center of the kitchen and flicked his two forefingers to display the holo-dashboard in the middle of the island.

Trent.

He felt a mix of emotions, everything from professional respect to affection to a deep sense of inadequacy. Trent had practically raised him, but that didn’t make him a real father… nor did he act like one, though he had a frustrating way of hinting at paternal affection every now and then. Jack always felt like he had to prove something he could never prove, earn something he could never earn, and then Trent would acknowledge him. He checked to make sure his clothing was appropriate for a holocall with his commanding officer — which is all Trent actually was. He had no doubt that his hair needed attention, but it probably wasn’t bad enough to make him look sloppy. Or unprofessional.

He took a breath, calming his nerves, and then flicked his finger across the hologram’s answer button.

Trent’s 3D image materialized in front of him, as he leaned against the kitchen counter, and sipped macca from his mug.

“Good morning,” Trent’s voice filled his kitchen. Jack waved his finger in the direction on the holo transmission to decrease the volume slightly as Trent continued, “I see I’ve caught you awake at an early hour.”

Trent was well aware of Jack’s sleep patterns. If anything, he had probably timed the call to catch Jack while he was still asleep just to see whether he would take the call or ignore it. Jack wondered if Trent ever wished his protege had the self-discipline to get up earlier.

“I’m up,” Jack declared, moving the mug of macca into view as if to prove he had been awake long enough to dose himself. It was a losing game, trying to meet Trent’s ambiguous standards.

Trent nodded, mockingly acknowledging his “achievement”.

“You’ve caught a case,” he continued with just a tiny hint of disapproval, “Looks like we’re potentially days away from an inter-colony crisis. As yet we have very little intel as to what could have caused such a disturbance, but it seems as though the Drewdonians are in the process of launching an attack on New Atlantia.”

Straight to business, then.

“Drewdonia?” Jack asked, not quite understanding what a relatively new civilization would be doing launching any kind of assault on a colony so well-established and well-resourced as Atlantia.

“It’s one of those new Kepler colonies, right?” he asked.

Trent nodded. “Yes. I honestly have no idea why they would have anything to take up with the New Atlantians. Their primary concerns at this point in their development should be food, water, and effective governance, not questionable military adventures. They still have their hands full with basic terraforming. Be that as it may, we’ve had reports that a Class D starship left their orbit a week ago, with a full crew and fully armed. It’s an older vessel, and fairly slow, but they’ll be in orbit in New Atlantia in 48 hours. Within holo-messaging range in 24.”

Jack pulled up the map of the galaxy on a separate holo. He located Cygnus and turned the map 60 degrees down to bring its direction directly along his eye-line. He spread his fingers to zoom in and a dot labeled Kepler-186 appeared. Everyone on T3 had heard of this colony, and it had many trading relationships with other star systems. Not much was known about its social structures, as contact with the surface had been restricted until recently by the inhabitants themselves. One of the earlier worlds to be colonized after humankind had expanded to the stars some six centuries ago, and known to be a fairly advanced society if still somewhat basic by T3 standards. He wasn’t quite sure where to find Drewdonia, though.

“What’s the Drewdonian star’s designation?” he asked Trent, placing his mug on the counter behind him, distantly aware that he hadn’t shaved in two days, and that the camera may have zoomed in on his face. He turned back to the screen, trying to focus on the job at hand, and hoping that the lens would readjust. He had no way of checking, though.

Trent looked at his own holo report off-screen, “Kepler-442.”

“442…” Jack repeated under his breath, as he initiated a search. The map froze, then jumped forward. 442 was in the next constellation over from T3: the Lyra constellation.

Hmm, he mused to himself.

“I’d like you to handle this one, Jack,” Trent told him, “You need to find out what is going on and what the motives are behind the attack. Avert any potential conflict. We can’t have new colonies suddenly destroying themselves for no real reason. We invest too much in the colonization process, and these guys are first-generation for the most part. They should know better. If there is a problem with the settlement process, we need to know about that, too. Discreetly.”

Jack nodded, intrigued by the strange events and the new challenge. Just behind those initial thoughts lurked musings about how much he’d like to prove himself to Trent. If Jack could wrap this one up quickly and easily, perhaps Trent would trust him enough to confide in him more, to act like their lifelong connection actually meant something.

He pushed the thought out of his head. He knew he was probably just setting himself up for disappointment.

Trent was still talking.

“I don’t need to remind you that even a single conflict in one place sets an example of conflict in the collective unconscious, as well as infecting the Federation with behavior models that we’ve largely managed to eliminate. This is something we don’t want any other colonies modeling.”

Jack bookmarked the map on his holo render for easy reference later.

Trent continued, “Your task is to land on New Atlantia and meet with their leader. See what you can find out about the nature of the conflict. At all costs you need to keep this from becoming a full-scale shooting war. Drewdonia doesn’t have the spare resources to have one of their ships and crew blown to pieces over something stupid.”

“Got it,” Jack confirmed, wondering if this conversation was going to be all business, or whether Trent was going to ask how he was. Either way, he’d follow his mentor’s lead.

“You’ll be taking Ally, I assume?” Trent asked, his voice softening somewhat.

Jack nodded. “Of course. I’ll holo her in a moment.”

“Good.”” Trent hesitated, as if he had something else to say, and then seemed to change his mind. “Stay safe out there, Jack. You’re heading straight into a conflict environment. This isn’t a simulation. You fuck up, you get dead. Do you understand?”

Jack nodded again, wondering if the man’s concern was anything more than professional…

…It was coming up on two years since Trent had been stationed in Reykjavik. Jack still didn’t know if he’d requested the assignment so they could work together more often, or if it was just a coincidence that he was needed at Federation HQ.

Trent had been the one constant in his life since childhood. He’d kept an appropriate distance, checking in on Jack from time to time as the years went on. He couldn’t help but feel that Trent had been quietly directing his strange, but privileged, upbringing. The man certainly had the power to pull strings, despite assuring him that he had gotten into the Academy on his own merits.

Jack had always suspected Trent had somehow made his psych-eval “disappear” at the very least. He knew what Jack had been through better than anyone, and he must have known that Jack would never have been able to pass the screenings required of all the other candidates.

His time at the Academy had been some of the best years of his life. He didn’t see Trent very often except in passing, but Trent would occasionally knock on his door and invite him out for a long afternoon discussing science and philosophy in an off-site macca bar or cooking stir-fry with him in his own apartment. Trent was also his teacher for the single most important class he took: Protocols of Peace. In fact, Trent was something of a legend for designing these Protocols, the source of much of his power and prestige. These were the guidelines the Federation used for overseeing the colony worlds and maintaining peace between them, based on Trent’s synthesis of hundreds of years of research into behavioral economics, cognitive processing, developmental and environmental psychology, and other topics.

Two years ago, Trent had moved from the Academy in Vienna to the Federation Headquarters to take on a bigger role, overseeing the Peace Task Force for the Federation galaxy-wide. After all, he had written the model on the theory.

HQ, however, was also Jack’s local base. It seemed natural that they would stay in touch, especially considering their long history. But one holocall a week turned into one a month, and before Jack knew it they were no longer talking at all except for work.

To Ally, something about it just didn’t seem right. Jack’s childhood had been cut short — his father was gone and his mother had left him, so it was only natural that Jack would have attached himself to Trent at a young age. Still, it was obvious to Ally that Trent was cold and narcissistic, and she could only hope that Jack would someday see that and stop looking for warmth and acceptance where there was none.

Flicking his notes closed, Jack fidgeted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. Eight hours. He should at least try and get some rest before they got to the Cygnus system. He knew roughly what he’d be stepping into. He would need to focus — which meant being in the moment, not worrying how anyone else would view him and judge his actions. Closing his eyes, he settled back into the reclining pilot’s chair and tried to sleep.

1921  New York, Mrs. Mullridge’s

Mrs. Mullridge was stouter than Lucy remembered from their brief first meeting at the Belmont races. It had been one of many such social encounters, arranged by David, to introduce her to the favored subscribers of the opera and theater, and she only vaguely recalled this woman as one more matronly face, smiling from under a wide-brimmed hat as they sat over a lunch of Shrimp Louie.

But tonight she seemed bigger, more animated than had been expected.  She greeted her guests warmly and laughed loudly at marked intervals, not in response to any particular witticism, but as if in dread of missing a tender morsel of sarcasm tossed just out of earshot.  She would throw her head back at random moments and laugh, causing the silver, beaded stars on her shapeless gown to rage in a stormy torrent across the panoramic midnight blue satin of her ample bosom.

The house, in itself, was truly worth the excitement of an invitation.  With its carriage entrance, marble foyer and music room, it held its position on Fifth Avenue as one of the few remaining bastions of the brownstone splendor of the former century.  As office buildings and department stores sprang up to replace the grand houses of the very rich, the Mullridge townhouse, curiously named Willow Place, remained.  No one in recent memory had any recollection of where the name came from, or even why one might burden a city dwelling on New York’s busiest street with such a fanciful moniker. There was not a willow tree within sight and, by collective recollection, there had never been since the house was built in the mid-eighteen fifties.

But where respectability and correctness had been the watchwords of her mother’s generation, Mrs. Mullridge’s tastes ran more to the experimental, and she furnished the vast rooms in singular themes, creating a Celtic drawing room, a Turkish smoking room and even outfitted what had once been a ballroom with several dozen fruit-bearing trees, referring to it as “the grove.”  In many ways, she cast aside the restrictions of what was deemed correct and opened her doors to artists and intellectuals of even the most inflammatory sort.

At first appraisal, Lucy was not disappointed with the diversity of the dozen or so guests who spanned the social spectrum, from the elegantly attired members of Mrs. Mullridge’s usual set to the shabby little bearded man, who she had inadvertently caught pocketing a handful of fine cigars from a box in the Chinese library, as she wandered about looking for a place to freshen up.

A nervous small woman of indeterminate age, dressed as if in mourning, stood off in the shadows of the main salon, peering out with bruised eyes, like a small animal cornered for a fight; while in the very center of the light, a woman from Texas, surrounded by attentive admirers, drank a glass of champagne and spoke of money and amusements, the pursuits of the living.

“I find the idea of speaking with the departed very romantic don’t you?” A pretty young girl remarked to the lady from Texas.

“Don’t you mean necromantic?” a gentleman with a heavily waxed moustache suggested slyly.

The girl stared back puzzled.

“A Romancer,” the man explained, “makes love to you in any number of clever and pleasurable ways.  A Necromancer communicates with the dead… hopefully, in less physical ways.”

“It sounds horrible when you put it that way,” the girl said, dropping the expression of amusement from her face.

There was a momentary silence as the realization spread among them. The lull was broken by an older woman with a fire-burst diamond brooch clasped to her bosom.

“How do we know we aren’t going to get something evil, a devil, or worse yet, some disembodied saint who’d never let you hear the end of participating in a pagan setup like this?”

The man with the moustache, who clearly had some experience in these matters, chuckled.

“What could be more pagan than the saints?  Don’t you realize they are all taken directly from the ancient gods and goddesses of Greece, Rome, and God knows where else, even down to their function?”

There was no reaction from those around him, so he continued.

“For instance, Saint Elias, worshipped in the mountains by shepherds, has replaced Apollo, the sun god of Greece.  Saint Michael has replaced Mercury as the messenger. Fortuna, the goddess of common good and happiness in Antiquity, has now become Saint Felicity.  And Saint Anthony is said to have taken the place of Neptunis Equester, the god of the Roman circus, and become the patron saint of horse racing.”

“I’ll have to be more pious the next time I go to the track,” the lady with the diamond brooch remarked.

At dinner, Lucy surveyed the odd assortment of faces around the table for some telltale sign of who the Medium might be.  They all seemed more or less accustomed to this social set, with the exception of the Trotskyite with the beard and the hungry-looking little woman in black.  She was apparently the one most likely to lead a journey into the beyond, although, by the look of her clothes and the unfathomable expression of remembered horror on her face, one might easily mistake her for the conjured rather than the conjurer.

After a hasty meal, with only the most perfunctory attention to conversation on the part of the hostess, they were herded into the library and sat around a large mahogany table, six people along its length and one at either end, fourteen in all.

Mrs. Mullridge had tried to restrict the number to the mystical, unlucky thirteen, but none in the company was willing to sacrifice their place at the table, so she was forced to content herself with the thought that fourteen was a multiple of the magic number seven, representing some spiritual property that at the moment escaped her memory entirely.

Lucy was flanked on one side by a stout man wearing silver-grey evening spats over his shoes, and on the other side by the unsettling diminutive woman in black.

To Lucy’s astonishment, the Medium proved not to be the creature from the shadows who sat beside her, but the bright and bubbly woman from Texas, with her henna-colored hair and a hand covered in diamonds.

Lucy could find no bit of small talk that might lighten the burden of the strange woman’s company at her side.  When the possibility had existed that she might be the Medium, called there to entertain this superficial group of seekers with eerie stories about their own dead and departed, she had seemed somehow validated, but now her penetrating gaze and insinuating presence were intolerable.

“Take hold of each others’ hands, creating a link of safety,” the Texas Medium instructed them.  “Do not, under any circumstances, break the link.”

The light from the chandelier overhead slowly dimmed, leaving only the flame of a single candle in the center of the table and the glow of a small table-lamp, positioned near the door, where a maid sat precariously outside the charmed circle, clutching a bottle of smelling salts.

The room was airless. Lucy felt dizzy, a lightness in her head that made her question the contents of the chowder.

The hand that linked her to the pale creature beside her felt damp, and a shiver of electric shock ripped through her body, as if racing through her blood.

This woman has murdered her mother, Lucy thought with sudden clarity.  The thin, anguished face turned to regard her, without expression, aware of the thought that had conveyed itself as if by the electric current from her mind into Lucy’s.

+++

How’s everything else at HQ?” Jack asked.

Ally was a good source of information. She picked up more intel than a human would on account of her synth-body. People assumed she was AI — a concierge-bot programmed to mimic human behavior — so they tended to talk in front of her like she wasn’t there.

“Seemed to just be business as usual…” she paused, as if debating whether to mention it, “I heard that Trent got back there last week. Have you guys spoken to each other?”

Jack tried not to let any expression show, “No — he didn’t contact me. Not until the mission brief this morning.”

“No change in MO there, then,” remarked Ally, who’d always been somewhat skeptical and protective.

“No. But, why would he?” Jack tried to reason, as if talking himself through his feelings. “As far as Federation business goes, he can issue my assignments on the holo. Now that we’re done with the Academy, and I’m no longer involved in his research projects, there’s no need for him to.”

“Except that you’re more than just his former student” Ally smiled knowingly. “I mean, you used to eat homemade dinners together when you were still at the Academy, right? How many of his students can say that?” She was sympathetic to the dynamic, and didn’t judge Jack for viewing the older man almost like a father. It was just that this guy had known him since he was a little kid, and Jack seemed obsessed with winning his respect and admiration. It was all a little odd.

“Yeah, well, I was also trying to get him sleepy so I could raid his library. You should see some of the books this guy has access to. Anyway, don’t worry about it. When he called earlier it was just work. If he ever did see me as something more than just his student, I think that’s over now.” Jack closed his holo dash, and settled into the flight, dimming the viewer to the outside world. Instantly the cockpit became cozier. More intimate. More comfortable.

“Hmm. Probably for the best,” she concluded. “Better to move on and have real relationships with normal human beings.”

Jack turned his head casually and smiled at his friend. Ally realized what she had just said and sniggered. The irony of her statement wasn’t lost on her. Jack couldn’t help but laugh too.

Ally’s human consciousness was as real as Jack’s, but she lived only through a synthetic body. Her original organic body had been destroyed during a training accident at the Academy, but as fortune would have it, her consciousness had been uploaded as part of a class demo just days before.

When Jack had reminded their instructors of this, they arranged to have her uploaded into a synth-bot, which had been marketed for years as concierge-AIs — artificial companions, servants, and advisors. Ally’s case was a long shot, but as it turned out, it became the first instance of human consciousness successfully being integrated with artificial intelligence. Since then Ally became the subject of many research papers, talks and accolades. She’d even met the Federation President in a media demonstration. For a few years she had been a celebrity, but having very few distinguishing features, unless someone knew she was the Alice Montgomery, most assumed she was just another bot.

At first Ally was frustrated at the loss of identity, but over time she began to realize the implications and advantages of being mistaken for “just another bot”. Under Jack’s guidance she learned to use it to the advantage of practically every mission they’d ever done together. They made a great team and were well respected in the Federation’s operations departments.

“Okay,” Jack decided, “we’ve got a few hours until we hit the refueling station. We should probably take advantage of the downtime. I’ve got a feeling things are going to be intense when we get to the Cygnus quadrant.”

Ally nodded in agreement. Although she had a synth-body housing a synth-brain, she appreciated sleep as much as the next human consciousness.

Ally closed her eyes and automatically powered down everything save for her auxiliary systems. Her mind went immediately to the e-DNA messages that had sent her life into turmoil. She longed to tell Jack. She longed for it all to go away, or at least to understand why she was being targeted. What was the end-game of this mysterious stranger, threatening to have her deactivated if she didn’t follow his every instruction? She churned the possibilities in her mind, the same way she had done every quiet moment she’d had for the last several weeks. Whatever he was up to, it was worth killing for. And she was now a part of it.

Jack flicked open his arm-mounted holo pad to make a note of the last few things on his timestamped log. If he fell asleep on the trip, it would behoove him to have a note of where he was and what he was doing in case he had one of his episodes.

Ally seemed to have switched off already, so it felt like he was alone again. It was in these quiet moments that he went into his mind, to turn over the events of the last several weeks, before he’d been forced to take leave.

1921  New York, David and Celia’s apartment

Lucy sat in the window of David and Celia’s apartment opening the morning mail.  Her Egyptian dressing gown was tucked up around her bare legs, and she looked to Celia like a child, translucent in the sunlight, an otherworldly creature from another time.  She seemed out of place surrounded by the heavy, ornate furniture and romantic bric-a-brac of Celia’s youth. Her freshness was lost amidst the elaborate arrangements of waxy lilies and roses in alabaster urns.

In spite of all her loveliness, there was something about the girl that Celia found unsettling.  Perhaps she was just too modern, too new in a world for which she, herself, had little sympathy.

“Another invitation from Mrs. Mullridge,” Lucy interrupted the older woman’s musing.  “You know what that means, one of her séances,” she stated with mock mystery.

“Are you going to accept?”  Celia asked tenuously.

“I’m not certain yet.  I’m such a poor traveler, and a journey into the beyond, as she calls it, sounds far more tiresome than any ocean crossing… you know how I hate those.”

“You seem to take all of this rather lightly… all of this otherworldly business.  Don’t you find it… well, at least a little alarming?” Celia asked, trying not to show her disdain.

“Not really, why should I?”

“Because it doesn’t seem right somehow, trying to cross the perfectly serviceable boundaries between the living and the departed.”

Lucy looked up from gazing at the address on an envelope with an amused expression.

“Dear Celia, don’t you realize that to attend these evenings is all the rage, as you say here.  At least I’m not asked to play bridge or some silly card game that I hate.  I’m just trying to be sociable.”

“Well, I believe people can be sociable and still remain in this world,” Celia remarked, bringing her cup down too hard on the saucer.  “In my day, people may have been more conventional, but we found dancing and talking with real living companions  exciting enough. We had no need to invite in amusing apparitions.”

“Oh, there are seldom apparitions. I have not seen one at any rate,” Lucy stated matter-of-factly, “only a Medium or someone through whom the spirits speak.”

She returned to opening her letters as if the phenomenon had been sufficiently explained.

“And how does one know that this Medium isn’t pretending to be in a trance, telling you any manner of rubbish they choose?”

“Oh, but they do,” Lucy laughed. “Most of them are fakes… nur fette Frauen… just thick old ladies, who surround themselves in mystery in order to get invited into the fine houses, like that of Mrs. Mullridge. Anyway, I shouldn’t think it would be too difficult to trace the history of one of those prominent families and shock them all by telling them something that most everyone in the room already knows.”

“Rubbish,” Celia sniffed with contempt.

“You are probably right, but in many ways it can be fun.”

“You will accept then?” Celia asked.

“I expect I might. Why don’t you come with me?” Lucy suggested.  “Then, at least, you might see for yourself how silly much of it is.  It’s not in the least frightening.”

Celia sighed her disapproval and answered that she would consider it.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Celia spoke again.  “Do you believe that one can truly contact the dead?”

Lucy’s face seemed to darken.

“Yes, I do,” she answered simply.

“But you just finished telling me that it was all a load of rubbish, nothing more than a free dinner in Society.”

Lucy gathered her thoughts as she leaned back into the primrose pattern of the window seat.  The morning sun through the gauze curtains backlit her silhouette in a halo of light, and her pale face, now cast in shadow, seemed to Celia eerily altered and unfamiliar.

“I said that most dabblings with the supernatural are meant to amuse and little more.  They are not disappointing, if they are regarded in that spirit from the onset,” Lucy said.  “But there is more… more in the Heavens and Earth than we can know.  Death is everywhere, all around us, all the time.  It is not a state of being, a condition of the body, like most people think, but rather a place of consciousness that we have access to, and has access to us in the dreams of our sleep.  The dead are just a thought, a dream away.  There is no need to conjure them up.  They are around us all the time, helping us, inspiring us to do great things.  Do not ask me how I know, but it is so.”

Lucy saw Celia’s eyes widen.  Her hand reached, in her customary fashion, for the pearls around her neck, but fastened instead on a tiny gold crucifix at her throat.

“You must understand,” Lucy added hesitantly, in an attempt to soften the effects of her discourse, “in Germany we are very morbid.  Death for the Germans colors everything.  It’s as if we have an allegiance with it. Especially after the Great War that ended only a few years ago.  There are so many who are gone.  Most of our young men were taken by Death, and those they leave behind still talk to them and look for them in places that are familiar and remembered.”

“Yes, the war must have been intolerable in Germany,” Celia stated without real knowledge of what she spoke about. “We lost many of our boys here too, but, I suppose we were very fortunate because we joined the war effort so late and only participated for such a short time.”

Lucy nodded her head.

“It is not only Death that holds fascination for the German people, but the past and all that is long gone,” Lucy continued to explain.  “We are a people who are steeped in mythology.  Lohengrin and the great warriors, like Siegfried, are also the basis for our stories of love and romance.  The word ‘romance’ comes from the German word for a novel… ein Roman.  It is a book that tells of love and death.  In the German mind, war and valor… and love and death are all seen as partners in the same story. War, and the possibility of a noble death, makes life worth living, and Death, as a constant companion for the warrior, only serves to make love eternal in death.  Love and death are inseparable for us.  It is celebrated in our poetry and literature.  After all, we have Goethe and Wagner for inspiration and you can’t get any more melodramatic than that.”

Lucy tried to laugh, to brighten the mood, but Celia did not return her lightness.

“The séance is really little more than an amusement for me,” Lucy said, hoping to change the subject and reassure her hostess.  “I have no desire that you should disapprove of me.”

She rose and held out her hand to the older woman who, after a moment, took it and softened toward her young visitor.

“I was just thinking, a moment ago, how the new and modern world has passed me by.  I suppose this is just another thing that I don’t understand.  I, of all people, ought to know how morbid a life in the opera can be, with all those heroines leaping off parapets and divas taking four hours to cough themselves to the end of a brilliant life.”

She stroked the youth’s hand.

“You have a brilliant life, my dear.  I, as your friend here in America, only want you to take a strong interest in Life and for it to triumph over Death. At least while it lasts.  I want to see you put the emphasis where it belongs for a young woman, on the living, and leave the journeys to the beyond to those who are ready for more permanent travel.”

“You are very kind to me,” Lucy replied.

“I’m just being silly.” Celia smiled.  “You go along to your party and have fun.”

“Then I shan’t disappoint you?” Lucy asked.

“Child, you couldn’t disappoint me.  Now, go on back to opening your post and we’ll have no more talk about this nonsense.”

Lucy returned to the window and silently shuffled through her stack of morning letters.  She stopped at the sight of a blue linen envelope with a tiny crown printed on the flap.  It was from the Prussian Prince, Henry, the younger brother of the Emperor.  She tore at the paper flap to get it open.

The letter was formal and a bit old-fashioned.  It told of the older man’s devotion and kindness, his interest in her career, and a slight longing, if she only allowed herself to read below the text, that hinted at an infatuation that his position and his discretion would not permit him to express.

He was her benefactor and her friend.  It had been his generosity and interest in her singing that had set her on the path of her career, and his money that had financed this trip to America.  He had traveled the world, as a younger man, and had often spoken fondly of an exciting trip he had made to America in 1902, where he had been received with great acclaim, not only by the German-American population, but the press as well, and was even given an honorary Doctorate from Harvard University.  He loved the Americans, even after the debacle of the War and the shattering of his family dynasty, following the German Revolution in 1918.  He had many long conversations with Lucy about his interest in American motor cars and their modern technologies, so it was no surprise that when the offer came for her to sing at the Metropolitan in New York, he was more than willing to cover the cost of her passage, and include a small stipend as well.

Lucy held the letter in her hand and stared at the sky blue paper upon which it was written.  She let her mind wander back to when she had first met the handsome and dignified man who must now be in his late fifties.  He had first appeared at a performance she had given at the voice academy where she studied in Stuttgart.  It had been four years ago now, when she was just seventeen.  She remembered that he had worn a cobalt blue Imperial naval uniform, with rows of buttons on his chest that were interrupted at intervals by brass medals and a great red sash that was draped diagonally across the front.  His hair and moustache were impeccably groomed, and he was lean and polished in a way that men of her own age had not yet learned.  When he was first introduced, he had complimented her on the beauty of her voice and clicked his heels together, ever so slightly, then bowed, as if she had been a lady of his own social rank.

“But how did you come to know of the recital in such an out of way place as this school?” she had asked, a bit breathless.

He took her hand and came closer, dispelling her nervousness with his smile.

“It seems I was told about you by my nephew, the Crown Prince, Wilhelm.  He appears to be a bit of an opera fan at the moment, and knows people who move in these circles.  Perhaps you know the American opera star Geraldine Farrar?  He is a great admirer of her, I am told.  At any rate, my nephew is the source of the information that led me here today… and I must remember to thank him at the first opportunity for suggesting what has turned out to be a most delightful afternoon.”

That being said, he kissed the back of her gloved hand gently, clicked his heels and departed without another word.  It was several days later that she had come home from vocal practice at the Institute to find a bouquet of flowers and an invitation to attend a small party.  Even then, he had the decorum to suggest that a companion of sorts might be in order, as a chaperone, and that many of the aristocratic patrons of the arts would be in attendance.  From the very first moment he met her, he had thought of nothing but being kind to her and furthering her singing career.  She felt sad that she could offer little more than her sincere gratitude in return.

She put his card aside with a familiar sigh and addressed a note to Mrs. Mullridge accepting the engagement for Saturday night.

1921  New York

Her fingers dug into the metal mesh of the cage that contained her.  She had always had a fear of dark and small airless spaces.  She closed her eyes and strained to hear the faint whirring of machinery, the sound, no louder than a heartbeat, that would signify the time had come for her deliverance out of the pit.  She heard her own breath, short and uneven in its rhythm, and she pushed hard on the unrelenting sides of the cage to try and expand the suffocating space, turning her body in the spare inches around her, twisting her legs in the jumble of heavy fabric of her skirt, tangling them, binding them into helpless, useless limbs.  Her eyes closed tight as the vaporous blackness moved in around her like an evil tide, filling her lungs with the knowledge and fear of death.  She was drowning, unable to save herself.  Her mind filled with panic as she fought the darkness for breath.  She wanted to cry out, but she dared not for fear that someone might hear her and think her a fool.

A pale sliver of light suddenly appeared above her, like a sorcerer’s wand afloat in a nocturnal and lifeless sea.  Steadily, she fixed her eyes on it as she heard the blessed soft purring of machinery fill the obscurity around her.  Slowly, the cage moved upward toward the light, like a lost soul ascending toward salvation, and she peeled her trembling fingers from the mesh with thanksgiving.

The old man fixed his gaze on the blasphemous circle drawn on the floor, concentrating on the blackness of the star within the shape.  He strained his hearing to catch the tiny, almost imperceptible sound of distant machinery as he fearfully choked out the name of the demon.  Bolder still, he called again.

“MEPHISTOPHELES”

Shaken by an explosion of sulphurous light, he crumbled to his knees.  In a cloud of oily smoke, a radiant woman rose through the floor, shimmering in translucent white, her hair braided around a crown of gold.

She stepped toward him, a gleaming Madonna, offering up her hands in a gesture of solicitude, worthy of the vision of any new-made convert.

A spotlight from above flooded her in iridescent blue, and she began to sing.

 “She’s the most beautiful Helen of Troy I’ve ever seen,” whispered the young dresser, peering out from the wings, as she absent-mindedly tore at the wig in her hands with a metal comb.

“And the thinnest,” replied an old man hanging on the curtain rope. “I’ve been at this theater for a good number of years, and we very seldom get them built like this German girl… pretty little thing… and young.  But give her a couple of years, and she’ll blow up just like the rest of them.”

The wardrobe mistress tightened her thin lips into a disapproving curl and glared at the old man as she took out her annoyance for his comment on the disheveled wig.

“Say, mind what you’re doing,” he scolded.  “There won’t be a hair left on that tired old thing.  It looks like a cat when the tenor wears it as it is.”

The young woman gingerly tucked the wig into her smock, and ignoring him, joined in on the applause for the entrance of the beautiful Diva on stage.

She stood transfixed for the last act of the opera, listening to the lovely voice of the German singer, waiting for the moment when she would need to spring into usefulness and help her change for the press.

 When the opera had reached its climax, the audience jumped to its feet and offered a deafening accolade to the girl on stage.  Time and again, she bowed low, nearly touching her forehead to the floor in a single graceful movement.  Ankle-deep in masses of roses wrapped in cellophane, she pressed her lips to the pale pink flowers she cradled in her arms, sending the crowd in a frenzy to get nearer the stage.

She kissed the palm of her hand and waved over the electric lights at the faceless silhouettes that clamored for her as she floated toward the wings.

“You were wonderful, Miss Lucy,” the dresser whispered, as the singer slapped her braided wig and pink roses into the girl’s hands.  “Fourteen curtain calls.”

 “And that is more than enough,” Lucy replied. “Respectable for any opening… I should think, even by New York standards.  I’m just glad I survived that Gottverdammt trapdoor entrance.  I hate being in that suffocating cage.”

 As they rounded the corner leading to the dressing room, Lucy regretted having been so impetuous in removing her wig.  Up ahead, a wall of Society’s best and members of the press waited, like well-groomed ponies at the starting gate, ready to charge her the second the gun went off.

Germany, in the American mind, was a place of seamy cabarets and dangerous nightlife, an economy rife with labor strikes and social unrest, a haven for decadent art and corrupted women.  It was considered promiscuous for women in America to have their hair cut short, and Lucy’s cropped, blonde hair had become a source of expectant excitement for the gentlemen who lined up outside her dressing room, waiting to meet the German beauty who had come to America to make them surrender, just as they had made her country surrender in the Great War. 

 “There they are,” she muttered more to herself than the admiring little dresser who trailed behind her, trying not to tangle herself in the train of Lucy’s costume. “I should be used to this by now.  But these people do seem to be more persistent here.”

 Smiling, she ran her fingers nervously through her boyishly bobbed hair and stepped forward.  With the inaudible sounding of the racing pistol, they descended.  Flattering young men with dark, oily hair and smoky complexions tapped their heels together, imitating the custom of her country, and tried to take her hand as they bowed ever so slightly and grinned their compliments.

Lucy smiled her way to the dressing room door and scanned the people, packed in between the ridiculously overzealous floral tributes that dominated the room, for the only person whose opinion meant anything to her.  David’s cool unruffled nod of approval, which he had offered so often during rehearsal, was all that she needed now to make her triumph complete.

David Montague stood at the other end of the dressing room with his wife Celia.  He was patting the hand of a substantial-looking woman, unquestionably a patroness of the theater, and Celia chatted graciously, twisting the strand of pearls that hung at her neck, the only hint that betrayed her boredom.  They were perfect, the opera impresario and his wife.  Like parents greeting wedding guests, they laughed and chatted, accepting praise for the performance of their newly discovered protégée.

“It’s a gruesome little opera,” Celia muttered to David, careful not to be overheard by the hefty ladies laden with jewels.

“On the contrary, darling, Faust is secretly everyone’s favorite.  A bargain with the Devil always makes for an amusing evening.  You watch some poor soul get whatever he desires, and in the end, old Mephistopheles comes to collect, dragging him kicking and screaming to the torments of Hell.”

 “I think it’s depressing.  Isn’t opera supposed to be beautiful and uplifting?” Celia insisted.

 “Entertaining is infinitely more profitable than uplifting,” David answered with a wry smile.  “And no one can resist a good riches to rags story.”

A magnetic attraction drew David’s glance toward Lucy.  He beamed a radiant smile and nodded his way through the crowd to take her hand.

“You were splendid,” he said happily.  “You have no idea how it pleases me that you are received so well.  Look around you.  This is your night.” 

He stroked the side of his nose with his finger as if deep in thought. 

 “I do believe, my dear, that you have made a sensation of yourself.  I have every confidence of what the critics will write.  From this point on, you may have anything you wish.”

Lucy’s eyes drifted away to the strangely painted, yet familiar, reflection of her own face in the dressing table mirror.

David’s words rang ominously in her ears, the same words her mother had used ten years before in a railway car on the way to Wiesbaden.

Mrs. von Dorfen had been holding up the morning paper, displaying inky photos of women wearing diamond necklaces, wrapped in blankets, being helped onto the deck of a ship.  It was the paper’s account of the rescue of the seven hundred and twelve survivors from the Titanic’s watery grave.

She read aloud with what Lucy considered, even at age ten, to be an unsuitable, almost bloodthirsty enthusiasm in her voice.

“I should like to know who’s really behind this,” her mother had whispered, shaking her head.

Lucy licked at the swirl atop a pink, frosted teacake. 

“It says in the paper that it was an accident.  They struck an iceberg,” she replied with casual concern.

 “Of course they did,” her mother snapped back.  “But even in such cases, someone is always behind it.  There are very few true accidents… you will come to learn that as time goes on.”

“Yes, mother, I know,” the girl sighed.

 “The poor, negligent captain or some other poor soul will probably be blamed, but that’s not what I mean.  Someone else had to think this into happening… someone truly evil.  Haven’t these people any perception of what’s being done to them?  Don’t they dream at night?  I must say, I am truly astonished.  I’m only relieved to know that nothing like this could ever happen to one of us.”

Mrs. von Dorfen exhaled with satisfaction as she tucked the newspaper into her traveling bag and turned her full attention to a frosted teacake of her own.

The girl looked up puzzled. 

“Why could it never happen to us?”

 “Because of our gifts, dear child,” her mother whispered.  “We are the Hexe, the Chosen among women, those who possess the power.”

The girl nodded as if she truly understood, but she did not.  She merely nodded to escape her mother’s disapproving looks.

“Remember what I’m telling you,” her mother continued.  “There are no accidents.  Someone is always responsible.  We all have gifts, powerful gifts, pitted against one another. Just be aware of who is in your world and what they are up to, and you can be certain that you will be in no real danger and may have whatever you wish.”

And so, it appeared her mother’s promise had come true.  With seemingly little effort, she had become the darling of the opera world, first in Germany, and now most certainly in New York as well.

David took her hand and pressed it to his lips.  “I christen your American career with a kiss.”

Lucy shot a glance at Celia, who stood applauding warmly with the others.

“I can only thank you for your patronage,” Lucy smiled, “and I am sure that only wonderful things will happen to me here.”

+++

Jack awoke, finding it difficult to breathe. He gasped, trying to fill his lungs, confused as to where he was.

The last thing he remembered was going to bed. He looked down.

He was in a lifesuit. Okay, so he wasn’t in bed. He tried to draw breath again, fighting against air pressure that simply wasn’t there. His suit was pressurized, meaning he was in low pressure. Or no pressure. But then the suit should compensate. He tried again, his lungs heaving, feeling adrenaline release through his chest as his heart rate accelerated.

No air.

That’s why he couldn’t breathe. There was no air in the suit.

He tried to move, feeling disoriented, like he didn’t know which way was up. He tried to twist, to sit up, but then again, he wasn’t in bed. Waiting for his eyes to acclimate to the sheer darkness, he tried to figure out where he was. Everything was black. He tried again to sit up, but a few moments later he realized he was floating in nothingness. That meant there was nothing to push against. As he twisted around in panic, he caught a glimpse of some light, off to the right somewhere. At least he was wearing a helmet — which meant he was in space. But what was he doing there?

Fuck, he thought to himself, what a time for this to happen.

Jack had a problem. A problem he mostly was able to hide — from his employers and from the people he would meet. His problem was time.

Ever since the age of four he had lived with these episodes, blackouts where he couldn’t remember what had just happened or what was going on. Sometimes he seemed to remember events out of sequence, destroying any sense of cause and effect. The cognitive specialists called it Jasmine Fever — or temporal lobe time-cognition disturbance, when they were speaking formally.

There was no way he could even function without keeping careful track of events in case he had a blackout. If it hadn’t been for his exceptional abilities in conflict negotiation and crisis management — and the support of someone very well-placed in the Federation — there was no way they would have let him out into the field. As it was, there were certain details which didn’t appear on his official records anywhere.

It was all irrelevant now. He must have suffered a blackout while on a mission, made a mistake of some kind, and been expelled out the airlock. Out in space, with only moments to live, he would never know what had gone wrong — nor would it matter.

And yet there was something else. Something more specific. A feeling of betrayal.

The only thing that he could associate with that feeling was the moment his mother had left him in the research facility when he was five. It was a moment he’d replayed over and over in his mind throughout the years, but that couldn’t explain what was happening now. He was about to die, and the only thing he could think about was that someone had done this to him. Someone he trusted. The anger was followed rapidly by utter blind panic, and he noticed himself flailing about but couldn’t seem to stop it.

Jack woke up again, this time for real. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his body. The sheets were wet with sweat, and his heart felt like it wanted to beat its way out of his chest.

He tried to scream, but no sound came out.

He tried to breathe, but couldn’t draw in any air. His body was still mostly paralyzed, apart from his arms and legs, which had been thrashing around in panic as he suffocated. As soon as he became conscious, he focused on breathing, and gradually, he began taking in air again.

His body was still in panic mode though, and it took several more seconds to acclimate to the new, waking reality of air and safety. He slumped back on the drenched sheets, kicking off any remaining covers to try and regulate his temperature.

He felt sick and overheated — and something worse. The sense of betrayal stayed with him, even as the adrenaline dissipated.

Another nightmare.

His therapist would love this one, he thought, tapping his left arm with the index finger of his right hand to activate the implant, and bring up his personal holo. He started tapping notes into the holographic screen that appeared, scrambling to get the main details down before they evaporated from his awareness.

Floating in space — that was a new one. He dragged the notes over to the dream diary tag and continued to make notes of the key points: In space. Can’t breathe. Mother, betrayal.

Well, nothing new in those basic components, he mused.

He lay there for another few minutes, trying to get back to normal before he faced reality. Whatever that was.

Kepler-186 burned much cooler than Sol, giving the light its red color. The brightest day on New Atlantia was only ever as bright as an hour before sunset on T3. Or so she was told. She’d never actually visited T3, being a third generation New Atlantian. T3, the cradle of human life, the birthplace of civilization, was everything a colony like New Atlantia hoped someday to become. Or at least that’s how a lot of people seemed to think. To Zahra, it all just seemed so far removed from the reality she dealt with daily.

She’d also never been on a planet that wasn’t tidally locked with its star. New Atlantia wasn’t unique in its lack of day and night. The same side always facing the sun made up for the lack of luminosity needed to grow crops. This was how they were able to survive here. It also meant that sleeping was routine, and shift work straightforward, since everyone only existed in the daylight. The white lamps they used indoors more than compensated for the lack of stimulation that the natural light on T3 would have given their retinas for hormonal balance, and sleep-wake cycles.

A tassel of hair fell in front of Zahra’s face. She pulled it back behind her ear and refocused her attention on the report she was about to give. Her stomach tightened. On any other day, the Federation building on New Atlantia would have buzzed with quiet and purposeful activity, just like any other Federation building in the galaxy.

Not today.

Today, they faced the unimaginable prospect of attack, and despite their warrior society and extensive training, there wasn’t a soul on the deck that wasn’t terrified. The tribal skirmishes they were familiar with had not prepared them for the prospect of attack from space.

Hidalgo had other reasons for being afraid, too. Reasons she didn’t dare admit to Captain Eryn O’Shea.

She checked the holo report on her personal device. The Drewdonian ship was on its way. After months of transmissions and arguments, months of discord, long hours and sleepless nights assisting the captain, trying to broker an agreement with the High Consulate at Drewdonia that would avoid a war, the inevitable couldn’t be delayed any longer.

Now the Drewdonians were heading for New Atlantia… and it wasn’t going to be good.

“Sir, the reports are confirmed,” Zahra announced, striding into the captain’s private office, just off the main operations room. ‘Sir’ was a standard method of address, regardless of gender.

Captain O’Shea was working at her desk. The office, which was relatively peaceful, was sealed off from the rest of the observation deck.. Hidalgo knew that as soon as she stepped back outside that door she would be surrounded by the tension, the subliminal hum of nerves teetering on the edge of panic. She could smell the fear amongst her comrades, and nothing she could do or say at this stage would help them come to terms with the reality they faced.

“How long?” O’Shea asked.

“Days,” Hidalgo answered, “Our intel on their ships is sketchy. By rights, they shouldn’t have weaponized ships, but…” Her voice trailed off, uncertain how much to say at this stage.

O’Shea looked up at her, expecting a full report.

Hidalgo continued, “Well, it seems that they petitioned to have blasters fitted on their ships not long after the colony was populated. Something about having the rights to defend against meteorites and space garbage. Guess that wasn’t all they wanted to defend themselves against.” She shifted her weight awkwardly. “No one expected them to mount an assault so soon in their development. These are essentially just farmers,” she qualified.

It was true. Drewdonia was still only a first-generation colony, and with virtually all available resources devoted to farming or terraforming their society could only be relatively primitive by Federation standards. By contrast, New Atlantia had had 300 years to develop, and should never have had anything to fear from an upstart colony like Drewdonia.

“Essentially just farmers?” O’Shea retorted, resting her elbows on the desk, and dropping her head into her hands, “You mean farmers with guns, and the means to cause a significant amount of damage to our civilization.”

“Yes, sir.” Hidalgo’s voice had softened, recognizing that O’Shea had been worn down just as much as she had at this point.

Hidalgo concluded that it was best to just deal in the facts right now. Her captain was one of the best: a blue flamer, as they were known at the Academy. And yet, something about this seemed to affect her. She couldn’t figure out if it was a result of the conflict itself or whether it was because this was for real now, and not a simulation. Either way, Hidalgo got the feeling she was missing something.

She hesitated, wondering if she should mention something, then quickly decided against it. Later, she decided.

As she turned to leave, O’Shea called after her.

“Zahra…”

Hidalgo stopped sharply and turned to look at her captain again.

“You’ve been on this all along. Do you think war could have been avoided?” O’Shea looked drained. Zahra guessed she was asking as a friend and not just as her commanding officer. It had been some time since they’d spoken that way with each other. Zahra missed that closeness, but she would have to use it to her advantage if she didn’t want the captain to find out the truth.

She moved toward the big oaklon desk, resting the tips of her fingers on it as if trying to pacify her friend through the wood.

“I think it was a possibility all along,” she began slowly, “But we couldn’t give them what they were asking for, and we didn’t think they had the resources to escalate the conflict. We made a judgment call. We involved the Federation. We did everything by the book… and that’s all we can do.”