Seize the Stars: Starswept, #3

By Mary Fan

When darkness falls, the stars ignite.

Against all odds, Iris has made her voice heard. Inspired by her call for freedom, sympathizers to her cause have occupied a prestigious theater in the heart of Adrye's capital. Their demands are simple: Abolish the cruel systems that use brainwashing to force obedience upon both Earthling performers and aberrant Adryil. Recognized as the face of the movement and caught in the thick of the demonstration, Iris finds all eyes turning to her.

The authorities are determined to stamp out the nascent uprising. When new and unexpected allies arrive in time to keep the patrolmen at bay, Iris welcomes them. However, their addition sparks further unrest. Though she pleads for peace, others believe the only viable path is an all-out battle.

Divided and under siege, the movement teeters on the brink of chaos. As the situation around her rapidly spirals out of control, Iris struggles to find a way forward—before the hope for freedom falls apart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Fan
• Release date: Aug 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952667060

Book preview

ACT I

CHAPTER 1

THEY’RE ALL AFRAID OF ME. The wealthy, the elite, the leaders of the world—both worlds. They all look at me as if I’m the event horizon of a black hole, the thing between safety and an unstoppable force waiting to destroy everything they know. Even though I’m just a girl with a viola.

A viola and a voice.

They scatter toward the open-air theater’s exits like autumn leaves after a powerful gust—the kind that precedes a thunderstorm. Glittering gowns trailing. Resplendent robes tangling. Commanding coats twisting. Every magnificently jeweled and lavishly festooned Adryil aristocrat flees down the aisles. The handful of Earthling diplomats in attendance run just as quickly.

Above, those with private boxes—floating platforms that hover over the seats on dim, near-silent engines—hastily dock against the walls, which had retracted for the performance but rapidly rose so that they, too, could bolt. Only two hovering platforms remain. In one, Master Verik: the man who enslaved so many of us. In the other, Mistress Laksol: the woman without whom the Abolition would not exist, yet whose price I dread.

I stand between the children of both—Dámiul Verik and Atikéa Laksol. Eyes the same shades of striking azure and brilliant purple as their parents, yet reflecting wildly different souls.

Attention: All persons must evacuate the premises immediately.

Amplified by the theater’s speakers, the patrolman’s voice shakes the cool night air of the eternally mild-weathered Nathril. Over and over she’s repeated this command, ever since the Abolition flooded the stage and barricaded the backstage doors. If it weren’t for the theater’s telepathy-blocking devices, which were activated for the performance to prevent audience members from interfering, she and the other patrolmen would have flooded my head by now.

A dozen patrol ships bear down on us, each silver and cold, wide-finned and menacing. Armed, no doubt, with weapons that could destroy my body at the touch of button. Commanded, most certainly, by trained enforcers who could seize me with little difficulty.

And yet, they’re all afraid of me.

Right now, this stage is mine. All of Adrye and all of Earth watches tonight as I give my greatest performance—and possibly my last.

Standing at the front edge of the stage, I close my fingers around Dámiul’s. My other hand remains clenched around the viola given to me by an old musician, who now stares silently at the scene with a look between wonder and wistfulness.

Around us and behind us, Adryil Abolitionists shout out slogans and wave holographic signs calling for freedom and justice. Intermixed with them are the voices of the Ka’risil who broke through their masters’ telepathic manipulations to join us. Some shout with the Adryil. Others speak in Earthling tongues. And others still use no words at all—with their instruments, they play over and over the rebellious tune created by one in bondage and magnified into the weapon that could bring down her captors.

"Lidar’ona ro fuzet! Free us all!" Our rallying cry rings through the night.

As long as I stand here, they know there’s hope. And so I refuse to budge as the patrolman repeats her order to evacuate. The world is watching through the theater’s embedded cameras.

Yet my heart trembles. No matter how many times I tell myself that my life is not important compared to our cause, I can’t stop quivering. I also try not to think about how ridiculous I feel in this red-and-gold catsuit, designed for an aerialist whose identity I assumed but whose talents I lack. Now is hardly the time to be self-conscious.

Dámiul’s hand tightens around mine, warm and sure and wonderful. I glance up to see him smiling at me. The fierce fire of rebellion roars behind his eyes, which no longer glow with Adryil telepathy yet seem brighter than ever before. And mingled with it is a different kind of flame, one that’s for me, and me alone.

I smile back. Despite my fear, I know this is where I’m supposed to be.

The last of the hovering private boxes dock, and the patrol ships level their glaring white lights on us, washing out the view.

Attention: This is an unlawful assembly. In addition, you are illegally detaining multiple individuals. Disband immediately, and evacuate the theater. Anyone who does not comply will be arrested and prosecuted.

Atikéa lifts her chin to the fleet, her uneven white bangs spilling over her brow. "Not until you end Ka’risil slavery and ban the use of forced telepathy! Lidar’ona ro fuzet!"

"Lidar’ona ro fuzet!" I raise my voice with everyone else, echoing her cry.

Atikéa spins upstage, facing the crowd. And there are no hostages here. Anyone who does not wish to participate is free to leave.

Amid the protesters stand several members of the orchestra that had been performing when I interrupted. Though many joined us, others watch Atikéa with nervous, uncertain eyes.

She gestures emphatically at a staircase leading down from the stage. Go! No one will stop you.

I don’t know why I thought most would stay.

Of the two-hundred-piece symphonic ensemble, only a chamber group remains. As people trickle off the stage, it hits me how small the crowd actually is. In this confined space, it felt like myriads, but our numbers are barely equivalent to an opera’s cast and orchestra.

This stage is all we have. The Ka’risil who joined us barricaded the entrances, and all the Adryil who rushed up from the audience are already here. No one else is coming.

Attention: This is your final warning. If you do not disband, you will be forcibly removed.

My anger sparks. "Then force us! It’s what you do anyway, only with the silence of telepathy. Every moment the Ka’risil spend obeying commands, every breath drawn by the ‘reeducated’ whose minds are rewritten, is forced upon us anyway. So seize us, and let everyone see what Adryil benevolence looks like for those who won’t be enslaved anymore."

The crowd quiets. Though I face the now-empty audience, barely able to see through the brightness of the patrol ship lights, I know all eyes are on me. I welcomed spotlights when I performed, but it’s different when I’m speaking. Now, it’s not the music they’re watching—it’s only me.

I draw a breath. My hand in Dámiul’s feels comfortable and safe, and that security gives me the courage to go on. The last time I was here, you accused me of inciting violence and stole my memories. You thought I was so dangerous, you had to turn me into someone else, even though all I wanted was to live my life with the freedom you take for granted. I wanted to play my viola, see my friends, work for my dreams, fall in love—I look up at Dámiul with a smile—and make a home for myself somewhere. I never wanted to fight or change the world. But in order to simply be, without someone else making my choices for me... I had to.

I don’t dare hope that my words will sway the authorities, but at least those watching from afar will hear my message.

The patrol ships’ hums grow louder, and the lights brighter. The vehicles close in. Clutching the viola, I glance at Dámiul, and he meets my gaze. Though we can no longer communicate telepathically, I can tell we’re thinking the same thing. They’re about to tear us apart—again. They’re about to erase our minds—again.

But somehow, some way, we’ll find each other—again.

"On’en eládor," I whisper.

The smile he gives me is somehow sorrowful and joyous at once. I love you, too.

I savor the sound of his voice—the feel of its gentle timbre, the color of its crisp accent.

The silver patrol ships draw nearer and nearer. One is so close, I can see the glowing green gaze of its pilot behind the windshield.

Abruptly, they all freeze. The engines’ songs change key, and the lights dim as translucent blue force fields surround them. The pilot whirls, apparently as perplexed as I am.

New voices join the mechanical chorus—engines with higher pitches and harsher textures. Though flashing spots from the bright lights dot my vision, I make out the shapes of several small vehicles—narrower and longer-finned than the patrol ships—whirling above. Short barrels protrude from their undersides, projecting the force fields. At first, I assume these new ships appear dark because they’re silhouetted, but as they draw closer, I realize their hulls are a deep navy color.

I glance around. What’s happening?

Dámiul furrows his brow. I don’t know.

Confusion ripples through the crowd. Milo and Cara push past the others to approach me. On the U-shaped walkway above the stage, Jaerin stares at one of the theater’s control screens, and I wonder if he’s telepathically commanding it.

The three patrol ships closest to us, each enveloped in a force field, jerk upward like fish being reeled in. My eyes widen—as do those of the pilot. Yanked and quickly released by the force fields, the vehicles spiral into the sky, their engines wailing in despair, and disappear from view.

Tractor beams. Atikéa frowns. Ones that powerful shouldn’t be accessible to anyone outside of law enforcement.

Other patrol ships continue descending, but the smaller vehicles zip around them like flies. One fires, tearing a hole through a patrol ship’s fin. I gasp.

Cursing under her breath, Atikéa stalks off. I’m about to ask where she’s going, but then a second navy-hulled ship fires. This blast is so close, its heat sears my face. With a scream, I squeeze my eyes.

Dámiul holds me close, but from the tension in his body, he must be as afraid as I am. Do you want to leave?

I shake my head. We’d only find patrolmen waiting to arrest us backstage. The world is still watching... if they’re going to take us, let it be where everyone can see.

He nods.

Cries of alarm swirl. The patrol ships fire back at their attackers but miss. I’m surprised to realize that the new fleet consists of only three vehicles. With their speed and agility, each seems to be in multiple places at once. Rubble explodes from audience seats and theater walls. I shrink, terrified.

Cara strides up to me and Dámiul, her jaw tight but her eyes undaunted. No one mentioned that this performance would include a light show.

I envy her ability to sound so calm. Who could those people be?

Milo approaches with a nervous smile. Whoever they are, at least they’re on our side.

That’s true. The mysterious fleet seems to be driving the patrol ships away. Several damaged vehicles have already veered off. But who would come to our aid like this? Who even could?

The last few patrol ships, though undamaged, fly away before the attackers can fire again. They must have been ordered to retreat. The smaller ships don’t pursue. At least the shooting appears to be over.

Through the din, Atikéa’s voice catches my attention. She’s speaking agitatedly in Adryil, and I look up to find her on the walkway with Jaerin. Though I catch a few words, they’re too disjointed for me to make out what she’s saying.

The three navy-hulled vehicles lower toward us until they’re hovering over the first row of seats. I try to make out who might be inside, but either it’s too dark or their windows have some kind of tinting. From the bottom of each, a tripod extends and digs its metal feet into the ground, maneuvering around the chairs.

Hearing a thud behind me, I whirl. Atikéa strides away from one of the aerial silks dangling from the ceiling. She must have climbed up to speak to Jaerin and is now returning. A stormy look clouds her face.

The engines dim, and their hums cut out. The air grows still. It’s as if the entire crowd is holding its breath. Only the sounds of Atikéa’s rapid footsteps disturb the silence.

A whirring noise rings out, and the doors to all three ships open simultaneously. From the closest one, a stocky man with short, dark brown hair, a honey-gold complexion, and a closely cropped beard jumps out. Dressed in loose-fitting gray pants and a simple white shirt, his casual attire is a far cry from the crisp uniforms of the Nathril Patrol. I imagined that the attacking vehicles would be commanded by someone equally threatening, and so I’m surprised by the friendly twinkle in his gently tilted brown eyes.

Cara gasps. It can’t be...

I glance at her. What?

Shock fills her face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her green eyes so round before.

Milo peers at her. Cara?

Her eyes follow the bearded man, who looks to be in his late thirties, as he approaches the staircase to the stage. A few others emerge from the vehicle, and more still hop out of the other two, but she doesn’t seem to notice them. Since none of the newcomers have glowing eyes, I’m tempted to assume they’re human but stop myself from leaping to that conclusion. How could Earthlings command ships that defeated an Adryil patrol force?

Atikéa strides up to the man. What are you doing here?

But his attention is focused on Cara, who rushes toward him. A grin splits his face. "Hello again, principessa."

Alan! She stumbles to a halt, tears rimming her eyes. Is it really you?

Alan... Novak? I stare at him in a new light. Alan Novak was the man forcibly retired to make room for me in the Ydayas’ quartet... and the one who recruited Cara to the Abolition. But he was mind-wiped and sent back to Earth almost a year ago. How is this possible?

Alan places a fond hand on Cara’s shoulder. I’ve missed you. I’m so proud of what you’ve done here.

Hey, viola man! Temir pushes through the curious crowd, followed closely by Andreas.

So you two finally came to your senses, huh? Alan faces his old friends and spreads his arms. Laughing, the three men embrace like brothers.

The sight warms my heart, but my nervousness remains. Too many questions surround Alan’s sudden appearance. And then there are those who accompanied him—a dozen total, by the looks of it. I don’t know what to make of them.

Who are you? Dámiul asks.

The Abolition. Alan turns to Atikéa. It’s good to see you again.

Likewise. Atikéa lowers her voice. My mother sent you, didn’t she?

She rescued me and the others from the fake lives TalentCorp forced us into. Restored our memories and reminded us of who we were. When she said you needed backup, none of us hesitated.

Everything clicks together. Mistress Laksol wants a hand in the rebellion—more than that, she wants to hold its strings. With a criminal empire at her disposal, she certainly has the resources to rescue and arm a few retired Ka’risil. No wonder why Atikéa continues to watch these new allies with narrowed eyes.

Alan’s gaze meets mine, and I tense as he excuses himself and makes his way toward me. It’s an honor to meet you, Iris Lei.

Guilt creeps up my throat. Though I’ve told myself repeatedly that I wasn’t responsible for what happened to him, it still haunts me. It’s... an honor to meet you too.

Things have really come full circle, haven’t they? I recruited Cara to the Abolition, and she recruited you. Now here you are, leading the protest that could change the world, and I’ve returned in time to help it succeed.

I should find comfort in his support. I should be glad that our numbers have grown, and that the newcomers arrived with the power to chase away a fleet. Yet I can’t shake a feeling of dread.

Before I came here tonight, the story in my mind always ended with me standing on this stage. Now, it feels like we’ve already played our grand finale, but the curtain failed to come down, and the audience never went home. Without a score, it’s up to us to improvise the next act.

––––––––

CHAPTER 2

WHAT HAPPENS NOW? I TAKE in the landed ships, the armed newcomers, and the confused yet hopeful crowd. My gaze turns back to the night sky. The Nathril Patrol won’t stay away forever.

If they return, we’ll fight them off again. Alan glances upward. I don’t think they will, though. Not tonight, at least. It would have been easy for them to round up unarmed protestors, but now that we have defenses, they won’t want to risk a fight that could result in civilian casualties.

I glance nervously at one of the barricaded doors. The patrolmen backstage—

Are no longer an issue. He inclines his chin toward the wings. Can someone open that door?

Two of the newcomers begin removing the set pieces blocking it.

Stop! Atikéa starts toward them then whirls to face Alan. What are you doing?

Alan holds up his hand. It’s all right. Not all of us came in ships.

The door slides open, and a woman pokes her head through. All clear back here! You got my message about the patrolmen’s retreat?

Indeed, I did. He gives Atikéa a satisfied smile. We came ready for anything, and it was a clean victory. No casualties on either side, just like when we chased off their ships.

I’m glad. Her voice is tight.

So am I, I mutter. Yet I’m not as relieved as I should be.

Around us, the crowd jitters with nervous energy. Some seem to melt with relief and introduce themselves to the newcomers. Others pluck anxiously at their instruments or meander about in confusion. Many, including Cara and Milo, assist the newcomers in removing the set pieces blocking the doors, allowing others to enter the stage. While a few greet Alan’s team with familiarity, leading me to believe they must be part of that force as well, most appear to be Ka’risil. They must have chosen to stay after the theater was ordered to evacuate. I wonder how many more are backstage. Maybe our numbers aren’t as few as I feared.

The Nathril Patrol let us win today. Beside me, Dámiul surveys the scene. Alan was right—they don’t want to risk a battle, especially with the world watching. But they wouldn’t simply leave either. My guess is that they’ll put us under siege in hopes of forcing us to turn ourselves in.

That’s exactly what they’re doing. Atikéa looks up from a small tablet she must have pulled out of her pocket. A miniscule holovid plays mutely above it with Adryil subtitles beneath, throwing colorful lights across her warm brown complexion. She turns the device toward us. In the image, several patrol vehicles approach the theater’s exterior. This is a live report. The Nathril Patrol is forming a perimeter.

My fist tightens around the viola. It was easy to say we won’t leave until our demands are met, but it’s starting to feel more like we’re trapped.

The Nathril Patrol will not intimidate us! Alan’s voice booms over the stage, and he steps onto the conductor’s podium with the confidence of a star baritone about to sing his signature aria. Abolitionists! This is our moment! We are all here because we have the courage to stand against injustice. And we are not alone. He faces the empty seats. All of you watching—Adryil and Earthling—listen to us! The system of corruption that allowed human artists to be enslaved must be abolished! As was stated before, we will not leave until it’s done. If anyone out there has the courage to fight for what’s right, come join us at the Nathril Theater.

Alan! Atikéa throws him a concerned look. We should discuss—

Yes, we should. Alan faces her but freezes when the lights cut out, plunging the stage into blackness. The hums and whirs of machines powering down waft through the theater.

I look up at the balcony. Jaerin! Did you do this? Even though I shout, I can barely hear myself over the noise of alarmed voices. Lights pepper the dark as Adryil protestors illuminate their devices.

Still standing by the control screen, Jaerin activates a light on his watch, which casts a soft blue glow across his narrow face. I was trying to prevent this, but the authorities have more resources. They’ve cut off our power, which shut down all the machines, including the cameras.

So they can do what they want without the world’s judgment, Dámiul says darkly. A pale light appears over his wrist as he turns on his watch’s display. But there are other ways to be seen.

I peer at the device. Are you recording?

Broadcasting. He lifts his arm. Everything the camera captures is being shown in real time on the Net.

That’s a good idea. Atikéa hands me her tablet, which is about the size of my hand. Take this so you can do the same. It has enough power to last until morning, and once it’s light out, bring it back here so the sun can recharge it.

Thank you. I look over the device uncertainly.

She glances at her glowing watch, and a tiny green light appears. Listen, everybody! She faces the crowd, thrusting the device over her head. "Everyone with a device, broadcast what you see to the Adryil Planetary Network, and if you have more than one, please share. We will be seen. Now, we will likely be here for a while. I know none of you expected this when you joined us, so I would like to once again say that anyone who wishes to leave is free to do so."

I pinch my lips, fearing that we will lose those we have left. But nobody moves. My eyes meet those of the old man who gave me the viola, and his expression warms.

Ximena walks up to Atikéa, her textured dark red hair bouncing by her ears. Well, my sister and I aren’t going anywhere. I don’t think any of us expected this fight to be easy.

Atikéa smiles. I’m glad you’re here—all of you.

As am I, I chime in.

Alan, holding a tablet at shoulder height and no doubt broadcasting from it, sweeps toward the stairs. When we came to join you, we knew this would take time, and so we brought food and other supplies. As he descends toward the ships, he glances at Atikéa with quirked lips. As I said, we’re ready for anything.

She smiles back, but there’s a troubled look in her eyes. Excuse me. She walks away briskly.

The protestors scatter, some wandering backstage and some following Alan down to the ships, where he and some of the newcomers begin handing out food packets and blankets. A few speak into their devices, talking about what happened and repeating the Abolition’s demands. One woman, glittering in a silver concert dress, sits down at the grand piano and begins playing a contemplative melody that seems to carry all the nervous hope around me. A man in a brightly striped dance costume begins moving to the song’s rhythm, and a woman in a solid blue leotard soon joins in. I find myself entranced by the impromptu performance. It’s as if they’re turning to their Arts for something familiar in the midst of all this uncertainty.

Dámiul places a hand on my arm. I’m going to go speak with Jaerin.

Okay. I’ll see you soon. As he heads off, I glimpse the old man again and make my way over to him, holding out the viola. Thank you for letting me borrow this.

He accepts the instrument with a nod. It was an honor.

What’s your name?

Joseph Lachen.

A bolt of familiarity strikes me. Back at the Papilio School, the concertmaster of my ensemble was named Brent Lachen, and he was born on campus...

I offer my hand. It’s nice to meet you, sir.

It’s nice to meet you too. Joseph clasps my palm.

If you don’t mind me asking, which school did you attend back on Earth?

Papilio, like you.

Did you have a family?

I believe so. He shakes his head sadly. I don’t remember anything for certain, but sometimes, I catch fragments of memories. I’m never sure if they’re real.

I know what you mean. The same thing happened to me. I hesitate. What do you see?

A lot of things, most of which make no sense. But the visions that keep coming back are those of a beautiful young woman with hazel eyes and a perfect brown-haired baby... I think I had a wife and son. So many years have passed, though. He lets out a long sigh. If they existed, that baby would be at least Alan’s age by now, having lived his entire life without a father.

Brent Lachen has brown hair and hazel eyes, and the Papilio School is one of TalentCorp’s most popular sources of Ka’risil. I could very well be looking at Brent’s grandfather.

I think you have a grandson. I can’t help searching the old man’s weathered face for a hint of the strikingly handsome boy I was once foolishly infatuated with... and I can’t help seeing one in the firm angle of his jawline. I went to school with a boy named Brent Lachen.

Oh? That’s wonderful. Joseph smiles. I always did wonder whether, if my son were real, he had a family of his own. But none of it matters as long as they keep taking us from each other.

My heart aches. Though I didn’t particularly care for Brent in the end, I still wish he had a chance to meet this man, one of the scattered pieces of his family. Would you like me to tell you about him?

Not now. The old man settles into one of the chairs. If the day comes when they let us remember each other, then yes, I would want to know. But until then, it all might as well be a dream.

He closes his eyes and begins playing—rough, ash-pale fingers flowing against the black fingerboard. The notes move in perfect harmony with the pianist, slowly rising on a minor arpeggio, then descending in cascading patterns. I marvel at how he can improvise so flawlessly with another. The deep, warbling notes feel as heavy-hearted and tired as he sounded, yet are mesmerizingly beautiful. Each pitch is perfectly in tune, the vibrato even and purposeful, and the precision of his bow technique nearly makes me weep. Even at my best, I could never capture emotion with such subtlety. I’d be lucky to play like that someday.

Maybe I’m imagining it, but I think I hear a trace of Brent’s playing in Joseph’s. It’s the way the end of each note lifts... as if rising on tiptoe after a step...

Given that most Ka’risil contracts are for ten to twenty years, and Joseph must have been on Adrye for around forty, his patrons must have kept renewing his when most others would have been sent into retirement years ago. Hearing him play now, it’s easy to see why, despite the Adryil’s obsession with youth, they kept him for so long.

Go, Iris Lei. He doesn’t open his eyes or stop playing as he speaks. I am just another viola in this symphony. You’re our conductor, and you mustn’t pause the performance for one musician.

Yes—yes, sir.

The viola’s sonorous voice haunts me as I walk away. It’s the voice of a man who has all but given up, who has nothing left to lose, who dares not hope too much. Yet he was the first to join me on this stage, and I know it’s because he still hopes to see his dreams made real.

He called me our conductor, but I have no idea how to be one. I barely know how to be an Abolitionist. A week ago, I was still living a false life in a TalentCorp factory with no memory of the rebellion. Everything has happened so fast, and I wonder how I’m going to live up to who I’m supposed to be.

By the time I make it backstage, every muscle in my body feels ready to crumble. Though I’m grateful to have been given a platform to speak my truth, it’s a relief to be invisible again. To some, the spotlight feeds and nourishes, as the sun does for a flower. To me, standing in it feels like walking a great distance. I’m glad to be able to, since doing so will take me where I need to go, but it leaves me exhausted.

With only the light of my tablet to guide me, I wander down a dark corridor. A few distant glows and chattering voices indicate that others are nearby, but there are so few of us in such a large space that it nevertheless feels eerie.

Empty dressing rooms strewn with abandoned costumes and makeup line the walls. I wonder how the performers who didn’t count themselves among the Abolition felt. Some must have been frightened or even angered that after their months of rehearsals, they were denied the stage. But I suspect many more were so tightly controlled by their Keepers, they didn’t feel anything at all.

A girl’s laugh rings out from one of the dark rooms ahead. Two people emerge, and the light of my tablet catches the amused glint in Cara’s eyes. Oh, hey, Iris!

Milo’s arm is draped over her shoulder, and his blond curls are in disarray. What are you doing back here?

Just exploring the theater. The automatic inclination to echo his question creeps up my throat, but I swallow it back. I probably don’t want to know.

Cara arches her brows. I know what you’re thinking. When did this—she waves a finger between herself and Milo—happen? Right?

"I was gone for three months. I shrug. I imagine I missed a lot."

Eh, not really. It just sucked having to hide everything from Puna, worrying that a stray thought would lead to her purging both our minds. Now that we’re here, we don’t have to hide anymore.

I smile. I’m glad you found each other. I had a feeling you would.

Alan appears at the end of the corridor. "Principessa!"

Cara jumps and waves eagerly, her thick chestnut bangs bouncing across her olive skin. I’ve never seen her like this before—full of joy, without her usual cloud of cynicism. It seems all the burdens weighing her down—of a hopeless cause, of a lost father figure, of an unrequited love—have vanished at last, and she’s reveling in the moment.

Alan starts to approach, but then a woman I don’t recognize comes up behind him and taps him on the shoulder. Judging by the weapon in her hand, she must have been among the reinforcements. She says something unintelligible, and he nods.

He turns to Cara. I’m afraid I’m needed. I’ll come find you when I’m done. We have much to catch up on. He aims his watch at Milo, casting a harsh white light on the latter’s alabaster face. "You’d better respect my principessa, young man."

Alan! Cara throws him an irritated look.

Milo widens his eyes. Sir, if I stepped out of line, she’d kick my ass before you had a chance to.

Alan’s lips twitch, and he glances at Cara. I like him. I’ll see you soon.

No problem! Cara waves again as he walks off with the woman.

I give her a curious look. "Why does he call you principessa?"

Cara rolls her eyes, but a fond smile lifts her lips. "Because when I joined the quartet, I was the new girl surrounded by three men who’d been on Adrye longer than I’d been alive. It was, well, intimidating. But I wasn’t going to let them boss me around. So I started bossing them around, and Alan called me principessa as a joke. You know, because I’m Italian and was apparently acting like a princess. Made me mad at first, but... I dunno, now I kind of like it. Her expression grows serious. I don’t know what’s going on with Mistress Laksol and all that, but someone I thought was lost forever has