“Stay close to the storefronts and avoid the alleys, particularly at night,” Rom cautioned with a sidelong glance at Jas. Since they’d disembarked from the shuttlecraft that brought them from the Quillie, he’d recited all the advice he’d gleaned from a lifetime of frequenting gritty outposts like the Depot. Appearing mildly amused at times, shocked at others, she’d heeded his warnings of terrorists and anti–Vash Nadah protests, and listened raptly to his words on how not to be cheated when exchanging her salt for currency. Through it all, her eyes had glowed bright with anticipation.
He shook his head in exasperation. Had she any idea how difficult it was for him to let her out of his protection? She was a warrior once, he reminded himself, forcing himself not to construe her relative innocence as helplessness. Then why couldn’t he shake his sense of foreboding?
He tightened his grip around her hand, drawing her closer until his cloak billowed around hers. It was a move designed as much to shield her from the crowd as it was to keep her near him a bit longer. He took the most direct route through the main business district, pointing out a gritty sprawl of aging brushed-silver buildings along the way. “Auxiliary Trade Headquarters,” he explained. “Three thousand years ago they were built from a material that supposedly does not deteriorate over time.”
Jas raised her brows. “What happened?”
“Lack of attention, complacency, apathy. The list goes on and on. Much like the Vash Nadah federation itself.”
She touched his arm. “You still care a great deal about Vash politics, about the future, don’t you?”
“Yes.” The realization disturbed him profoundly. “I value my heritage,” he said quietly. “I cannot abide policies that jeopardize its future.” He’d thought himself beyond the ache of guilt, beyond caring. But his reaction to Jas’s remark proved he still did. “I’m an entrepreneur,” he said flatly. “I don’t care to see a poorly operated business when I know it can be run better. Trade lines are breaking down. Where there was once plenty, shortages abound. Who do you think the inhabitants of those planets will blame for their empty stomachs? Heed my words. It is only a matter of time before someone uses their discontent in his favor.”
“Someone like Sharron,” she suggested grimly.
Rom did not want to sour their time together with bitter memories. “Look over there,” he said with forced lightness, changing the subject. “The art museum. And right next door, the library. Both well stocked, and always empty of crowds.”
“Those who come here tend to seek profit, not culture.”
She laughed. As he pointed out more landmarks she might find interesting, he mulled over her earlier comment, about how he cared. Perhaps it was not so much caring as it was habit. He’d been raised to view his life on a grand scale—galactic politics, the allocation of resources, the supervision of countless worlds. Even his marriage would have been seen as an alliance. Before his banishment, rarely had something as mundane and insignificant as his personal future crossed his mind. Even afterward, he had thought of his ship, his men.
Until he saw a future that included Jas.
So the jaded trader wants to settle down, eh? The jest in his mind was in Gann’s voice, a man who would be pleased to see him do just that. Rom’s thoughts raced ahead. He would buy that moon, build the small port he’d constructed countless times in his mind. Jas could join him in the venture. He fought the crazy urge to sweep her into his arms and beg her to be his partner. His lover for life. But what of her children? They lived on Earth. How could he in good conscience lure her to stay far away from them when he could not offer her respectability, or even his name?
“Oh, look!” Jas peeked out from under her hood. “A market.”
“Then let us see what bargains await.” He dared not meet her gaze until he gained control of his emotions. But his mood lifted as she led the way toward a vendor selling glow-jewelry. Only Jas could make the Depot seem exciting and new.
“They’re luminescent,” she said, wide-eyed. “All of them.”
To the vendor’s delight, she gaped at his unimpressive selection as if they were priceless jewels. Loath to dampen her enthusiasm, Rom declined to tell her how common the trinkets were. “Highest quality,” the merchant cajoled. Glancing at Rom he conceded wisely, “Lowest prices.”
“Ilana would adore these earrings,” Jas said. “And I can’t leave without getting something for my friend Betty.” She fumbled with her waist pouch, where she’d stored her currency cards.
He settled his hand on the small of her back. “Put your money away. I will purchase the gifts. Choose something for yourself, as well. Which bauble shall I buy you?” he asked indulgently.
Her eager expression softened. “I can’t let you pay.”
“Why ever not?”
“You’ve done too much for me already.”
Rom regretted all he could not give her. He removed her hand from her pouch. “Please.”
She bit her lower lip and returned her attention to the cheap jewelry. Together they chose Ilana’s earrings, a ring for her woman friend, and then a bracelet similar in width to the ones Jas wore. Rom slipped it onto her pale, slender wrist. Angling her arm this way and that, as if the glow-bracelet might look different in what little sunlight seeped through the low morning overcast, she admired the purchase. Then, for the second time in as many minutes, she cast a narrow-eyed glance behind her. Rom hitched her travel bag higher on his shoulder and searched the crowd. “What is it?”
She hesitated before answering. “Nothing, I guess. Just my imagination running wild.”
“I’ve probably made you jumpy with all my warnings.” He laced his fingers with hers and coaxed her along. The time he could spare here was diminishing quickly, and he cursed the fact that he could not spend the day with her in bed at the Romjha. Last night’s joining had touched him profoundly; she had introduced him to an aspect of lovemaking he had never experienced, one that was deeply emotional—and equally as unforgettable. But the departure slots assigned by the Depot flight authorities were rigidly enforced. With hundreds of vessels coming in and out all hours of the day, a late takeoff could lose him the privilege of ever trading here again. In two standard days you’ll have six months with her, he told himself.
He steered Jas into a maze of dank alleyways. Their boots sloshed in unison through oily puddles. Here, an incense shop didn’t quite hide the pungent, metallic odor of hundreds of spacecraft hovering just above the low-slung clouds. The passageway opened into a wide boulevard. It was lined with delicate frond-trees, which were imported, replaced every few months as they succumbed to the fumes.
Jas slowed, and he followed her stunned gaze to a beribboned platform floating an arm’s reach above the street: pleasure servants advertising their wares. “Hell and back,” he muttered. Wrapping his cape protectively over Jas’s shoulders, he tried without success to hurry her past.
Fascinated, Jas studied them. “They’re dressed identically, every last one of them. They look like gymnasts. Are they athletes?”
“You could say that.” Rom urged her along.
One of the women spotted him, and two dozen blondhaired heads swerved his way. He groaned inwardly. They started to beseech him in Basic slang he prayed Jas could not understand, flaunting their small breasts and swaying their hips in a demonstration of sexual positions that made the palace courtesans of his younger days look like amateurs.
Jas gaped at them. “They’re pleasure servants, aren’t they?”
“That they are.”
As they passed in front of the stage, Rom hunched his shoulders in a futile effort to deflect the relentless and intimate invitations. Jas threw him a sidelong glance. “You’re causing quite a stir, Captain B’kah.”
“It’s my appearance,” he explained uncomfortably.
One corner of her mouth tipped up. “Yeah, well, you are incredibly handsome.”
“I’m Vash Nadah.”
“That, too.”
Clenching his jaw, he explained, “Vash Nadah are raised to respect women—and to be skilled lovers. Everyone knows this.”
Jas blushed, as he knew she would. Then she linked her arm possessively around his. He grinned at the unconscious gesture, and how she twisted around for one last look as they left the platform behind. Suddenly she said in alarm, “He is!”
“He is what? Who is what?” Rom’s fingers curled around the laser pistol he kept hidden in his cloak.
Jas lowered her voice. “That man there, behind the two traders—he’s been following us since the marketplace.”
“Keep walking.” Rom focused straight ahead. “Tell me what he looks like.”
“He’s huge,” she whispered urgently. “I can’t see his face, though. He’s wearing a hood.”
“What else?”
“A brown cloak, thigh length.”
The tension went out of him. “Knee boots?”
She nodded.
“Light brown knee boots? With black soles?”
“Yes.”
“A cloak with a double row of stitching down the front?”
“As a matter of fact, he is.” She edged aside her hood and eyed Rom suspiciously.
He could no longer hide his smile. “It’s Muffin.”
Her head whipped around. Then her head snapped back. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You knew he was my bodyguard.”
“Yes, but, well…You’re right,” she conceded. “I just never pictured him following us here.”
“Which is his job, one he normally does quite well. I don’t know whether to laud you on your commendable situational awareness, or berate Muffin for his lack of stealth.”
“Do neither and you’ll make us all happy.” She peered over her shoulder and, of all things, blew Muffin a kiss. The man hastily tugged his hood lower and faded into the crowd.
Chuckling, Rom said, “when you are alone, he will stay closer.”
Her step faltered. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Muffin. He will be your bodyguard during your travels.”
“Are you serious?”
“Quite.”
“But you’ll need him at Skull’s Doom.”
“There I’ll have the protection of my entire crew. You’re a woman traveling alone. Simply forget that he’s here. He has his own accommodations near you. Whatever sights you choose to see, he’ll accompany you—somewhat more discreetly, I hope.”
They slowed as they entered the gardens of the Romjha Hotel. Rom inhaled deeply and savored the setting. In the ten years since he’d last been to the Depot and passed through these gardens, nothing had changed. Towering fountains filled the air with a cold, crisp mist, softening the harsh edges of the surrounding structures. Birds flitted inside roomy cages, filling the courtyard with song. It was a singular oasis in a gritty, urban port. Yet his stomach twisted into the usual knots.
Jas framed his face with her hands. “Can’t I change your mind about coming inside?” He shook his head, and she nodded in understanding. Her voice softened. “Thank you for bringing me here. And for last night.” Wonder swam in her gaze. “I won’t ever forget you.”
At her words, every muscle in his body went rigid. You’ll return here, only to find her gone. The old fears of abandonment plowed into him: the Balkanor angel, his father, the other Vash Nadah families, they had all turned their backs on him without a care. He’d ventured to hope Jas was different. But how would he know for sure unless he allowed fate to run its course? “This is not good-bye,” he stated. “I’ll be waiting for you in the arrivals terminal in precisely two standard days.”
“I know.” She flung her arms over his shoulders and stretched up on her toes. “I’ll be there.”
He brought his mouth down over hers and lifted her against him, drinking in her passion, her faith in him. His absolution.
In that one dizzying, exhilarating moment, nothing existed but the two of them, no pasts conspiring to keep them apart, no old wounds that needed healing. Then an overpowering sense of foreboding chilled him, like a cloud passing over the sun. He gripped her shoulders and slowly pushed her back. He tucked his thumb beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “Two days, angel.” His thumb lingered a moment longer; then he swept his cape around him and walked away, leaving his heart behind.
Jas curled her arms around her stomach and watched Rom’s long strides carry him away from her, his proud posture that of a king, reflecting thousands upon thousands of years of royal ancestry.
He did not look back.
She watched as he had a brief conversation with Muffin, then disappeared into the crowd. Shaking off a moment of longing, she saw her new protector begin a slow stroll along the pathways, staying well within view. Rom had been sweet to make sure she was looked after, and certainly Muffin was capable.
She carried her travel bag to the nearest bench and arranged her cloak over the cold, wet stone. A light mist was falling. Burrowing into the snug warmth of Rom’s cloak, she peered into the birdcage closest to her. There, incredible feathery creatures flitted around their cage. Some had feathers that resembled fur, while the green-spotted ones clinging the wire mesh had curled snouts and six legs.
Fluffy yellow birds scratched for feed on the floor of the aviary. They looked like chicks—cheeped like them, too—and might have been cute if they weren’t baldheaded, with gnarled beaks that would make vultures proud. Curiouser and curiouser, she thought. Alice couldn’t have found Wonderland much stranger than this.
Gradually the novelty of the birds wore off. Emptiness swamped her, as it had after the crash, as it did after her dreams, something she hadn’t once felt on board the Quillie. Yet this time she understood the reason behind the desolation: she missed Rom. He’d filled the void inside her as no one ever had. Maybe there was something to the concept of a soul mate, what she’d dismissed mere weeks ago as New Age hype. The thought gave her a chill.
Recalling the palm reading Tina had given her in Betty’s gallery, Jas unfurled hands she hadn’t realized were clenched into fists and stared at the webwork of lines etched there.
There has been heartache and disappointment in your past, yet this pain will continue to make you stronger, strength you will need for your true love.
The prediction reverberated inside her. Without warning, tears swelled, and she bit the inside of her cheek to subdue the impulse to cry.
He will require the full power of your spirit, your faith…your flesh.
Not all men were like her ex-husband. Dan and the men in her family had proven that. And Rom. But what if her magical, destiny-driven feelings for Rom shut off, without warning, as they had with Jock, leaving her bereft, while Rom continued to demand what she was incapable of giving him?
Trust…believe…
Yes. That was exactly what she was going to do. She gathered her things and set out toward the Romjha with a sense of inevitability, of certainty. If her postcrash dreams were the key to figuring out the path her life had taken, then her relationship with Rom was the key to understanding the dreams. Then she could enjoy her time with him with a clear conscience and none of the guilt that had ravaged her life. That alone kept her walking.
From the moment Jas stepped into the vast, open-air lobby, she understood Rom’s reluctance to come here. The place was a veritable shrine to his ancestors. Little wonder he’d stayed close to the frontier all these years, far from such incessant reminders of the family that had shunned him.
A lifelike statue of Romjha, the original B’kah, towered above the bustling crowd of intergalactic travelers. It was easily thirty feet tall—and solid gold, she’d bet. Romjha stood with his legs apart, his arms poised and ready for battle. His features were rugged, resolute, and his eyes, looking toward a long-ago horizon, were as perceptive and intelligent as Rom’s.
Anger edged aside her awe. Romjha might be the “hero of the realm,” as the plaque so plainly stated, but the current B’kah ruler, Rom’s father, must be a heartless man. How else could he turn his only son into an outcast? The way she saw it, Rom deserved a statue of his own. He’d saved the galaxy from a sociopath intent on destroying them all. And all his father cared about was Rom’s damned sperm count.
“Pardon me.” A man wrapped in a long black cloak eased past her and a nearby couple to lay a bundle at the statue’s feet. As he meditated in silence, Jas noticed for the first time the other items scattered around Romjha’s huge boots. A dish of exotic fruits, gloves, a colorfully embroidered scarf, a scroll tied with a silk ribbon. Charity? Signs of respect? Or had hero worship blended with religion?
Impulsively she twisted off one of her silver bangles and set it on the base of the statue—for good luck…and in hopes that Romjha could guide Rom toward some semblance of inner peace.
A clammy breeze swept in from outside the hotel. It ruffled the hem of her cape and tried to lure her hair from the shelter of her hood. Clutching her cloak around her, Jas hoisted her travel bag onto her shoulder and headed across the lobby.
Her instincts prickled, and she slowed. Someone was following her. She peered over her shoulder, half expecting to find Muffin—though she’d already noticed him walking ahead of her. But all she saw was a preoccupied sea of travelers.
Be cautious, not fearful.
She pressed her bag closer to her hip and strode forward. The hotel brimmed with wealth, in contrast to the underlying sense of decay outside. The magnificent floor and much of the furniture were carved from stone the color of caramel, shot through with russet stripes. She veered toward what she assumed was the reception desk, where a clerk dressed in a crisp blue uniform with silver piping was shuffling through a handful of plastic cards that passed for Basic currency. Young, like Zarra, and even blonder, he sported a row of tiny silver squares glued down the bridge of his prominent nose. Skin jewelry, Rom had explained earlier when she’d seen others adorned this way.
“Good morning,” she said to get his attention.
He greeted her with a respectful bow. It would be hard getting used to Earth manners again after a year of this. His gaze flicked over her cloak and hesitated on the clasp at her neck. Immediately his manner became more deferential. “Honored lady, how may I help you?” He stooped to peer under her hood.
“A room, please,” she stated, tossing the hood back off her head. He drew back, his expression one of curiosity and surprise. She explained dryly, “I’m from the frontier.”
As if that explained everything, he relaxed. “Have you a reservation, honored lady?”
“Yes, a standard room.” It was what the reporter had stayed in when he was at the Depot, and what she had asked Terz to request from the hotel when he radioed them earlier.
The clerk stored the currency cards he’d been counting in a drawer. “The length of your stay, please?”
“Two days.” She handed him a paper card, one of a dozen she’d prewritten with her name in Basic letters. “My name is Jasmine Hamilton.”
He bowed again, then busied himself at his viewscreen. Scrutinizing the wafer-thin display, he said, “I have a mountain view, if you prefer.”
What mountains? She hadn’t seen a thing through the smog. “Fine, whatever you have.”
“Your method of payment?”
“Salt.” She reached into her waist pouch, withdrawing and handing him one of the vials she’d used to separate her booty into smaller, more manageable quantities. He brought it to a computerized scale, where she was relieved to see him measure out a half teaspoon–sized scoop. It gave her a better idea of how fast she’d spend her salt. The device began beeping, testing for authenticity and purity. After a long tone, it beeped again and dispensed her change in Basic currency, a light blue plastic card, which she slipped into her waist pouch along with the vial. “This is of the highest quality.” His voice dropped. “Almost pure.”
“It’s Morton table salt. Iodized,” she confided under her breath. He nodded slowly, and she couldn’t resist: “‘When it rains, it pours.’”
“Ah…of course.” Clearly befuddled, he swiveled his viewscreen so she could see. “Your door code, honored lady.”
The four numbers were the closest she’d get to a room key. “Memorize them,” Kendall Smith had advised his Earth public. That was what was done here. Repeating the Basic numbers several times in her head, she thanked the clerk and left. “When in Rome,” she reasoned, “do as the Romans.”
Two days later, after exploring most of the upper floor of the Depot art museum, Jas rested on a bench in a room where the main attraction was a free-form sculpture made from the same alloy as the glow-jewelry Rom had bought her. Recessed lights alternately dimmed and brightened, making different areas of the sculpture come alive. Not all of it was luminescent, she realized after a few fascinated minutes. The artist had ingeniously chosen which parts he wanted to hold the light, and which parts he didn’t, creating absolute magic as the outer illumination rose and died. While she scribbled notes and sketched, she pondered new techniques she could bring to her own work. Two women strolled in, the same pair she’d seen entering the museum shortly after she had. Jas lowered her pencil. After what Rom had told her, she hadn’t expected to see anyone else here.
The pair sat on the opposite end of her bench, and Jas returned their warm smiles. The taller of the two was a patrician-looking woman about Jas’s age, with chin-length hair the color of Rom’s. She unfastened her fluffy gray cloak, opened a sketchpad, and, as her shorter companion looked on, she began to draw. Taking the risk of appearing hopelessly nosy, Jas craned her neck to see. “Are you an artist?” she asked.
“Yes,” the woman responded with a serene smile. “My name is Beela. What is yours?” As they went through the introductions, Jas felt the instant bond she often did with others in her field.
“My sister Janay is an artist, as well,” Beela pointed out.
Jas glanced from Beela to Janay. Sisters, hmm? Talk about the strange inconsistency of genetics. Janay was fair, for a non-Earth type, with wide, pleasant features, whereas Beela’s bronze coloring was closer to Rom’s. Beela also shared his long, aristocratic nose and sculpted cheekbones. Didn’t that mean that she, too, was of the Vash Nadah?
Jas clasped her hands in her lap and smiled. “I can’t tell you how nice this is—meeting other artists so early in my trip. Painting is my livelihood on my homeworld.”
“Earth,” Beela said, nodding.
“Your hair color,” Beela explained, fingering the chain of a necklace half-hidden in the folds of her cloak. “It gives you away. My family and I have viewed images of the gentleman from your homeworld. We were very much taken with his appearance. And also by the news that another Earth-dweller followed him here, a woman. After it was discovered, it made big news on your planet.” Her smile softened her features, but not her penetrating gaze. “The Depot is smaller than it looks; few actually live here. Word travels fast. Your arrival—it was no secret.”
“I see.” A flicker of unease shivered through Jas. The idea of others knowing her whereabouts made her uncomfortable. She was glad Muffin was outside, meandering through the corridors, pretending to be interested in fabric art.
Beela slid her hands out of the way so Jas could view what she was sketching. The drawing wasn’t rendered in pencil or charcoal as she’d expected, but in a vivid medium resembling pastels: star-strewn black space, where a burst of colors bloomed, concentric rings of bright white fading into shades of yellow, orange, and finally blue and indigo. But what drew her were the ethereal rays of light emanating from the center.
“Riveting,” Jas remarked quietly. “It reminds me of water when you throw a pebble into a still pond…a deep, dark pond at sunset.”
“Sunrise, actually.” Janay had finally spoken.
Beela cast her a sharp glance. The woman’s fingers darted to her mouth. Lips pressed together, she withdrew a large pad of paper from her portfolio. On the top page was a virtual replica of Beela’s drawing. But it was flat and lacked the passion of her sister’s.
Jas employed tact as best she could, murmuring words of praise. “Forgive my ignorance in asking, but what is it?”
Beela’s aristocratic features came alive. “It is our galaxy’s heart. A place the Trade scientists call a domain of cataclysmic violence, a black hole, a hungry monster swallowing mass, light, even time. But that is not the case.” Her pale eyes glazed over, and she absently caressed her necklace with her fingertips. “It is the womb from which all life comes. And where all life will return, in the end.”
The woman looked to be in rapture. Chills prickled the hairs on the back of Jas’s neck. Good Lord, did she herself appear this way to others, too? Driven and slightly demented? She thought of the desert landscapes she had been compelled to create in the aftermath of her dreams, how, locked inside her studio, she hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept until the period of furious creativity passed, leaving her depleted but never quite satisfied. The black hole must inspire Beela in the same way the desert affected Jasmine. The insight evoked a sudden emotional identification with the gifted woman. “Do you display your work in a gallery?”
“At our colony. In the mountains above the city. In fact, my sister and I will return there this evening.” Beela regarded Jas warmly, toying with the chain around her neck. “You must join us for dinner. The others love to have visitors. Particularly travelers from afar, such as yourself.”
With a twinge of genuine regret, Jas shook her head. When Rom returned tonight, she wanted to be with no one but him. “I’m sorry. I’m meeting someone this evening.”
“Oh, you must come. You have time. I have something that I know will interest you. Please, what could be so important that you can’t spare a little time?”
Beela so quivered with urgency that Jas had to press her lips together to keep from chuckling. The woman sounded like the galactic version of a time-share sales rep. “As much as I’d like to, I can’t. I’ll be leaving the Depot soon.” Bowing to her inner judgment, she declined to say more. “Do you have a card, though, a way I can reach you the next time I pass through?”
Beela pressed a glittering, microthin disk into Jas’s hand. Not knowing what to do with it, Jas felt more like a frontier woman than ever before. “Your business card?”
“Yes. Data on the colony, and how to get there.” Beela lifted the golden chain from her neck and dropped it over Jas’s head. “And now, a gift.”
Jas protested. “I can’t accept this—”
“Bah. I make them at the colony and have many, many more.” Beela’s motherly tone reminded Jas of Betty. “Keep it, Jasmine Hamilton; meditate on it. May it lead you to the truth.”
Which Jas now hoped wasn’t a slide show on how to make a fortune selling black-hole merchandise. Thanking Beela again, she wished the friendly but peculiar sisters luck with their ventures and beat a hasty retreat.
Outside, the dreary, overcast sky seemed to envelop her, dampening her mood, and she promised herself a hot bath when she returned to her room, one that would be a thousand times better if she could share it with Rom.
Muffin trailed her into the gardens of the Romjha. Before heading inside, she paused to say hi to the birds. “You guys get cuter every day,” she said in English to the green six-legged ones. “Like parakeets on steroids.”
They trilled wildly, scrambling over the mesh cage until the entire flock had gathered in front of her. They’d never paid her any mind before. Jas glanced around uneasily to see if anyone else had noticed. “What’s caught your eye? This?” She held Beela’s necklace toward them. Recoiling, they squawked. Curious, Jas lifted the medallion a little higher. There was an explosion of green feathers. The birds dashed to all sides of the cage, as far from her as possible, where they chirped sullenly, peering at her with accusing eyes.
Perplexed, Jas lowered her gaze to the engraved ornament attached to the flat-linked chain. The piece glowed in the dull light, as if from within. An exotic alloy, she supposed, but still a benign piece of jewelry—if not to birds.
As she walked into the hotel, she slowed her pace in front of Romjha’s towering statue to cradle Beela’s weighty medallion in her hand, tilting it from side to side, contemplating the way the woman had positioned the sunlike image from her drawing above two hands clasped together in prayer. One man’s one woman’s. An unsettling recognition flared in her at the sight. Considering all the information she’d crammed into her head recently, she wasn’t surprised that she couldn’t figure out why. It was a nice piece, though. But too masculine, not to her personal taste. “What do you think,” she asked Romjha, “something your great-thousands-of-timesover-grandson might like?”
Blinking, Jas gave her head a shake. Had she not known better, she’d swear the old warrior had just frowned.