“What are you doing here?” Berg snapped.
The Circinian officer smiled, a gleaming shark’s smile. “Canopus is not party to the dispute between Illyria and the Federation. And my money is as good as anyone’s, Captain . . .”
“Berg. Douglas Berg.”
The Circinian smiled. And I am Car Negdren.” He drained the shot glass and set it down on the bar with a sharp clack. “Thank you, Captain. Perhaps you’ll let me return the favor some time.”
“Sure,” said Berg tightly. “If we run into each other again.”
“Oh, I’m sure we will,” said Negdren. The beast slipped his arm around the woman’s waist like he owned her. “Ready to go, Arissa?”
“Quite ready.” The pair turned to leave, but not before the beautiful woman named Arissa offered Berg a dismissive smile that cut him deeper than any wound he’d ever received in battle.
• • •
After the incident in the bar, Berg would’ve left the Bacchanal on the next Trondheimal-bound shuttle if not for his buddies. It was a warrior’s duty to watch his comrades’ backs, even on leave. Especially if there were Circs about. So Berg drifted moodily through the mutant freak-shows and the skin palaces and the gaming emporiums, partaking of nothing but the occasional drink and keeping his eyes open.
Unable to think of anything save the woman, and how she’d gone off with that pig, Negdren.
Sometime during his wandering he found himself at a small hatch labeled, “The Chapel of Stars.” Berg was not a religious man, but he had a sudden longing to find a quiet corner in which to be alone. So he slipped a token into the lock slot and waited for the hatch to cycle.
He stepped into a dark space lit only by starlight. The chapel was a ferroglass bubble cast into the shape of a church’s nave and thrust out from the ship’s hull, so worshippers would feel that they knelt in the very palm of God. Berg shut the hatch softly behind him and took a careful step forward. Here, noise felt like heresy.
Slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness and after a time, Berg realized he was not alone. A woman knelt close by in the thin light of the stars, head down, hands pressed palm to palm.
“Great Father,” she whispered and her soft, clear voice startled Berg. It was Arissa. “Please look after little Katrina who fate long ago placed in your care. And give me the strength to do what must be done.”
She’s praying, Berg realized, mortified. “Arissa,” he said softly.
She jumped to her feet and turned on him. “Are you following me? How dare you!” He could see the fury written on her face even in the darkness.
Berg held his hands up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
She reached out to slap him and he caught her wrist in his hand.
She jerked away from him. “Let go of me.”
Berg instantly let go.
She rubbed her wrist and Berg saw a sneer twist her pretty lips. “The brave warrior,” she said derisively.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to.”
“No,” she said bitterly. “You never mean to.”
“Hey,” said Berg. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you better than you know yourself.”
“Why do you hate me so much?” asked Berg.
“You’re a mercenary,” she said. “Men pay you to fight.”
“What do men pay you to do?” he shot back.
This time she did slap him, hard enough to sting. Hard enough that he tasted blood. She stood with her legs apart, hands clenched into fists, breathing hard.
She was standing very close to him, close enough that he could hear the angry rasp of her breath, almost feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest, smell the scent of her: soap and sweat and rose petals.
“Look,” he said as calmly as he could, “As long as there are men like your precious Negdren in the universe there need to be men like me, too.”
She fixed him with a hard stare and then she stepped past him and stalked out of the space.
• • •
Berg was at a bar quietly nursing the pain with a low-rent bourbon when she found him again. He knew it was her even before she spoke, because she put her hand on his shoulder and leaned up against him so her mouth was right next to his ear. He felt the softness of her breasts pressing against his back.
“Hades Black Label?” she said lightly. “I would’ve thought a MechWarrior could afford better.”
Berg didn’t turn around to look at her. “My father always said, ‘If you’re gonna get drunk, no sense doing it on the good stuff.’”
“Sounds like a wise man,” she said.
Berg didn’t say anything. He just took a sip of his bourbon and stared straight ahead.
“I’ve acted badly,” she said after a moment. “Let me make it up to you.”
“Are you offering me a date or a business proposition?” he said bitterly.
“I’m offering you an apology,” she said firmly.
Berg considered not answering, just sitting there until she went away, but her smell was on his uniform now, on his uniform and in his head. He thought about it for a minute, but there was never any doubt about what he was going to do.
He turned around to face her.
She stared down at him, those gray-green eyes locked on his, searching for something.
“Dinner?” he said gently.
She broke into a wide smile. “That would be nice.”
Arissa picked a Polynesian restaurant whose bulkheads were wrapped in a hologram that showed silver moonlight tracing a path across a tranquil black sea. If Berg had been sitting on sand rather than a fine leather chair he would’ve believed he was actually on the beach.
Torches set at each table provided a flickering, yellow illumination, lending the illusion that they were the only diners in the restaurant. Arissa ordered for them: white wine, braised sea bass on a bed of island vegetables, and for dessert fresh pineapple cut by the waiter right at the table.
For most of the meal they ate in
