Liguanian Sector, XA-01 System, Flagship Olympia

  Ensign Sandra Tucker meticulously pinned her light brown hair into place. Not a lock could be found loose, not a curl awry from the place she’d put it. Truthfully, she had never liked doing her hair so severely. She would rather have braided it, or left it down, but there was no room for imperfections aboard the Olympia. The lead yeoman had drilled that into her. They were to look perfect, and be perfect at all times. After all, this was the finest ship in the fleet, and the crew its truest representatives. The skills of an officer could stand on their own merit, but yeomen were replaceable, and the Flagship could only tolerate the best.

  The best… Sandra would never have placed herself among them. She had hardly seen a real crisis and had no social network to call favors upon. She could run papers, serve food and clean, but felt woefully inept at the politicking the other yeomen did. They wanted Reeter’s attention, and somehow, Sandra was the one that possessed it. He wasn’t shy about the way his gaze lingered, the way he grabbed her hands or the way he brushed up against her.

  It made her uncomfortable, but she was too afraid to push him away. The power imbalance between them was too great. She was a yeoman, a glorified secretary aboard this ship, and he was its commander. He was her superior, and he could ruin her career with the slightest amount of effort, have her ejected from the fleet without veterans’ benefits. And, as she was responsible for waiting hand and foot on his needs, Sandra had seen Reeter’s temperament in the meetings he held. He wasn’t the perfect man that presented to the press. There was an anger in him, and when it rose, he broke things. To be on the receiving end of that anger was a terrifying thought, so she dusted some foundation on her cheeks to lighten her freckles, and checked herself in the mirror one last time, scouring her appearance for any imperfection.

  Another week. She could do this for another week. Then, at Base Oceana, she could request a new assignment, perhaps even go back to her old one. The one she’d been yanked from with no warning a week ago.

  She took a deep breath and turned from the mirror, back toward the main living space of her small quarters. The space she had been granted was smaller than most hotel rooms, room enough for a bed, a nightstand and a closet. There was a desk on one side that folded down from the wall, and a chair that sat in the corner. It was tight, but the quarters on most ships were tight. She was lucky to have been granted a private space, given her rank and position.

  But it didn’t feel as lucky when she found Reeter lounging on the bed behind her. It abruptly felt like purposeful isolation as she stifled the gasp on her lips. “Admiral,” she said, remembering to hide her trembling hands behind her in a proper parade rest. “What are you doing here?” When had he come into her room? How long had he been there, watching her from behind?

  Reeter only smiled, that perfect smile that had made the women of the worlds swoon. “It’s my ship, beautiful.” He had the right to be wherever he pleased. “And I did so enjoy the view.”

  That smile of his made her feel ill. His very presence was like a heavy caramel, too sickly sweet. She felt violated, having him here, lounging upon the sky-blue comforter cover she’d bought on leave – her one small taste of individuality in a ship of uniforms and mass-produced supplies. Leave, she wanted to say. These were her quarters. He had no right to be here. Except that what he said was true. This was his ship. Nothing aboard was off-limits to him. Even if the door to her quarters had a lock, he would have had the key. But aboard ship there was no lock. Emergency procedure dictated there were no privacy locks and decompression locks were the only way to seal a hatch. In the end, Sandra could only swallow her feelings of disgust and paint a smile upon her lips, one polite but not too inviting. “How may I help you, sir?”

  “I have a job for you, Sandra,” he said, that faux pleasantness of his not quite reaching his emerald eyes.

  Ensign Tucker barely managed to keep her smile from faltering. She had never given him permission to use her name. Rank, even to the yeomen was the proper form of address, but Reeter had little interest in maintaining a professional distance. She knew that just by the way he looked at her. “Of course, sir. How may I assist you?”

  “I’d like you to accompany me on a small trip. You’ll be back before your shift is over.”

  Her heart plummeted. That small trip could only be to one destination, the defunct station the ship had been sailing toward for the last few hours. “Sir, I am not rated to be on the away team. I don’t have training for hostile environments.”

  Reeter laughed as if she’d said something funny. “I’ll be sure to take care of you, Sandra, and I’ve been promised our destination is far from hostile.”

  “Sir,” she said, “I’m not trained.” And, I’m not comfortable.

  But Sandra wasn’t given the chance to protest. Reeter abruptly rose to his feet, a towering bulk of chiseled muscle. He grabbed her arm, even as she stumbled a half-step back. “It was not a request,” he said, leaning toward her. “You will accompany me, because I truly enjoy the company of a beautiful woman.” He reached forward and freed a lock of her hair from the pin that held it, twisting its silken texture between his fingers.

  Sandra stood paralyzed. Reeter was a large man, and every aspect of his figure had been toned by workouts that built appealing, even if not the most useful muscle. Every aspect of him was meant to be impressive, and there was no question of his strength. She felt like a dainty toy in his grip, and in this proximity, even her short, startled breaths picked up the scent of his cologne, the coolness of eucalyptus and mint.

  “Hangar deck, fifteen minutes,” he said, lowly. “Do not make me wait.”

  And like that, he released her, turned on his heel, and vanished, the door swishing closed behind him.

  Sandra stood like a statue for a moment, then reached up with her shaking hand to pin her hair back up. Stars. What had she done so wrong to be face to face with the worlds’ hero and realize he was no hero at all?

  Even so, she began to collect herself. She stripped the comforter cover off the bed, and wadded it up, wishing she could have been calmed by the scent of mint and eucalyptus that wafted from the fabric. Then, after another moment of drawing long, forced breaths, she left and headed for the hangar deck.

  She had no real choice. There was no disobeying Reeter aboard this ship. He would turn on her, and so would the rest of the crew. The other yeomen idolized him as if he were a god amongst mortals. Sandra had never been that enthralled by him. Admittedly, she’d been flattered by his attention at first, but that hadn’t lasted long. He was too handsy, too quick to frustration. Now, she could only fear that she would inevitably make him angry simply because she wanted nothing to do with him. She didn’t crave the attention he bestowed upon her, yet had no idea how to get rid of it.

  Dressed in the crisp black jacket, white blouse and skirt of the traditional yeoman’s uniform, Sandra headed for the Olympia’s hangar deck. Her short heels clicked along the floor. Those shoes had never felt practical at her last assignment and felt less so now. They were not uncomfortable, the heel less than two inches tall, but they could have given better traction. Of course, she, as a yeoman, was never meant to be running.

  There was a part of Sandra that enjoyed walking the Olympia’s corridors. Here, she was invisible. Other crew moved toward their posts or patrolled for security, but she was a yeoman, and thus considered unimportant. Here, it was assumed she was running an errand for some officer, and most of the engineers and Marines ignored her. The other yeomen didn’t, but that was another matter. They were jealous that she’d been appointed as Reeter’s assistant, and didn’t know that Sandra would have gladly traded with any of them. She would have given anything to be as invisible as she felt walking to and from her duties.

  The ship was brightly lit, and cleaner than any station Sandra had ever worked on. The Olympia’s metals were a shale gray that almost looked as if it had been painted, yet the coloration was too perfect for that. The ship’s metals simply were that hue, and had slight, telltale shimmer of metal, as if made from pressed flakes of silver.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Screens were built into the walls at regular intervals, glowing with data and updates as the ship moved through the system. Each of them was connected to the Olympia’s ship-wide network, allowing instantaneous communications and live updates from the bridge to even the lowest echelons of the crew. Officers and technicians stopped beside the terminals every so often, sending off messages and checking the status of their teams.

  The Olympia’s bulkheads were otherwise smooth. The corridors could be sealed off in sections in case of a decompression, but the doors that did so were concealed within the surrounding walls, only to clamp down when the atmospheric sensors detected a drop, or when the ship’s controlling network commanded it. It gave the ship a sleeker, more modern feel than the others Sandra had visited, where the decompression seals had been bulky and obvious disturbances. But the Olympia was one of, if not the newest ship in the fleet, and as the flagship, had been built to accommodate the newest, finest technologies.

  Under other circumstances, it might have been an honor to serve on such a ship. She’d been excited at first, only to realize that the reality of this assignment was not as glorious as its surroundings. It made her wonder how the other ships in the fleet were. Publicly, Reeter had a very good reputation, that of a chivalrous gentleman. The reality was nothing that pretty, so how were ships helmed by commanders with worse reputations? How did their crews get by? Did they keep their heads down and pray they were never noticed? That no attention was ever drawn to them?

  Could it truly be that much worse than this? Dreading the moment that Reeter grew more impatient than he already was? It was inevitable. Sandra knew that. It was in the way he looked at her: with desire, and not a hint of respect. She was a want to him, a treat, not a person with her own tastes or desires. It was unfathomable to Reeter that she might not be interested in his affections. His ego simply couldn’t comprehend it, and that was terrifying. He would never see anything he did as inappropriate. He would see it as a gift he bestowed upon her.

  And Sandra wished she knew an escape – somewhere she could hide, because this was exactly the situation the veteran yeomen had always told her to run from. Undue interest from an officer would only end poorly for replaceable crew like her. The best assignment was a boring one, and she knew this journey to the station would be anything but.

  Rounding the last corner, the Olympia’s automated doors swished open, revealing the hangar deck. Large overhead fixtures cast crisp light down, whiter than natural sunlight and less warm. They were angled to overlap, minimizing shadow for the crew working maintenance on the Olympia’s glistening groups of sleek fighter craft. The floor was freshly waxed, not a scratch upon it. The markings upon it denoting work zones, vehicle paths and crew travel lanes were perfect, the colors distinct, lines sharp. She minded the warnings as her training had prepared her, but felt out of place here. Paper pushers like her did not often need to walk the hangar deck. It wasn’t that the hangar deck was dirty. She had been on assignments where it was, but the Olympia’s was near flawless. No stains. No loose tools. It was that her crisply ironed uniform, reminiscent of a suit, wasn’t safety attire. Most of the crew here were technicians in orange fire-safe jumpsuits and safety shoes, or pilots on duty inspecting their ships in flight suits. Her uniform felt impractical in comparison. Briefly, she wondered if she ought to go and change into something more flexible. Her jacket, dress shirt and skirt did not feel like the best choice to wear when visiting a defunct old space station, but she was not given time to seriously consider the action.

  “Sandra,” a large hand came down upon her shoulder. “Perfect timing, as always.”

  She tried not to visibly cringe when she recognized Reeter’s voice, coupled with the disturbingly enticing scent of eucalyptus and mint. His hand felt massive upon her shoulder, much heavier than it needed to be as it spun her toward one of the small transports waiting on the hangar deck. “Of course, sir.” She forced a polite smile back upon her face.

  Reeter stepped her closer to a transport. A pilot waited alongside it, a helmet tucked beneath his arm as he stood rigidly in the rubbery skin of a flight suit. Two of the largest Marines Sandra had ever seen stood beside the waiting ship’s airlock – Reeter’s personal guard. They were known amongst the crew for that, and that alone, vastly capable of bashing heads, but not so great at complex plans. Perhaps that was why Reeter favored them. They were strong, but not imaginative enough to plot against him. There was also a wiry looking engineer with a toolbox beside them, but he avoided Sandra’s gaze, and seemed determined to disappear into the background. She wished she could have joined him, as Reeter’s hand wound around the back of her neck. The way he traced his fingers along her skin was clearly meant to feel suggestive, but to Sandra, it felt a few inches shy of a chokehold. She couldn’t hide the way she tensed, utterly uncertain how to shake him off. She was afraid to, especially with all these other people around.

  Reeter wouldn’t take kindly to a public rejection, so she took a deep breath and continued her mantra. Another week. She could survive this another week, then just quietly request a transfer. Then, Reeter could turn his attention to one of the yeomen that actually wanted it.

  “Load up,” Reeter commanded. “We have something very important to recover aboard that station,” and his destiny would wait no longer.

  The pilot moved immediately, stepping onto the gray wing of the transport and disappearing into the cockpit. The engineer was a little more hesitant, but ultimately refused to question the order. The two Marines remained at attention, waiting for Reeter to board first.

  Reeter dropped his hand from Sandra’s neck and stepped up onto the wing, making the awkward height of the movement look easy. Then he turned and offered out a hand, smiling that perfect smile, “Sandra.”

  He looked like a prince from a fairy tale in that moment, his thick blond hair perfectly parted, his green eyes glittering like emeralds. He was so flawlessly handsome, it was easy to see why he’d become the fleet’s leading propaganda model. It was obvious why he’d shot through the ranks. He oozed confidence and charisma, but Sandra had served his drinks behind closed doors, and seen his ambitions. Her stomach flip-flopped uneasily, even as she reached out to take his manicured hand.

  “There’s no need to be nervous,” he said, helping her up onto the wing. “This is not a dangerous mission.” It was a simple retrieval.

  “Yes, sir,” Sandra said, as she could think of nothing else. He held onto her a little longer than necessary, pulled her a bit too close, but she was spared any further infractions by a wash of purple light.

  “Charleston.”

  Reeter dropped Sandra’s hand, and tensed his jaw. “Manhattan,” he greeted the purple hologram.

  “I trust you know how to proceed?” the AI asked, its avatar sustained by the holographic projectors that lined the Olympia’s decks.

  “Of course. This is hardly a challenge.” There would be no resistance aboard this defunct station. All the away team needed to do was dock, and then locate the mainframe of the station computer. Once it was brought back online, the part of Manhattan that had been abandoned here would be freed.

  “Very well,” the AI said. “Then proceed. What you are exposed to on the station will better you,” she said. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

  Yet, the AI wasn’t looking at Reeter when it said that. Its purple pixie-face was staring straight at Sandra, an eagerness in its violet eyes. That wasn’t the first time Manhattan had looked at her. Many times, Sandra had noticed the AI staring at her. It was as discomforting now as it had ever been. Sandra felt like an insect under a magnifying glass.

  An experiment. There had been whispers of that when the Olympia had first left Base Oceana, rumors in the mess that the AI inhabiting the ship was taking people, changing them.

  But those rumors had vanished, along with any unease about serving aboard a ship that hosted an AI. The crew had gotten used to it far quicker than Sandra had expected, for it was strange to have this entity here and aware of her every move, always watching and studying.

  Manhattan had brought her here. Sandra was certain of it. She’d been presented as a gift to Reeter, an offering from the AI, as if Sandra herself was no matter at all. She’d been so overwhelmed by the strangeness of it at first and had been too afraid to say anything since. Even now, between Reeter and this artificial intelligence, Sandra felt like a decoration. She was no agent in this matter, simply a pretty piece of furniture on the set of the story unfolding around her.

  “Today,” Reeter reminded, “we will re-chart the course of humanity.”

  “It will not be without discomfort, but let the New Era commence.” Manhattan gave a final nod, and then vanished.

  Reeter smiled, pleased, and then wrapped an arm around Sandra’s waist. “You should be honored,” he told her, guiding her into the transport ship’s cabin. “You will be there when humanity’s great awakening begins.”

  His honeyed words sounded so majestic, and Sandra knew that he truly believed them as he buckled into the seat beside her. Reeter wanted change for these worlds, wanted to free humanity from its resource constraints and cycles of violence. People believed in that, believed in him, but there was a poison to his ideals, an inconvenient truth. Reeter’s future included a great and final war. He expected and incentivized it. Sandra had watched him train daily for combat, honing his tactics and martial skill, because he wanted to be the master of that war – the one who ended it when the time was right.

  He sought a better humanity, but she questioned how war could improve anything. Humanity was in a crisis. There was no question of that. The worlds were corrupt, the power imbalance between the rich and the poor festered like an infected wound. That division had come to an explosive head in the Frontier Rebellion and unrest that followed it. But the Rebellion had left nothing but scars. It had solved nothing, changed the status of a few populations, some for the better, and some for the worse. Resources had been wasted, planets ruined, and Sandra failed to see how another conflict could avoid the same fallout. But, no one else had offered a solution. No one else had offered hope for a better future, and hope could be a dangerous weapon.

  Especially when it was in the hands of an ambitious man.