Seconds?
Minutes?
Hours?
My vision is blurry. I am floating over the asteroid in a slow spin. Strange chrome orbs move across its surface. Slow, methodical. I spin toward space. The stars burn coldly in the distance. I spin again toward the asteroid to see one of the orbs withdrawing a long glistening lance from the head of a Moonie Gold. It comes my way. No rush. No need. I spin back to the stars and remember theSnowballalways sent its messages to Mars through a system of drone relays. I don’t know if it’s close enough. I use my helmet’s voice commands and call up my broadcaster.
“Agea Command, this is Lyria of Lagalos. I’ve hit pay dirt.”
I spin back toward the asteroid to see the orb floating in front of me. It is the size of a horse. A delicate lance protrudes from its center. I stop spinning. The lance creeps toward my visor.
An inhuman voice comes through my com system and fills my helmet.“Sister…why do you hide in the warmblood?”I must be dying. The machine is talking.“Sister…you are injured…”the orb says again, but it is not talking to me.
13
LYRIA
The Rose’s Game
The first thing Iremember from my dream is the crashing of waves. The first thing I feel when I wake is the ache of my wrist. The first thing I see is the chrome orb floating out of the room through a hole in the ceiling. I scramble up, confused.
I am naked. Medical patches cover two wounds on my stomach and a deep cut on my right thigh. My hand is back on like it was never cut off. A pink line encircles my wrist.
The room is circular, clean, and rather grand. The walls are warm wood except for ovals of glass that peer into aqua-blue water filled with coral reefs. Around them, and deeper on, strange creatures swim. Two vaguely human shapes with translucent skin peer back at me from behind a mass of green and pink coral. Their dreamy eyes, big as my fists, are lime green. A lonesome song warbles from their wide mouths.
“Right.”
The room has no distinguishable door, but clothing has been set out for me. I pull on the black pants, socks, and green sweater. The fabric is softer than Liam’s cheek and smells like roses and pine. When I slip on the shoes, a slight hum fills the room and it rotates, showing more of the aquatic world outside the windows. When the rotation stops, one of the windows slides up. A stone path leads down a corridor of evergreen trees.
“Right.”
I follow the path. A night sky peeks through the gaps in the trees,stretching in all directions until the path leads me to a small grove of rose trees. In every direction, the stars and the darkness of space. Between the rose trees, a man waits for me at a table set for tea.
He turns from watching the stars to grace me with a smile. And it does feel like grace. The man is too symmetrical to be handsome. He is beautiful and fragile, with skin as smooth as the shell of a quail’s egg. His eyes are sunset pink. His hair long and white. I recognize him immediately.
“You are safe here, don’t be afraid,” he says.
“I’m not.”
“Safe or afraid?”
“Either. Is Fel dead?”
“Yes.”
I don’t approach the table. It worries me how accustomed I am becoming to death. “How did you sleep?” he asks.
“Badly, but I’m sure you knew that.” I look around the strange room wondering how many cameras monitor it.
“Nightmares can be such beastly refrains,” he says. I grunt. “I had nightmares as a child, and then I woke into one every single day. Such is the life of a Pink. I never could tell which I dreaded more, the nightmares or the reality. I suppose it was the waking hours. In the dreams, there was always the hope it’d be a pleasant one. That’s why I admire Reds so much. They dread dreams more. At least in the waking hours they can struggle instead of merely suffer.”
He gestures to a seat like I’m a long-lost relative come to visit, and he knows the long, bitter road I’ve traveled to reach his house all too well. The urge to fall into him is nearly overwhelming. I feel seen, but not seen enough to drop my wits. I don’t sit.
“I ain’t been out long. Nails haven’t grown much. We ain’t been on a journey. We’re in the asteroid. Ain’t we?” His smile warms my heart, but only its walls. “And by the fact that you’re not hiding your face, I know I’m already dead.”
“You know who I am then?”
“Doesn’t everyone? You’re Matteo Sun. So naw. No tea. I know who you’re married to.”
