Lexi had survived centuries of vampiric intrigues. He had found that in any tight spot, no matter how diabolical or hopeless, there is always a pathway through the darkness. This time, the path seemed narrow, concealed, and unclear. He had never been totally cut off from safety. He knew that the law of averages was against him. Sooner or later, he would be set up in a situation where there was no way out.
A low chime interrupted him.
He turned down the veil shielding his office and suppressed his stress and irritation. “Yes.”
“It’s Francesca.”
He deactivated the veil. Her mouth was a straight line, but her eyes were compassionate. “I have your Honeydew and personals.”
He bowed. Her mouth relaxed into a smile.
“I packed your travel bag. I took the liberty of going down to the storage room to see what’s there. There was one spare jacket and a shirt. Also this – an exercise outfit that you used when you were traveling with Princess Yekaterina. I found the regolith running boots that go with it.”
He shook the clothing out and regarded it. It was an earth-toned tactical training uniform, stamped with a simplified version of Septentrion’s insignia, a bear, crossed swords, and stars. It had matching underlayers – a shirt, undershirt, and leggings. The fabric responded to the touch and melded to the hand; it was interwoven with heat-retaining threads. This was a prototype that he had worn to promote the smart fabric technology. The cloth could change states microscopically and capture body heat, store it, and redistribute it as needed. The insulated running boots were light but strong, reinforced at the ankles and forefeet while retaining flexibility. An overlayer protected the feet and legs from the toxic Martian regolith, which stuck to everything and had the consistency of ground-up glass.
The designers had paid tribute to Lexi’s archaic origins by choosing a twenty-first-century Russian military style that rejected sleekness in favour of survival. Every area requiring movement featured reinforced, segmented panels, recalling Russia’s brutal utilitarian aesthetic. The pants had reinforced hinged knee panels, a detail that immediately created a trademark Spetsnaz silhouette.
Lexi grinned, “I forgot about this! This is good!”
“Mmm-hmm.” Francesca nodded. “Here’s the rest of it – a hat, gloves, visor, even a respirator. Do you need me to go to your place and get anything?”
“No, thank you. I think this will work well. How is The Turning coming?”
“I checked with Angelo. He is half done. He should have it finished by 7 or 8 p.m. for your review.”
“Very good.”
She discreetly placed the bottles of Honeydew on the desk, along with a crystal goblet.
“I’ll come up again when Angelo has completed The Turning.”
He shook his head. “Have him send it to me. I need to concentrate. It’s almost 6, isn’t it? If Angelo doesn’t need you, please go home, Francesca. I’ll review with you both in the morning. Thank you.”
She nodded and withdrew.
Lost in thought, Lexi reactivated the shield and retired to the lavatory for a mist shower. He sank to the warming tiles, suddenly exhausted, like a disoriented mountaineer about to die just short of the summit of Everest. There were too many forces converging upon him at once. He leaned his head back against the wall and let the hot water trickle through his hair.
There must be a throughline.
He could not see it. His heart throbbed and his whole body trembled uncontrollably. His spirit began to float, disconnected from his physical being.
He could feel Primeva’s energy tugging at him, petulantly, like a child who wanted attention. He relented and allowed his psyche to open up to her.
What is it, Primeva? What do you want?
Don’t be afraid. Please don’t worry. I can feel that you’re worried.
Her hands invisibly traced across his chest. He was jaded, withdrawn. Easy for you to say. You don’t have to face – them.
It will be all right. I know it will.
He grimaced without opening his eyes as the water bathed his face. I don’t know what to do. I love you. Why do I love you?
Don’t talk. You don’t have to talk. We can just be together here. No one will know.
And he felt her curl up against him under the water, like a girl seeking shelter in his shadow from a storm. A wave of relief and understanding passed over him, sweeter and more real than the caress of Honeydew. He did not have to explain or reveal anything of his hidden self, his true feelings, the shame, the guilt. A knowing came from her that encompassed everything he was. He could feel her lips trace across his cheek and he smiled painfully, to know for the first time a whisper of complete understanding and forgiveness, without judgment, without conditions or obligations.
I love you. Please don’t worry.
She pulled away. The connection wavered and they separated. He bowed his head, eyes still closed, and wanted the moment back. He rose, turned off the shower, and dried himself, lost in thought as sacred, silent reverence gave way to profane compulsion.
He did not even remember dressing. He wore the black knitted field thermals of Swords’ military: standard Martian barracks wear. Last year, cameras had captured him sneaking out of his building to buy Honeydew at the Palladio Arcade in the middle of the night. The incident had sparked a planetwide fad of vampires wearing officer lounge fatigues.
He sat at the desk, opened the Honeydew, and paused to make a resolution.
If I get through this, I vow to stop drinking Honeydew and find another way to preserve my memories.
His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely pour the shimmering lavender hemoglobin into the goblet. One sip of the otherworldly, faintly marzipan-scented blood derivative, and his physical, mental, and psychic energies blissfully swam back together into a coherent amalgamation. A swallow, and his hands stopped shaking. He wiped sweat from his forehead, exhaled shakily, and began to focus on how he would survive this chessboard.
