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Chapter IV: Games

“Supreme excellence consists ██ breaking th█ enemy's resistance without fighting.”

~ Sun Tzu, 5█4 - 49█ B.C.

(Record Incomplete)

507 A.E. April 24, 08:24:11 Local

JP “Sol” Starwind

New Earth Imperial Order, Delan III, Red Heaven, Sol and Danther’s Apartment

“He what?”

“Yeah,” I reply, taking a sip of CH-12bc, my favorite “thinking” coffee fabrication pattern; I’m tired as hell from last night, my brain running on reserves. “I know.”

“That—that—bastard!”

“Yeah, I know,” I agree, not really having a better word for the guy either.

“If he thinks—if that bastard thinks—!”

“Yeah, I—”

“Stop fucking saying that!” he says, whirling on me.

“Oh, I… sorry, man, my mind isn’t quite awake yet.”

He shakes his head, looking both tired and frustrated. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think we should take the jobs?”

The words are like ice water to the face. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says, a guilty expression souring his face. “It’s just Dowin’s an interplanetary firm—one of the Big Three, for fuck’s sake; they have a practically bottomless credit account. We could make a grab of money and be off, right? Maybe a year or two to build up some capital and finally afford a ship.”

In my addled haze of sleep depravity, I hadn’t considered that. He poses an interesting idea. “I don’t trust Khal.”

“Of course you fucking don’t!” he says, laughing. “The man’s a manipulative asshole! The thing is, we know he’s going to try to screw us, so we have the advantage. It’s a whole lot harder to set a trap when the intended targets are looking for it.”

“Yeah, but knowing Khal, he’ll set a decoy trap to keep the real one hidden or something.”

“We can anticipate that too,” he says, that sort of zealous momentum in his eyes. “We’ll just have to be careful and determine all the variables.”

I remember what Walnut—Voice—said to me. She’s an A.I. that’s managed to outsmart everyone on this planet for decades without the need to hide it and she’s afraid. I open my mouth to bring that up, but I remember the promise I made to Voice.

Instead, I just look up at him. “Danther, you want to head out? Get something to eat?”

The question catches him, and I see his mind switching gears. He nods and then does so again more earnestly. “Yeah… yeah, that sounds good.”

507 A.E. April 24, 08:29:17 Local

Danther Minth

New Earth Imperial Order, Delan III, Red Heaven, Sol and Danther’s Apartment

Sol and I leave the apartment, getting our quadlevs from the garage and heading downtown. Getting on, I remember wanting one of the Tiszian racing crosslevs so badly when I was growing up in Farshore. Who knew I’d end up designing my own. I look over, seeing him grinning.

“What are you thinking, Sol?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I just figure we head into the commercial district and lose the day,” he says, guiding his quadlev into a public transport pod. I follow.

I shrug. “Sounds good, I guess.”

“Been a long ass time since we could go out and not have to constantly watch our backs.” He looks over to me, sees something, and his grin widens.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he replies, getting off his quadlev and leaning against it.

I sigh. “I’m acting ‘normal’ again, eh?”

“I—well…”

“You don’t have to explain.” I sigh again. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s a part of it,” he says, going on anyway. “But not the whole thing.”

“I said don’t worry about it.”

“It’s hard, man! Fuck, you almost killed yourself just to make me—”

“Sol, listen and don’t interrupt,” I say, and he goes quiet. “You’ve always been keeping me from getting what I deserve,” I begin, and he opens his mouth, but I glare at him and he closes it again. “Ever since that time I couldn’t let that little shit Garin—”

“That large shit Garin,” he interrupts, and I grin despite myself.

“You stood up for me and we held out. Fuck, if I hadn’t pissed him off in the first place, we never would have had to leave Farshore—well, indirectly, anyway.”

He shrugs.

“It happens all the time. Some fucking stupid idea gets lodged in my mind and I just can’t…”

“Dislodge it?”

I shake my head, disgusted with myself. “Yeah. That, among other things.”

He laughs. “You’re too smart for your own good.”

He’s not wrong.

“You’re weak in places,” he says, shrugging as he looks away. “And sometimes I’m strong there. There are places where I’m weak where you’re strong.”

I laugh.

“What?”

“Where do I help you?”

“Well you’re a genius, aren’t you? —figured out how to engineer these quadlevs so we didn’t have to buy blueprints, didn’t you?”

“That’s no—”

“You may have had shit luck,” he says, grinning stupidly, “but I’m hedging my bet with you.”

“Oh, fuck off!” I reply, shaking my head.

“Soberly, man!” he says, laughing. I can’t keep from grinning, the fool. “Once we get off this space marble, get a decent ship, and scope out some resources, I’m betting we can put something special together—like that engine you’re always going on about.”

I give him a sidelong glare. “The one where you mute me every time I talk about it?”

He goes white. “Danther, I—”

“Oh, shut it. I know you do it.” We both go quiet for a little while, Red Heaven zooming by in the viewing panels.

“Mother Lux said you saved my life, you know,” he says.

“What?”

“I was going to join the Blackteeth.”

“What? No! I don’t believe you!”

“You were never cool, Danther—never the guy people wanted to be—”

“Fuck me, Sol, way to—” He holds up a hand and I stop.

“But you were real, bro,” he says, sober. He only ever uses that word when… “Something about you—I knew I’d rather protect a friend—a true friend—than stand beside those self-serving shitheads.” He looks at me, his eyes deep, the thought behind them meaningful. “We have to stick together, Danther.” But then his eyes narrow, a storm in his mind. “So don’t you fucking ever think about taking your life again, understand?”

The words hit me hard and I think for a moment. I nod, the sentiment beyond words. I put out a fist. “Bros?”

He bumps it, his seriousness melting away to a grin. “Bros.”

We ride for a little while longer, the mood lightening; it’s like the air’s gotten thinner, the whole of it between Sol and I just better somehow. Yet something still nags at me, like an insidious itch that I can’t reach—I’ve tried to be depressed—to feel bad—but this nagging little mystery has kept my mind in a state of irritated distraction.

“Sol?” I ask.

“Yeah?”

“You remember that sim? —the one with the soldier?”

He’s countenance goes grim, thought in his eyes. “The one where the sniper spares him, only to let the poor bastard realize he’s in a minefield,” he says, not needing to ask.

“Yeah.”

He says nothing.

“It feels like that.”

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“It does, doesn’t it?” We both stew for a couple moments. The transport pod begins slowing and we both get on our quadlevs.

507 A.E. April 24, 19:13:45 Local

Luna Veriley

New Earth Imperial Order, Delan III, Red Heaven, Dowin Engineering Planetary Headquarters

The temptation to spring into action again bites at me. Yet I’ve already overstepped my bounds once and I have no illusions as to how bad it will be if I do so again. I need to proceed with the utmost care.

“Khal might be an utter ass and a… a… I don’t know, a scoundrel? —but his mind is nothing if not razor sharp,” I say to my A.I..

“Sounds like an accurate assessment,” Dern June replies, sipping his tea.

“I almost hate to admit it, but I admire that about him. No, it would be more accurate to say I’m jealous. I’d like to have the skill, but I don’t want anything to do with him.”

Dern hums. “No? Nothing at all?”

I refocus my mind.

“He’s a worthy opponent—perhaps even a superior foe, if I am honest—and I am presently at disadvantage. Every move he makes is one to further several of his ends. Nothing with him is ever simple.”

“He certainly is a crafty one.”

“I can almost sense him playing against my impatience—I would not be surprised in the slightest if he had taken the time to study me—looking up my history, reviewing my reports, perhaps even speaking with those with whom I have worked or came into prolonged contact—to better play his hand. He will know I am impatient and rash at times and use that to his advantage.”

Dern remains silent.

“Then again, he might also know I am as thorough as he is—he has certainly planned ahead for dealing with such adversaries, the information readily available on him either scant or littered with contradictory elements. It is eminently obvious to anyone with half a mind that he is well prepared for a mental engagement.” I lean back. “No, he might not have looked me up—he definitely has.”

“A liar suspects others of lying, as does a thief of thievery,” he says by way of agreement.

“Setting me as the huntress of his little game, he will have laced the playing field with all manner of traps and not merely those suited to capitalize on my weaknesses. I am certain he has studied me. He will anticipate to my own attempts to adapt.”

“In circumstances such as these, there is no right answer when attacking head on,” he replies.

“I need to counter the very mentality—go outside the rules—manipulate the code—hit him from an entirely unexpected angle.” I shake my head. “But what is his game? He has approached Sol—made some sort of empty offer. But this can’t all be about me—though I’m tempted to believe it. Would he really meddle in peoples’ lives just to get under my skirt—no, he was meddling with them before I interfered. Unless, he found them through looking into me and this is some manner of long…”

I lose myself in thought for a moment, considering the variables.

“No… no it isn’t me he wants—this whole thing with me might just be a mirage. He… he wants Danther…”

Dern claps his hands, the condescending expression unlike…

“K-Khal…?”

The display shifts, Dern’s appearance morphing into that of Khal. “You seem to have the right of it, my dear,” he says, rising an eyebrow, “that is, save for my interest in you being a… mirage, did you call it?”

“Why are you in my office, Khal?” I say, getting to my feet, fury and fear burning.

He shrugs. “Just conducting a little ‘post incident’ evaluation is all.”

“This is an invasion of—”

He laughs, propping his feet up on my desk. “What are you going to do, report me? Will you include the details of your developing plans to sabotage the operations of a senior member of the company?”

A new, annoyed fire flickers in me; he’s showing his superiority. “Could you—?” I ask, gesturing to his feet.

“Ah,” he says, looking genuinely embarrassed, taking his feet down. “My apologies.”

Yes, he’s showing his superiority… but not mocking me. Could it be subconscious?

“That conversation was supposed to be private.”

He smirks. “This is company property. Privacy here is not a right, Luna.”

I find myself grinding my teeth a little. “It’s Ms. Veriley.”

His smirk only grows.

“What have you done with Mr. June?”

“Your A.I.? I just lowered his processing priority for an hour or so.”

“Just enough time to pull your little stunt.”

He holds up a finger. “Just enough time to pull my little stunt and nothing more.” He stands, spreading his arms; I take an involuntary step back before I can keep myself from doing so. He notices, grinning. “You see,” he says, sighing as he begins walking; I shy away, but it seems he’s heading toward the window, “my fascination with you is genuine. You’re beautiful—your rich, chestnut hair; that alluring, suggestive smile; and your eyes—oh, could the skies of all the worlds ever show so lovely a blue as your eyes.” He grins. “You’re so perfect. Like a doll.”

I find myself reddening—heart quickening—and hate myself for it. “I—,” I begin, but realize my voice is a little shrill and clear my throat. “Is there a point to all this?”

“But the thing that’s kept my attention,” he says, turning to me slowly, the motion sinister—hungry. I take another step back. “Your mind is sharp as my own—a complement I do not afford lightly.” He takes a step to me and I take another back. “Your very existence is a challenge to me and—professional plans of the day, month, or year fleeting by—conquering you is a goal far more lasting and personal.”

“Conquer me?” I try to challenge, but my voice waivers.

“Being conquered sets a woman’s heart on fire.”

“I—,” I begin, but the way he looks at me steals my words.

“It takes away the guilt, for some—lets them pretend they are forced to do what they already want without having to admit they want it.”

I step back again, bumping against something. I glance back to see my desk, but then forward again. He’s near.

“But you… For one, it tells you you’re worth the fight. For another, it’s something of a love letter… something, I hope, will prove I’m worthy of you …Luna.”

“M-Ms. Veriley,” I reply, shaking.

“Ms. Veriley,” he purrs. “I…” But then he looks down. Then his eyes meet mine, a painfully vulnerable sense of pleading in his expression. “You see people, do you not? —see their emotions? —understand how they work instinctively? …all the while wondering if the emotions you feel are real …are genuine and not things you are forcing yourself to pretend to experience in order to trick yourself into thinking you’re like everyone else?”

I detect my eyes widening, feeling the strain. How does he…?

“They’re like ants,” he whispers, looking away. “So pathetically predictable—so obvious. You want desperately to respect them, but the power of knowledge keeps insistin’—keeps whispering that you can use them so effortlessly.”

I feel myself taking an involuntary step forward and stop. He knows… —no, these words aren’t those of a man knowing something… he is.

“We could be gods among them.” He turns to me once more. “The feeling… that ability isn’t some prize on a shelf to grasped… it’s a power we keep in check for the sake of everyone.” He swallows. “It’s not temptation. It’s active resistance.”

“Y…yes,” I admit.

“You’re like me.”

“I…”

The window shades behind him begin closing. I panic, reaching in my neural for the control. He senses me there. “Stop them if you wish.”

I… I don’t. Something in me… I…

The darkness envelops us.

I feel a hand on my neck… gentle… soft… nervous… not at all the sensation I would expect from him. I take a sharp breath, shaking as I lean into it. He kisses the other side of my neck, but then his lips and hand are gone.

I feel his touch on my thighs. He lifts me—sets me down on my desk. I feel a tugging at my blouse. A side of it comes free from my skirt. His hand… it travels up my side and goosebumps run across my skin.

His cheek rubs against mine. “Stop me,” he whispers.

I… I don’t.

He moves between my legs, my skirt going up as they spread. I feel his body against mine, pressing me down against my desk.

My heart quickens. I… I’m hot. But no… no.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he whispers.

“S-stop.”

“Mean it,” he growls.

I close my eyes. Tears are welling.

I want to, but I don’t.

I hear him swallow.

“I-is this what it would take f-for you to leave Danther and Sol alone?” I ask, the words tumbling out of me.

He becomes very still for a while. I hear a joint pop somewhere. He retreats.

What? What is he doing? What…?

“Y-you don’t want me to surrender,” I say, the realization hitting me. “You want me to keep fighting. You plan to concede—are already prepared to let them go—when my only option left is to…”

I have my neural open the shutter.

He’s already gone.

Hours later, I’m sitting on my bed in the darkness, wrapped in a blanket and huddling. I took a long shower—I’m clean—but feeling of him touching me—touching me—still lingers on my skin. I can’t stop shaking.

How could I…?

How did I let…?

We… we almost…

But I hate him—hate him—and I let the bastard…

I try not to imagine him watching me—evading my security somehow and waiting for something to transpire before he reveals himself and comes to me. Nevertheless, he’s in every corner, staring at me as I shudder.

But that isn’t the whole of it. I am… How… how can someone be such a scoundrel and yet… somehow he comes off as a… a gentleman. He’s not some sex-crazed lunatic assaulting me with every glance. I can tell he’s always in control of himself—everything is deliberate and knowing that alone somehow makes this whole thing… I never once feared he wouldn’t stop if I wanted—truly wanted—but… Yet I didn’t…

The fact that he doesn’t take—acts as though he will—presses things to the absolute limit… but leaves it up to me…

I wrap the blankets tighter. “Tell me to stop,” I whisper to myself.

I hadn’t—I hadn’t. But then he asked again and I did… I didn’t mean it, though—he knew I didn’t mean it.

Tears start to run.

What is wrong with me?

I could have stopped him at any time…

I could have stopped him at any time!

What is wrong with me?

Have I been so lonely for so long? I don’t have anyone to tell. There’s always Dern to talk to, but after what happened earlier…

I lie down, keeping the blanket tight and clutching my knees.

I focus on the consequences—focus on what it would mean to strengthen my ties to a man like Khal. For a moment, it sickens me to even consider it, but I need to be objective—need to establish the facts.

There are moments when he… Yet I despise him—I despise him almost all the time.

But why do I despise him?

He’s intelligent—mind exceptionally sharp and devious—and has this annoying tendency to patronize me. Yet, as I actually consider it, does he believe any of the things he says? Is it not a game to him? Indeed, has he ever attacked me where he knew it would wound? Even when he is condescending, there is a certain affectation about it—like he does it specifically to get a reaction from me. Would he stop if I asked him? Do I want him to stop?

In truth, his jabs only lead me to refortify myself—to better myself.

Is he aware? —could that be his aim?

I scowl as I consider how handsome he is, loathed as I am to say it. Despite what my mind tells me and what I know of him, there is something about him—something about having any attractive man look at me—really look at me—and get lost for a little while that makes me—that would make any woman, I imagine—feel something… some sense of worth. Yet the smoldering lust in his eyes is not like that of any common stranger seeing something he likes. He’s… different—the type more yearning than frantic… somehow more sensual than… well… horny.

He’s almost… romantic.

And, despite the forwardness of his, well, flirting, he always remains flattering and, despite the obvious aggressiveness with which he pursues me… He always seems to know where “too far” is and never pushes it there… He’ll talk and suggest and insinuate, always toying with the very edges of what’s proper. I recall how he stands in a door way, forcing me to touch him if I want past… and I always do; nevertheless, he never traps me—never does so without giving me options.

Didn’t he just apologize when—what had I said? He had realized that using Danther and Sol to…

Danther and Sol.

What would they think if they knew I…?

Well, it truly isn’t any of their concern what— …no. Not their business, certainly. Concern, however… I can almost see Sol—can almost imagine what he’d say… not the words, but the heart of it.

Yet maybe I have misjudged Khal—maybe we all have. He was right, after all, about how to entice Danther and Sol. Perhaps he had just misjudged how far it would push Danther? Had he not apologized? He even retreated when I suggested the whole thing was meant to get me to finally surrender to… to what’s been brewing between us.

He… he was embarrassed.

Not only had I brought up his miscalculation of Danther’s limits, but also in making the assumption that he wanted to force me to… It wasn’t what he wanted at all.

He had born his heart and I had purposely misinterpreted him—had said exactly what I knew would dig the dagger in his side.

But… Khal?

There’s just something about him—my instincts just scream that it’s a horrible idea. But why?

Is it because of… because of Sol?

I…

I…

I always wanted it to be Sol… Luna and Sol. That’s… that’s why I had given him that nickname in the first place.

…and he had kept it.

Luna and Sol; Moon and Sun.

It was supposed to be Sol.

It was always supposed to be Sol.

Is my heart just to hung up to…?

Can I just not let a girl’s crush go?

The blanket doesn’t feel quite as warm anymore and I edge out of bed, slipping into my silk robe; at least that feels soft. Distracted as I was, I only just notice a notification. Something has been left in the parcel room. I approach, the doors sliding open.

I am greeted by a box of chocolates, a bottle of wine, and a dozen roses, all… all non-fabricated. I start to tear up, the sight too much for some reason my mind can’t explain. Vermeir’s chocolates, New Jerusalem Champaign, and Vermiliad roses, all my favorites.

I also find a short, handwritten note.

“Ms. Veriley,” it begins in a flowing, hand written script. “I wish our evening would have ended differently. I apologize if this was a further invasion of your privacy, but I saw you ordered these items in variation after some of your more prestigious negotiations and I wanted to give you something to your liking by way of apology. You are worth a better show of taste on my part and I will endeavor live up to that in the future. Khal.”