2.55 Epilogue

55 – Epilogue

Melanie Mathews looked at herself in the mirror, frowning at the new scars that marked her face. They told the story of events that were blurred by trauma. Fleeting consciousness and a mind trying to spare itself had done much to smooth out the edges of her time in the rift—at least those early days after the drone exploded. The scars weren’t rough; they didn’t disfigure her so much as add some character to her expression, or so she told herself.

Tracing a finger from the corner of her left eye down to her jaw, she pressed against a smooth, irregular line. Logic—and her AI, Roxy—told her that was where her faceplate had dug into her skin, nearly slicing her cheek away from the bone. She didn’t remember that, though. There was a lot she didn’t remember. They told her she’d accused Freddy of shooting her before the bomb went off, but she didn’t remember that, either. The whole thing was a jumbled blur—crawling through mud, listening to Roxy’s directions as she told her which way to go, throwing grenades at…things in the rain.

Melanie shook her head and rinsed her mouth again, using the little towel on the sink to dry her hands and face. She tucked her toiletries away in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, wincing as the bright LEDs flickered in the glass. She had a headache taking shape, right at the base of her skull, and she massaged her neck as she exited the narrow bathroom and looked at her new quarters—little more than a bunk, she supposed.

“Long way to fall,” she muttered, wondering if the others would still call her Commander. She picked up her duffel and, with a grunt, hoisted it atop the built-in dresser.

Some time later, she found herself standing there, staring at the bag. Shakily, she smoothed back her hair—longer than she liked it—and reapplied her hair tie. Roxy, how long have I been standing here?

//Ten minutes.//

Melanie scowled, but didn’t say anything. What was there to say? As she fastidiously unpacked her clothes, refolding the ones that needed it and placing them neatly into the drawers, she did her best not to think about it. Roxy had other ideas:

//Should I log that as another instance of lost time?//

Well, I don’t remember what the hell I was doing for ten minutes, so yeah, I guess so.

//Noted.//

When her clothes were all unpacked and she reached the guns at the bottom of the bag, Melanie looked over at her bunk. There was a drawer beneath it, so she closed the dresser and put her weapons in that one. Easier to reach in an emergency.

She wondered about that. What kind of emergency might she face on a ship like Maidensong? She’d never been on a Royal’s personal vessel before; it was bound to be a hell of a lot different from the ships she’d boarded during her time on the rim with an independent privateer outfit. Of course, there was the whole Ventress civil war that had just taken place. Hector said the matter was resolved, but Melanie could smell something.

Gladia Ventress and that other lady—not a noble, but a wannabe—were scheming, and Hector had gotten himself involved. What does that mean for me? For us? Despite their change in venue, Melanie still felt responsible for the others—Kristy, Paige…and Ling, she supposed. Just because they’d taken Hector up on his offer, did that mean they were bound to his…path? “I haven’t signed any damn contracts,” she muttered, folding the empty duffel and placing it toward the back of the drawer—behind her guns.

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She had to admit that it was nice—having a place to go, a place where the IG and the Imperial PKs wouldn’t be able to come looking for her. She had a feeling the Empire still wanted answers about the rift—especially about the events surrounding the bomb. Having a Royal like the Ventress lady running interference for them was something Melanie hadn’t expected. Well, why not? Hadn’t Freddy promised to look out for them? As far as she knew, that’s all this was. Gladia was doing what her little boy wanted, and Hector…well, Hector was Hector.

Melanie had intended to hit the sack, but her stomach rumbled, and an image of the fancy galley Hector had shown them ran through her mind. “Might as well see if they have anything left from the dinner service.”

She stepped out of her room into a dimly lit corridor—night-shift lighting—and started toward the lift. As she went, she tried to remember who was in each room she passed. That one’s Kristy’s, and Paige is across from her. That’s where that big guy…um—

//Orin.//

Right. That’s his room, and the other merc Hector knows—

//Demon.//

Yeah. And that’s Hector’s room, and Ling’s, and the two women—

Before Roxy could try to help out with more names, Hector’s door opened and the blonde woman stepped out. Melanie paused, watching the door slide shut, and then the woman—Lemon, she was pretty sure—turned and locked eyes with her. She let out a startled gasp and then smiled, covering her reaction with a nervous giggle.

“I didn’t see you there. Um, Melanie, right?”

Melanie didn’t respond; she didn’t really hear the words, though she supposed she was aware that Lemon was speaking. There was something else occupying her conscious thoughts—a smell or…a feeling. It was something captivating, something that made her mouth fill with saliva to the point she had to swallow to avoid drooling.

She couldn’t describe the scent if she’d wanted to; it was more than a scent. The longing it provoked was like hunger and sex; it was like seeing water after two days of hiking through a desert.

Roxy noticed her awkward silence before Lemon said anything. //Melanie? Are you suffering another mental lapse? I’m growing concerned.//

“Um, did I get that wrong? It is Melanie, right?”

Melanie licked her lips, coughed slightly, and forced herself to stop staring. She looked down and shook her head. “Sorry, I’m used to people using my last name. Mathews.” She looked up, clenching her jaw against the sensation that still gripped her. “Lemon, right? I remembered because…”

Lemon laughed, nodding. “I know. It’s a funny name. My parents were…original.”

“So it’s not a nickname?”

The other woman shook her head, and her straight, shoulder-length hair swung with the motion. Melanie felt a renewed wash of the smell, and she had to look away and bite her tongue. The pain and coppery taste of her own blood distracted her.

Lemon glanced down the corridor. “Um, anyway, my little brother’s looking for me. I’m sure we’ll have a chance to chat later.”

Melanie put her fist to her mouth and feigned another cough, nodding. “Yeah. Later.” She watched the other woman walk to the end of the corridor to a door that was set just a little further apart from the others. Bigger room.

As Lemon stepped through her door, a voice, strange yet familiar, whispered into Melanie’s ear. “Go after her.”

She whirled, scanning the empty corridor. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.

//To what do you refer?//

I thought someone said something.

Roxy was silent for a moment before responding. //I just reviewed short-term recordings. No one spoke after you said, ‘Later.’//

Forget it.

Melanie looked down the corridor to the lift and suddenly she didn’t feel hungry. Clearing her throat, pressing a hand against her stomach, she turned and hurried back to her room. “Roxy, turn off all my notifications. I think I need some serious sleep.”

//Notifications disabled. Melanie, I suggest an evaluation at the clinic as soon as possible.//

“I’ll see how I feel.”

She stepped into her room, and the door slid shut behind her. Only then did she let herself think about the voice she’d heard. It took every ounce of denial she could muster to pretend she hadn’t wanted to obey.