Date Point: 3Y 8M 2W AV
+0014+: Another failure.
+0023+: There have been victories also.
+0014+: Too few.
+0003+: The efforts of The Discarded work to our advantage.
+0006+: As I recall, Three, you were among those who advocated their termination.
+0003+: Your point?
+0006+: An acknowledgement of your fallibility would seem fitting.
+0004+: Petty bickering like that is for the Hosts. Three’s competence is not in doubt.
+0006+: As you say, Four.
+0014+: To address the observation: yes, The Discarded have helped contain the Deathworlders. That is a balance of power that will shift, as things are going. They buy us time, not victory.
+0016+: Agreed
+0031+: Agreed
+0004+: Agreed
+0006+: Perhaps a more senior agent should be placed in charge of that cell.
+0023+: Seventy-Two’s competence is also not in doubt.
+0003+: Your naysaying is becoming unconstructive, Six.
+0014+: The problem is escalating. This most recent failure was not orchestrated by a Deathworlder at all.
+0019+: Are you proposing that the Hosts might become energised and inspired?
+0014+: I am proposing that they already are.
System notification: User 0020 has joined.
+0006+: Well now. You grace us with your illustrious presence.
+0004+: Twenty assumes more risk than any of us. You will be respectful.
+0020+: Six’s respect is not required. I have completed my analysis of the debris field.
+0006+: Please, enlighten us. What miracle have the Deathworlders performed this time? Can they turn their skin to steel and shoot lasers from their eyes?
+0004+: Six.
+0006+: Twenty’s last report implied that the Deathworlders have solved the single-end wormhole problem. I will not apologise for my skepticism.
+0020+: No such inconsistencies. They appear to have an agent. A fast ship passed through the area shortly before the strike. I believe that it deployed tiny satellites, which self-destructed after the battle. If those satellites were stealthed and carried displacement beacons then it would explain the observed ability of these new ships to jump inside the sphere of engagement.
+0006+: It took you this long to determine that?
+0020+: Without compromising myself, yes.
+0006+: Useless.
System Notification: User 0006 was muted by User 0004. Reason: Correct your attitude.
+0014+: That was satisfying to watch.
+0004+: Correct yours too, or you will be next.
+0020+: I will not apologise for exercising discretion, caution and patience. Infiltrating The Discarded was difficult enough last time. They are not stupid.
+0002+: Six may be abrasive, but dissenting voices are valuable: They may cast the light where we are afraid to shine it. Soothe your wounded pride and examine the facts—these Deathworlders move quickly. If we are to successfully contain and destroy them then we must be similarly swift.
System Notification: User 0006 was granted speaking privileges by User 0002.
+0006+: At least somebody here pays attention.
+0002+: We have not granted you license to be disrespectful.
+0006+: …yes, Two.
+0020+: With respect, Two, avoidable setbacks will only serve to slow us in the long term. Hasty and ill-advised assaults have already cost us too much. The next must be slow, must be stealthy, must be unanticipated, and must be devastating.
+0008+: The evidence does appear to favour that.
+0020+: We must also put aside our power politics for now. Zero and Thirteen both failed because they acted alone in search of glory, and now they both need replacing. Now Twenty-Four has gone the same way. We must stop allowing them to pick us off one by one: This is too important for ego.
+0005+: You do not tell higher ranks what we “must” do.
+0020+: Then I respectfully suggest that we all set aside our pride and focus on combining our efforts to bring practical resolution to this crisis.
+0002+: Twenty has a duty to express their opinion in as forceful a manner as is necessary for its proper communication. You, Five, have a duty to heed what is said rather than overlooking it for the sake of pride and decorum.
+0005+: …yes, Two.
+0002+: We do not—yet—need to involve One. If Twenty’s approach is successful—if we collaborate to deliver a single, unforeseen and decisive blow to the Deathworlders—then One will never need to know this whole debacle ever happened.
+0004+: I still say that it was an unforgivable oversight not to foresee that intelligence might arise on that planet a second time.
+0006+: Two, may I have permission to remind Four that she was in equal part responsible for that oversight?
+0004+: How dare you!
+0002+: We believe you just did. Our permission would be redundant.
+0004+: I request a punishment.
+0002+: Denied. The observation is accurate, and even insubordination has its value. Nevertheless, Six, a little less insubordination, please?
+0006+: Of course, Two. You only had to ask.
System notification: User 0004 has signed out.
+0094+: The Deathworlders call that a “ragequit”, I believe.
+0057+: Apt.
+0014+: Can we please focus?
+0006+: Agreed. What do you recommend, Twenty?
+0020+: The Discarded.
+0014+: Sensible. They have already declared motive, they will seize the opportunity if it arises, and our risk of discovery will be negligible.
+0010+: We will need to remember to continue to monitor the deathworld after the scouring is complete.
+0006+: We will also need to resume monitoring on all the ones that have already been scoured. Some of them are nearly as old as Earth.
+0014+: You use their name for it?
+0006+: “Strak’kel” is so old-fashioned, and both names have a bit more life to them than “MY-31043-3-TT12-I” don’t you think?
+0023+: Whatever Six calls them, we will need to re-survey more than a thousand planets to make sure they are still clear.
+0005+: If that surveydiscovers even one nascent civilization, then it will have been worth the trouble.
+0020+: I must go. I will do what I can to keep the Great Hunt high in the minds of The Discarded.
System notification: User 0020 has signed out.
+0002+: Meanwhile, the rest of us will cease to engage the Deathworlders piecemeal. We must deal with their homeworld first before any attempt can be made at clearing out whatever last little holes and hideaways they may find.
+0003+: The first objective in support of that goal will be the identification and termination of this agent of theirs.
+0006+: Wrong. The first objective in support of that goal will be the identification and conversion of this agent of theirs.
+0003+: Two, I request permission to punish Six’s insubordination.
+0002+: Denied. Cease petitioning us every time Six offends your pride. You should also cease to be so easily irritated by accurate corrections. Identification and conversion of the agent will become our top priority. Discussion concluded.
System notification: Session closed.
System notification: Private session between User 0002 and User 0006 Session Opened
+0002+: Your attitude does warrant our attention, however. We are a Hierarchy, remember. You should remember your place.
+0006+: I am the foundation for those above me. My role is to support and strengthen them all.
+0002+: Well recited. We assume you are making a point?
+0006+: Pride is a weakness. It is the weakness, in fact, that has cost us the most against these Deathworlders. I judge that my duty to the strength and success of the Hierarchy and the indefinite survival of our people outweighs the tradition of decorum. It is not my duty to—as the humans eloquently put it—“kiss their asses”.
+0002+: And that is why we are demoting you to seventy-two.
+0006+: I see. I’m to take over from the current incumbent? Discreetly?
+002+: Indeed. You care about the result, not about your rank. That… atypical approach may be of use here, in this atypical scenario.
+0006+: And if you’re very lucky, your report to One will mention the Humans only as just another Scoured species.
+0002+: We intend not to rely on luck.
System notification: Session closed.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV
San Diego, California, USA, Earth
The man standing in front of him needed to clear his throat three times before it cut through the fog of fatigue that had Gabriel’s mind in a choke hold and his forehead pressed to the desk. He looked up, and stole a swig of his almost-too-cold coffee before addressing the man in the suit who was waiting patiently for him.
“Help you?” he asked. The man smiled, and produced a card. It was small, white, and mostly filled with the man’s face and the badge of the Central Intelligence Agency.
“Agent Hamilton.” He said by way of an introduction, then aimed a thumb over his shoulder at a woman in a nearly identical suit whom Arés hadn’t even noticed. She had a black leather work folder under her arm and was holding three Starbucks coffees in a cardboard carrier. “This is Agent Williams.”
“You want the Latte, the Mocha, or the Americano?” she asked, offering the coffee.
Gabriel blinked, then managed to get his brain into second gear. “Uh… the Latte, thanks.” He said. She handed it to him, and he took a sip, grateful for coffee that was the right temperature and tasted a damnsight better than the copper-tasting poison the office’s overworked percolator produced. “Please, sit down.”
“I’d ask what the Agency is doing here, but I’m guessing it has something to do with a guy in New Jersey.” he said, taking a not-so-wild stab in the not-so-dark. After all, he’d seen the news.
Williams nodded—she had taken the Americano—and set down the folder on Gabriel’s desk. “A mister Ravinder Singh’s apartment was bombed in the small hours of yesterday morning, killing the occupant and three of his neighbors.” She said.
“That seems more like a police or Bureau matter.”
“His name wasn’t Ravinder Singh.” Hamilton added. “He was one of the top men in the Indian nuclear weapons program, who went missing a few years ago. And now he’s turned up dead in a bombing on the East coast, to me that seems a lot like an Agency matter.”
“I didn’t know that part.” Arés confessed. He indicated the folder. “May I?”
Williams turned it around and opened it for him. They sipped their coffees patiently as he skimmed the documents within. It was clear why they had come to him. A still recovered from the camera above “Singh”’s door offered a clear identification for Kevin Jenkins: it was stapled to a summary of the legwork that had gone into tracing him. It wasn’t a long summary—Jenkins collecting his bag at Newark, his boarding pass, Jenkins going through security at San Diego International Airport, Jenkins checking out of the Bristol Hotel, a bit of a luck with the receptionist remembering that he had mentioned being in town for a funeral, cross-referenced against the times he entered and exited the hotel to Terri Boone’s funeral, and that in turn had led them to her family who had pointed them to Arés. Most of the investigation would have consisted of the coast-to-coast flight.
“You don’t have much on him yet, do you?” he commented, noting that aside from Jenkins’ name there was precious little of his personal details in the folder.
“That’s why we’re here.” Hamilton replied, evenly. “You had a good long conversation with him at that funeral.”
Gabriel sat back and took another swig of his coffee. “Yeah, I sent him to talk to Singh. He was close with the victim. She was a P.I., shot dead an assailant about, uh, six months before the second assailant got her. She knew she was in trouble and cited Singh as a witness who might be able to reveal the motive.”
“Could Jenkins have thought Singh was responsible and taken revenge?” Williams suggested.
“No.” Arés told them, not even bothering to conceal how little he thought of the idea. “He went to talk to Singh to try and get at the real responsible party… no sign of him since?”
“His rental car was returned and there was a possible ID at a gas station, heading north, but that’s all I know of so far.” Hamilton told him.
“Let me spare you the legwork. He’ll have gone to Scotch Creek.”
The two Agents did a synchronized glance at one another, then back at him, letting their expressions make the demand for elucidation.
“He said he’s the bartender up there.” Gabriel clarified.
“The bartender.” Williams repeated, skeptically.
Hamilton coughed. “Thank God for that. If he’s civilian base staff acting on his own then it’s a lot less of a problem than the Canadian military getting involved in a bombing down here.”
Arés frowned. “They’re our allies and friends, aren’t they?”
“They are, but allies and friends go through official channels over stuff like this.” Hamilton said. “Canada’s already catching a lot of political flak over their monopoly on alien technology, if there was any suggestion—right or not—that they’d sent an agent down here who’d bombed an American building and killed American citizens, it’d put a serious dent in any relationship, however good.”
“Not to mention the repercussions abroad.” added Williams.
“Entiendo. Well, I guess now you know who to make the call to, so you can go through official channels.”
“Sure, and thanks. But I’d like to know more about this murder. You think they’re related?”
“The victim claimed as much and I’m convinced.” Arés allowed. “You guys have open minds?”
“Hard not to, nowadays.” Williams said, indicating the TV that was always playing quietly in the corner of the office, tuned to the news. The financial news was nothing but coverage of the partnership between several major companies—led by BAE, BHP Billiton and Red Bull—to collectively enter the lucrative market of asteroid mining, a feat that would have been impossible only three years previously. The news of the partnership had sent stocks in the involved corporations soaring, but the value of several elements—especially Platinum—had all taken a serious hit. It was just the latest in the long and storied drama of what was becoming known as the Second Space Race.
Gabriel nodded. “Then let me show you the evidence she left.” he said.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV Planet Guvendruduvundraguvnegrugnuvenderelgureg-ugunduvug Guvnuragnaguvendrugun Confederacy, Dominion Core
The annual Ugunduvug-vanrundrneg—the “world-storm”—was in its second day and approaching full force, powered by a quirk in the tidal dance of the Guvnurag homeworld’s three moons. This year’s looked set to be a relatively mild one, with only three dark striations of lightning-blistered cloud having so far formed from the angry black girdle around the equator, to lash out northwards and southwards towards the poles.
Such a comparatively gentle storm would easily be handled by the layers of storm protection installed by hundreds of generations of Guvnurag, from the simple earthworks and storm drains to channel and disperse the flash-flood waters, to the more modern innovations like the tidal barrages, the artificial barrier reefs, and the huge force fields that needed most of the year to charge.
In truth, Guvnurag were quite capable of enduring the Ugunduvug-vanrundrneg out in the open, huddled in a warm ball of furry bodies. Their thick, shaggy fur was equally adept at warming and waterproofing, and their large size meant a low relative surface area, combating the effects of cold and exposure. But it was by no means a safe or pleasant way to weather the storm, and most of the major engineering feats of Guvnurag history had arisen from the need to conquer their planet’s annual weather tantrum.
All of which was a little academic from geosynchronous orbit, of course. Space was infamously short on weather of any description. But it was hard for Councillor Vedreg of the Dominion Security Council to look down on the planet of his birth during this most iconic season and not reflect on such things.
Especially, he considered, when he was quite improperly being left waiting. The Confederacy’s Secretary of Security was uncharacteristically taking her time implying that something had come up which was important enough to keep her direct superior waiting—and uninformed, which seemed thoroughly unlikely—or else there had been an unexpected delay.
When she arrived, however, the Secretary’s flanks were thrumming an incandescent, furious crimson. She was, by any sapient being’s standards, in a roaring snit to match the fury their homeworld was unleashing upon itself at this very moment.
Guvnurag folklore had always claimed that a gentle world-storm meant turbulent times ahead, as all the energy the world failed to release was diverted elsewhere. Vedreg, as with all modern Guvnurag, dismissed that as superstition, but right now, it seemed to be eerily prescient.
“Secretary Meerednegnel.” he greeted her, properly. “Shall I, just this once, dispense with the formalities and inquire as to what has precipitated your anger?”
Meered crashed down into her chair, vibrating the ornaments on her desk. “One of the missing system-shields has reported in.” She declared.
“I see.”
Vedreg set, rather more gently, in his own seat. The theft of two of their system defence fields—a pair that had been manufactured for delivery to two of the Dominion’s most vulnerable front-line staging worlds to keep the pressure on the Alliance—had been deeply embarrassing for the Confederacy, not least because even their best investigators couldn’t figure out how it had been managed. While the handling facility had reported a ship landing and departing around about the time of the theft, the timing was simply impossible. Nothing could have covered the intervening distance so quickly without being detected.
“May I ask where?” he inquired.
“The Far Reaches.” Meered replied.
Vedreg shaded a worried brown. That was bad news for any hope of recovery or investigation. The Far Reaches were aptly named—distantly removed from the Dominion Core, that region had only ever been accessible along a small number of spacelanes, most of which had filled in with interstellar gas and dust from lack of maintenance thanks to the war. While the tiny particles were no threat to a starship, the burst of high-energy particles they emitted upon entering the warp field could ionize the hull and degrade ship’s systems, or even build up a lethal capacitance that, if it discharged, could fry equipment or unfortunate crew. Even navies, pirates and even the Hunters preferred to stick to the cleared spacelanes where they could.
The few lanes that remained open in the area passed through annexed Celzi space and were heavily checkpointed. Sending a lane-clearing fleet to open a new route would take several cycles even if the Alliance left them alone. All in all, the news of the system shield’s new location was frustrating, even if it did come with the saving grace that it apparently hadn’t fallen into Alliance hands.
The Alliance… something about the Alliance? The memory tickled at him, elusive until he interrogated his cybernetic memory enhancement chip, which gladly supplied him with a connection between the Alliance and the Far Reaches.
“Where in the Far Reaches, may I ask?” he inquired.
“Some private retreat planet with one of those terse Corti names.” the Secretary told him. “Why?”
“It wasn’t Cimbrean, perchance?”
”…As a matter of fact, it was.” She shaded pink and teal, a cocktail of surprise and curiosity. “You’re familiar with it?”
“Oh dear.”
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV San Diego, California, USA, Earth
“Taking your work home, Gabe?”
Arés smiled. Detective James “Jimmy” Rowan was the closest thing he had to a good friend among the homicide detectives, and the two often backed each other up as partners.
“The CIA’s getting involved now. I need to get it all sorted out for them.” he said. The briefing with Hamilton and Williams had taken several hours as they had gone through all of Boone’s bequeathed findings and suspicions, followed by the fruits of Gabriel’s own research. Superior as his resources were, he had other cases to worry about, and so hadn’t been able to put the time in that he would have liked.
“The Agency. Man.” Jimmy leaned back in his chair, sucking on one of the tootsie pops that were supposedly helping him quit smoking. “Hell of a fuckin’ thing.”
“Nice guys, I thought.” Gabriel commented. “Not like your ray-ban wearing spook pendejos from those movies you love.” “Yeah, reality’s always more boring.” Jimmy agreed. “Hey, don’t blow both your days off on that folder, okay? Go out, get drunk, get laid.”
“I was just going to watch NBA, man.”
“Come on, you can’t have had any action since your divorce, bro.” Jimmy insisted.
“Just because your balls need constant maintenance or they explode, doesn’t mean mine do.” Gabriel replied, smiling.
“Yeah, I know. Still not ready yet.” Jimmy gave up. “Enjoy your basketball, man.”
Gabriel lived only a few minutes’ drive from the precinct, in a nice but inexpensive apartment with a decent view of Downtown. Most days he didn’t even bother driving to work. Instead, he changed in the precinct locker room into his sweats, and jogged home, keeping his fitness up and working out the kinks and tensions of sitting at his desk for so many hours.
The exercise allowed his brain to freewheel, too. It was nice to get out of cop mode and just be Gabriel for a bit, but where Detective Arés was a cool and efficient professional, Gabriel was a worrier. The bombing, the CIA’s involvement, the casual brutality that had been inflicted on Terri Boone for digging exactly where he was digging now… If he’d bothered to drive in, he might even start checking his car for explosives.
As a result, he was in a strange mood when he got back to his apartment building—physically relaxed but mentally tense. He knew he was jumping at figurative shadows but he couldn’t forget that the first time he’d met Boone, she had just shot dead an intruder in her own apartment. An intruder who had very obviously been there to kill her.
And the lights were on in his. As was the TV—he could hear it.
This fact gave him several moments’ pause. He could see the glow under the door, and right now all his mind could spring to was that parking lot, and the carnage that had spread all over it.
He retrieved his gun from his bag and loaded it as slowly as he dared. He turned the key in the lock as quietly as he could, slipped inside, and ghosted along the hall carpet until he could poke his head gently around the corner and into the main room, ready to snap it back at the first hint of danger, convinced that his pounding heart would alert the intruder to his presence.
Somebody was sitting on his couch. His face was an unreadable skull mask in the television glow, and he definitely shouldn’t have been there. But there was no possibility that Gabriel could fail to recognise him.
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV Planet Guvendruduvundraguvnegrugnuvenderelgureg-ugunduvug Guvnuragnaguvendrugun Confederacy, Dominion Core
“There was a pirate organisation that approached the Security Council some time ago. Their leader had come up with a… novel new idea.”
“Pirates? I wasn’t aware the Council was in the business of negotiating with murdering scum.”
“These ones…” Vedreg’s flanks rippled through many colours as he hunted for the correct word, underpinned by a constant theme of awkward yellow. “introduced us to a new concept. ‘Privateering,’ they call it.” he pronounced the English word very carefully: it fit awkwardly in the Guvnurag mouth.
“And what does that word translate as?”
“As they explained it, effectively, a Privateer accepts amnesty from one government for their crimes in return for confining their predations to the shipping of that government’s enemy.” he shuffled uncomfortably. “They also made it explicitly clear that they intended to allow any ship which simply surrendered and handed over their cargo to leave, alive and intact and that they would stamp out any pirate competition in the area.”
Meered’s flanks glowed like embers, aghast. “And the Council agreed to this?” she asked.
“The Council is headed more by practicalists than idealists.” Vedreg admitted. “They were promised a reduction in piracy affecting our own shipping in the region, and effective disruption of Alliance shipping which might divert Celzi ships from the war.” There was a sweep of colour up his flank—the equivalent of a dismissive, contemptuous sniff. “If memory serves, Cimbrean was the base of operations for these ‘Privateers’.”
“What an extraordinary idea. But however competent or unusual these pirates, they’re still pirates, and whoever stole the generator was no gutter criminal.” Meered scoffed.
“If memory serves…” Vedreg said, slowly. “The ringleader of these privateers is a human.”
Meered’s disbelief only served to increase the hue of her flanks. “Humans aren’t magical, Councillor Vedregnegnug.” she chastised.
“No, but they… may I show you something?”
“In support of your claim? Very well.”
Vedreg bowed his head and spread his arms—a gesture of thanks—and spoke to the office. “Room. Access my personal entertainment files. Folder “Earth”, search “London Marathon”.” he intoned. A chime indicated that the requested item had been found. “Display.”
They watched.
”(Twenty-seven miles)?!” Meered exclaimed, after only a few minutes.
“In (three hours) or less.” Vedreg added. Meered’s flanks turned white.
“That… could well explain the theft.” she said. “The sensors on the ground weren’t equipped to detect life forms.”
“It is to be hoped.” Vedreg said. “That this human’s loyalty to their species is less than their loyalty to the pirate band they have formed. I will request a status update. Hopefully this is just a case of pirates being pirates.”
Meered was clearly not hopeful. “And if it isn’t?”
“Then we had best start hoping that pessimist, Furfeg, is wrong.”
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV San Diego, California, USA, Earth.
“Hey Dad.”
Gabriel relaxed. Fortunately, Adam Arés hadn’t looked in his father’s direction, and so didn’t notice him lower the gun and relax.
“Hey yourself.” Gabriel replied, stepping into the room and ruffling the scrawny teenager’s hair. “Wasn’t expecting you today, amigo.”
Adam pulled away from the hair-ruffle. “Mom’s being Mom again.” he said, which was all the explanation he needed to give. This wasn’t the first time Adam had caught a cab over here to get away from her, and almost certainly wouldn’t be the last. It was why he had his own key, and the Superintendent knew his face and to let him in from the time his mother had confiscated it.
“Okay. Did you call Mrs. Almodóvar?” Gabriel’s badge went a long way toward smoothing things over with DCFS, but it was still so much easier if their officer knew about these events when they happened, and heard them from Adam himself. He stuck the gun in the safe—the first thing he always did when he got home anyway, so fortunately there was nothing unusual there for Adam to notice.
Adam sighed. “Yes, Dad, I called Mrs. Almodóvar.” he confirmed, his voice full of all the weariness of a fifteen-year old who felt his competence was being question.
“Alright… woah.”
Adam had been watching a Game of Thrones rerun, and his ears went a brilliant pink as one of Emilia Clarke’s innumerable skin scenes filled the huge TV.
“Ah, shit, sorry Dad, I know it’s a bit… I mean, uh…” Adam stumbled.
“It’s cool, amigo. Just don’t jerk off on my couch or nothing.”
“Da-ad! Yuk!”
Gabriel laughed, and shucked off his running shoes, which he kicked into the corner. He stole a glance at the on-screen nudity again before groaning and stretching his way through to the kitchen where he grabbed a cold beer from the fridge.
“I can’t be bothered to cook tonight, you want pizza or chinese?” he called.
“Chinese please.”
Gabriel knew his son’s preference, and placed the order—hell, the people down at Dragon Chef probably knew their usual order by now—then slumped down on the couch, glad to be home.
“Wanna talk about it?” he asked, when the commercials came on.
“She treats me like an idiot.” Adam complained. Clearly he’d been busting to get it out. “I… there’s this girl at school…”
“Cool.”
“I asked Mom for… advice, you know? On how to ask her out? I don’t even know why she got mad, she just started calling me a little sissy, and…”
“She’s been drinking again, huh?”
“Yeah…” They watched the commercials for a while, before Adam wiped his eyes. “Fuck the courts, man.” he said, for about the thousandth time since the custody hearings.
Gabriel gave his boy a one-armed hug. “A couple more years, amigo. You’ll get through it.”
“Yeah. She probably wouldn’t let me date Ava anyway.” Adam groused.
“Ava? So that’s her name. You were hanging out with her by the gates when I picked you up last week, right?”
”…Yeah?”
“Shit, amigo, if you’re going to let your mom stop you from asking her out you’re a dumbass.” Gabriel said. “Go for it!”
“What if she says no?”
Gabriel suppressed a laugh. “Little man, I saw the way she was looking at you. No way is that gonna happen.”
“She was?” Adam looked stunned and delighted. “but… nah, she wasn’t. Was she?”
“Hey, I’m a cop. Reading people is my job. And here’s a pro tip for you, amigo: If a girl’s got all her weight on one foot like that, and is playing with her hair and biting her lip? She wants you.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“Google that shit, man.”
They sat in comfortable silence until the food arrived, though it was plain that Adam was no longer watching the screen. He only spoke again when they were eating at the table.
“So.. what, just ask her? Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“How? I mean, like, what do I say?”
“You like her?”
“Hell yeah I like her!” Adam exclaimed.
“Why? Is it just because she’s pretty?” She’d seemed more than that to Gabriel’s eye from a distant, but he wanted Adam to have his priorities straight.
“You think she’s pretty?” Adam asked.
“I’m older than you, amigo, not blind.” Gabriel chuckled. “Come on, d’you like her just because she’s pretty, or is she… clever, funny, what?”
”…Yeah. She is.”
“Cool. Lead with that. It’s not hard.”
“So, what do I say?” Adam persisted.
Gabriel shrugged. “Next time you see her, after you’ve said hello, if there’s like, an awkward pause or something, you just say “Hey… I really like you. You’re funny, you’re smart, you’re pretty, and I was hoping we could go out on a date”, something like that.”
Adam looked blank. “That’s it?” he asked.
“That’s it. It’s not rocket surgery, man.” Gabriel grabbed the last dumpling and devoured it. For once, his son was too lost in thought to complain.
“But what if she says no?” He repeated.
Gabriel rolled his eyes and smiled, remembering how short his own confidence had been at that age. “Okay compadre, what I’m about to tell you may sound at first like the bleakest and most depressing thing in the world, but I promise this is the secret to love, okay?”
“What secret?”
Gabriel leaned forward. “There is no such thing, as a perfect girl.” he said. “There’s no “the one” or your “soulmate”. I know you’re really into her—and just trust your old man, she’s into you too—but she’s only human. If she DOES say no, then that’s her loss, okay? It’s not the end of the world. There’s other girls out there, and it’ll hurt and be embarrassing at first, but you’re tough, you’ll get on with your life and a handsome devil like you? You’ll be fending the ladies off with a bat.”
“You’re right, that sounds kinda shitty.” Adam agreed, with a weak smile.
“Trust me, it’s the best thing. You’ve got to understand, little man, relationships don’t just happen magically because an angel came down and touched you both, okay? That only happens in movies and pop music. You have to put work and effort into your girl, and it all starts with remembering that if she says no then she’s an idiot, and if she says yes then she’s the luckiest girl in the world, okay?”
”…okay.”
“D’you have have a few date ideas lined up?”
“Uh… I dunno, a movie?”
“Bad idea, amigo. Movies are just a couple of hours sitting in the dark ignoring each other, that’s no kind of a date. You wanna go do something where you’re actually interacting. Something she likes, and if you like it too, so much the better.”
“Uh… she likes roller derby! She could teach me the rules while we watch?”
“Perfect!”
Gabriel finished his food. “Hey, can you clean this up? I’ma get your bedding out and hit the sack.”
“Sure, Dad…” Adam said. “And…thanks.”
“No problem.” Gabriel stood, ruffled his son’s hair again, and indicated the TV as he passed it. “Turn it off and go to sleep at midnight, and no jacking off on my couch.”
“Dad!”
Date Point 3y 8m 2w 3d AV Planet Guvendruduvundraguvnegrugnuvenderelgureg-ugunduvug Guvnuragnaguvendrugun Confederacy, Dominion Core
Once Vedreg had departed, and his shuttle had cleared docking procedures and shot away to superluminal speeds, bound for the Council Station, Secretary Meered did something that, had anybody witnessed it, would have struck them as strange.
She nodded off to sleep in her seat. A few seconds later, she woke, looking around as if thoroughly startled and dismayed.
Flanks rippling like an explosion in a paint factory, she hastily began to check her files, notes and appointments.
Then she stared at the page, wondering why she couldn’t read it. While that problem was occupying her attention, she idly wondered why her entire body was beginning to feel tingly and numb. She felt warm, though, and tired. Whatever it was she had been so…agitated up about could wait until… she yawned… until she’d had a nap…
Half an hour later, her aide’s frantic call to medical came much too late for Secretary Meered. The cause of death was recorded as cerebral infarction.