Amie Kaufman - These Broken Stars

TARVER

NOTHING ABOUT THIS ROOM IS REAL. If this were a party at home, the music would draw your eye to human musicians in the corner. Candles and soft lamps would light the room, and the wooden tables would be made of actual trees. People would be listening to each other, instead of checking to see whos watching them.

Even the air here smells filtered and fake. The candles in the sconces do flicker, but theyre powered by a steady source. Hover trays weave among the guests, like invisible waiters are carrying drinks. The string quartet is only a hologramperfect and infallible, and exactly the same at every performance.

Id give anything for a laid-back evening joking around with my platoon, instead of being stuck here in this imitation scene from a historical novel.

For all their trendy Victorian tricks, theres no hiding where we are. Outside the viewports, the stars are like faded white lines, half-invisible, surreal. The Icarus, passing through dimensional hyperspace, would look just as faded, half-transparent, if someone stationary in the universe could somehow see her moving faster than light.

Im leaning against the bookshelves when it occurs to me that one thing here is realthe books. I reach behind me and let my fingers trail over the rough leather of their antique spines, then pull one free. Nobody here reads them; the books are for decoration. Chosen for the richness of their leather bindings, not for the contents of their pages. Nobody will miss one, and I need a dose of reality.

Im almost done for the night, smiling for the cameras as ordered. The brass keep thinking that mixing field officers with the upper crust will create some sort of common ground where none exists, let the paparazzi infesting the Icarus see me, the lowborn boy made good, hobnobbing with the elite. I keep thinking that the photographers will get their fill of shots of me with drink in hand, lounging in the first-class salon, but in the two weeks Ive been on board, they havent.

These folks love a good rags-to-riches tale, even if my riches are no more than the medals pinned to my chest. It still makes for a nice story in the papers. The military look good, the rich people look good, and it gives the poor people something to aspire to. See? say all the headlines. You too can rocket your way up to riches and fame. If hick boy can make good, why cant you?

If it wasnt for what happened on Patron, I wouldnt even be here. What they call heroics, I call a tragic debacle. But nobodys asking my opinion.

I scan the room, taking in the clusters of women in brightly colored gowns, officers in dress uniforms like mine, men in evening coats and top hats. The ebb and flow of the crowd is unsettlingpatterns Ill never get used to no matter how many times Im forced to rub elbows with these people.

My eyes fall on a man whos just entered, and it takes me a moment to realize why. Theres nothing about him that fits here, although hes trying to blend in. His black tailcoat is too threadbare, and his top hat is missing the shiny satin ribbon thats in fashion. Im trained to notice the thing that doesnt fit, and in this sea of surgically perfected faces, his is a beacon. There are lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, his skin weather-beaten and marked by the sun. Hes nervous, shoulders rounded, fingers gripping the lapels of his jacket and letting go again.

My heart kicks up a beat. Ive spent too long in the colonies, where anything out of place might kill you. I ease away from the bookshelves and start to weave my way toward him, past a pair of women sporting monocles they cant possibly need. I want to know why hes here, but Im forced to move slowly, navigating the push and pull of the crowd with agonizing patience. If I shove, Ill draw attention. And if he is dangerous, any sudden shift in the energy of the room could trigger him.

A brilliant flash lights up the world as a camera goes off in my face.

Oh, Major Merendsen! Its the leader of a gaggle of women in their mid-twenties, descending on me from the direction of the viewport. Oh, you simply must take a picture with us.

Their insincerity is poisonous. Im barely more than a dog walking on its hind legs, herethey know it, and I know it, but they cant pass up an opportunity to be seen with a real, live war hero.

Sure, Ill just come back in a minute, if Before I can finish, all three women are posed around me, lips pursed and lashes lowered. Smile for the cameras. A series of flashes erupt all around me, blinding me.

I can feel that low, stabbing pain at the base of my skull that promises to explode into a fully fledged headache. The women are still chattering and pressing in close, and I cant see the man with the weathered face.

One of the photographers is buzzing around me, his voice a low drone. I step sideways to look past him, but my eyes are swimming with red and gold afterimages. Blinking hard, my gaze swings from the bar, to the door, the hover trays, the booths. I try to remember what he looked like, the line of his clothes. Was there room to hide anything under his dinner jacket? Could he be armed?

Major, did you hear me? The photographers still talking.

Yes? No, I wasnt listening. I disentangle myself from the women still draped over me on the pretense of stepping closer to speak with him. I wish I could shove past this little man, or better yet, tell him theres a threat and watch how fast he vanishes from the room.

I said Im surprised your buddies on the lower decks arent trying to sneak up here too.

Seriously? The other soldiers watch me head to first class every evening like a man walking down death row. Oh, you know. I try not to sound as annoyed as I am. I doubt they even know what champagne is. I try for a smile too, but theyre the ones good at insincerity, not me.

He laughs too loudly as the flash explodes in my face again. Blinking away the stars, I stumble clear and crane my neck, trying to locate the only guy in the room more out of place than I am. But the stooped man in the shabby hat is nowhere to be found.

Maybe he left? But someone doesnt go to the trouble of crashing a party like this and then slip out without a fuss. Maybe hes seated now, hiding among the other guests. My eyes sweep across the booths again, this time examining the patrons more closely.

Theyre all packed full of people. All except one. My gaze falls on a girl sitting alone in a booth, watching the crowd with detached interest. Her fair, flawless skin says shes one of them, but her gaze says shes better, above, untouchable.

Shes wearing the same hue as a navy dress uniform, bare shoulders holding my gaze for a momentshe sure as hell wears the color better than any sailor I know. Hair: red, falling down past her shoulders. Nose: a little snub, but that makes her more pretty, not less. It makes her real.

Prettys not the right word. Shes a knockout.

Something about the girls face tickles at the back of my mind, like I should recognize it, but before I can dig up the connection, she catches me looking at her. I know better than to mix with girls like her, so I dont know why I keep watching her, or why I smile.

Then, abruptly, a movement jerks my gaze away. Its the nervous man, and hes no longer meandering in and out of the crowd. His stooped posture is gone, and with his eyes fixed on something across the room hes moving quickly through the press of bodies. Hes got a goaland its the girl in the blue dress.

I waste no time weaving in and out of the crowd politely. I shove between a pair of startled elderly gentlemen and make for the booth, but the outsiders gotten there first. Hes leaning close, speaking low and fast. Hes moving too quickly, trying to spit out what he came to say before hes picked out as an intruder. The girl jerks back, leaning away. Then the crowd closes up between us, and theyre out of sight.