Weekly: Instinct. Daily: Full of Woe
Shattered Expanse
Darian Voss had decided that if he was going to die, he was at least going to enjoy the inconvenience.
Three weeks earlier, he had possessed an apartment, a respectable brokerage practice, several profitable contracts, and the comfortable certainty that he understood how the universe worked. Now most of his accounts were frozen, his apartment belonged to someone else, two of his associates had stopped answering messages, and a man he had known for twelve years had advised him – in a voice trembling badly enough to frighten Darian – to disappear.
So Darian followed his instincts and they led him to the Velvet Syndicate. More specifically, they led him aboard a transport bound for a Syndicate world in the final days before the Festival of a Thousand Faces. The promotional display on the seat before him promised ten days without consequence. Darian doubted that considerably. Still, the images were magnificent.
Great processions wound between towers draped in violet and gold. Masked dancers filled streets beneath storms of shimmering paper. Music thundered from floating stages. Strangers kissed strangers. Wine flowed from public fountains. Vendors offered foods from thirty worlds. Casinos advertised fortunes won before breakfast and lost before lunch. Temporary cosmetic clinics promised patrons any face they desired for the duration of the festival.
For ten days, the advertisement proclaimed, become what you desire. Darian laughed quietly. He had spent most of his life knowing precisely what he desired. Profit. Security. Respect. A larger apartment. A better ship. Another contract. Then another. Reasonable desires for a Cydrani. Things that could be measured, negotiated and acquired.
He was finished with reasonable desires and wanted to taste something without asking the price. He wanted to wager money on something he didn’t understand and hear music and follow it. He wanted to meet someone beautiful and not wonder what they wanted from him. He wanted to wake somewhere unfamiliar without remembering exactly how he had gotten there. Most of all, though he refused to admit it even to himself, Darian Voss wanted very badly to still be alive when the festival ended.
He began bookmarking attractions, then he stopped. That was the old Darian – planning. calculating, or optimizing. He deleted every bookmark. When the transport landed, he would choose the first thing that caught his attention and follow it. After that, he would choose another.
Instinct.
For once in his carefully negotiated life he will follow his instincts. Darian leaned back and imagined disappearing among ten million masked strangers. Then instinct made him look up. Across the passenger cabin, perhaps twenty meters away, someone was staring at him – a man. Darian couldn’t remember seeing him board.
Their eyes met and the stranger didn’t look away. For several seconds neither moved. Then the man smiled. Darian felt something cold settle into his stomach. Perhaps the festival had begun early. Or perhaps Darian Voss was never going to see it.
Blood & Suns
There are certain disadvantages to having the same man follow you everywhere.
You learn things about him.
I know how he stands when he is bored. I know the difference between the expression he wears when he sees a threat and the one he wears when he merely sees someone he dislikes. I know he checks doors twice, even when I have watched him check them the first time. I know he dislikes sweet coffee. I know he sleeps lightly. I know that when we enter a room together, he looks at the exits before he looks at the people. And I know when he is looking at me.
That last one is the problem. I don’t believe he knows that I know. At least, I hope he doesn’t.
There are things a woman learns to recognize without being taught. A glance held half a second too long. A change in someone’s voice. The peculiar silence that appears when two people have reached the edge of saying something neither should say.
Instinct.
Mine has kept me alive more times than I can count. My instincts are also very clear about him.
Don’t.
It should be easy. He is my bodyguard. His responsibility is to protect me. Mine is to allow him to do it without making his work more difficult than it already is. Simple. Professional. Sensible.
And completely miserable. I have constructed an impressive collection of reasons why nothing can ever happen between us. He might hesitate when he shouldn’t and I might hesitate when I shouldn’t. Someone might notice and use him against me or him. Those are the practical reasons.
There are political reasons as well. Social reasons. Questions of position and expectation and the thousand invisible rules governing who is permitted to touch whom in this ridiculous world. I could probably write a memorandum on the subject. Perhaps I should.
Regarding the inadvisability of kissing one’s bodyguard. Twenty-seven pages. Properly referenced. Approved by committee. Stamped by three ministries. Filed permanently somewhere in Berlin.
I almost laughed the first time I thought of that. He asked me what was funny. I told him nothing. I lie to him quite often but only about one thing. Sometimes I wonder whether he does the same. That is where the sadness comes from.
If I believed he felt nothing, I could eventually extinguish this. Desire starves when there is nothing to feed it. But there are moments, very tiny ones. They are Infuriating.
Once, at a reception, a man was speaking to me and clearly enjoying my company. I happened to glance across the room. My bodyguard was watching us and as soon as he saw that I noticed, he looked away immediately. Professional vigilance, of course.
Another time, his hand rested against the small of my back as he guided me through a crowd. There was nothing unusual about it, he has done the same thing dozens of times. Except the crowd cleared and his hand lingered only for a moment, then it disappeared. Neither of us said anything, of course. We are very good at saying nothing. Perhaps that is our greatest talent.
Tonight was worse. There had been an incident, nothing worth recording here, but an argument became a threat, the threat became violence, and he did what he always does. He put himself between me and it. Afterward, when we were finally alone, he checked me for injuries.
“I’m fine,” I told him.
“You always say that.”
“Because I’m usually fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
I looked down. A tiny cut along my forearm. I hadn’t even noticed it.
“You’ve suffered worse shaving.”
“I don’t shave my arms.”
That almost made him smile. He cleaned the cut anyway. I watched his hands. That was a mistake. There are hands meant for delicate work and hands meant for violence. His somehow seem capable of both. I wondered what they would feel like against my face, then I hated myself for wondering. Not because the thought was shameful, but because I liked it. When he finished, he looked up. We were very close. Too close. He knew it. I knew it. Neither of us moved.
There are moments when instinct screams. This wasn’t like that. There was no alarm. No sudden certainty of danger. No sensation that something terrible was about to happen. My instinct merely whispered.
Don’t.
That was somehow worse. Because I wanted to. God, I wanted to. All I needed to do was lean forward. A few centimeters. Perhaps he would have met me halfway. Perhaps not. I think he would have. That thought will probably keep me awake tonight. His hands were still resting lightly against my arms. I looked into his eyes. For one stupid, wonderful moment I imagined telling instinct to go to hell. Instead, I reached up and straightened his collar.
“You look terrible,” I said.
He gave me that almost-smile again.
“Occupational hazard.”
Then I left. I made it all the way to my room before I stopped. I closed the door behind me and stood there with my hand still resting on the handle. I didn’t cry. That would almost have been preferable. I simply stood there and wished. That is a dangerous thing.
People speak about desire as though it drives us toward things. They are wrong. Sometimes desire is standing perfectly still when every part of you wants to move. Sometimes desire is knowing exactly what would make you happy and choosing not to reach for it.
Sometimes desire is closing a door. I wonder what he did after I closed mine. That is another thought I should not have. I have it anyway.