could feel her ability to blend in slipping away like water through cupped hands. And yet, where one door closed, another…
Alia’s brow creased. “This is the moment where you, the ambitious young reporter, ask for an interview.”
“Oh, I could never. Not here, not during a memorial. I would be tossed out on my ear.”
“I’m giving you permission.”
Melni swallowed. She shifted on her feet and felt the sheathed knife on her left thigh grate against the lockright implements on the right. “Surely you have guests to—”
“Everyone’s gone. The families took my yacht but I decided…well, I didn’t feel right going along. So I’m stuck here, I’m afraid, waiting for their return so I can close the event officially. Please, ask me. I could use a distraction.”
“All right, then,” Melni said. To her own ear she sounded like an uncomprehending child asked to apologize for some archaic slight. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin. “Miss Valix, may I ask you a few questions on behalf of the
Weekly
?”
—
Alia took Melni to a large den and left her sitting alone for several minutes. When she returned she’d shed her mourning dress for a simple dark blue blouse over black slacks. She took the seat behind the desk without a word and sat for a few moments studying a sleek beige cube emitting a harsh greenish glow from the front. In that light the woman looked cold, almost sickly. The box sat atop another, the lower one thin and rectangular in shape like the box that Blade’s had delivered Melni’s dress in. The front tapered down slightly and sported at least a hundred buttons in neat rows. A computer,Melni realized. She’d read about them but never seen one in person. Just a few years ago it would have taken up the entire room.
“Thirsty?” Alia asked without looking.
Melni shifted in the small, plush chair. “Gratitude, but I am fine.”
Alia tapped a few buttons on her computer and the green glow of information winked off. Without the cold glare on her face she looked more like the polished businessperson the press was used to seeing. She didn’t seem tired at all, despite the hour. “Well, I hope you have questions or this will be a short chat.”
Melni fumbled with her pad of paper. She set it in her lap and pressed the cover open to the page she’d jotted notes on while Alia had changed clothes. “Gratitude for speaking with me,” she started, lamely.
The woman across from her waved the comment aside with a tiny gesture and the flash of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
Melni glanced down at her notes, groping for the right strategy, torn between the need to learn answers and the desire to be forgotten by this person before the next setting of the Sun. The silence in the room became an oppressive, palpable thing. Alia began to tap her fingers together.
“Right,” Melni said. “The Think Tank.”
“Yes?” Alia asked, one eyebrow arched in slight amusement.
“How about a tour?”
Alia laughed brightly.
“Sorry,” Melni said. “Had to try.”
Another wave of the hand. A curt dismissal to an amusing question.
Melni tried a different tack, one she hoped would be unexpected. “Where are you from, Miss Valix? I mean, the Desolation obviously. We have that in common, at least,” she said, pointing to the pale skin of her own cheek. “But most of us went north or south centuries ago. Your ancestors stayed. Where specifically?”
A flash of annoyance touched the woman’s steady blue eyes. Shepuffed out her cheeks before answering, something Melni had seen her do in countless public appearances. “Given your profession,” she said evenly, “I’m sure you know the answer to that as well.”
“I know what most people know, probably. Raised in a remote cabin in one of the disputed regions. You have said you do not remember exactly where—”
“All true.”
“This always surprised me,” Melni said.
“Why?”
She leaned forward, pen poised above the
Alia’s brow creased. “This is the moment where you, the ambitious young reporter, ask for an interview.”
“Oh, I could never. Not here, not during a memorial. I would be tossed out on my ear.”
“I’m giving you permission.”
Melni swallowed. She shifted on her feet and felt the sheathed knife on her left thigh grate against the lockright implements on the right. “Surely you have guests to—”
“Everyone’s gone. The families took my yacht but I decided…well, I didn’t feel right going along. So I’m stuck here, I’m afraid, waiting for their return so I can close the event officially. Please, ask me. I could use a distraction.”
“All right, then,” Melni said. To her own ear she sounded like an uncomprehending child asked to apologize for some archaic slight. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin. “Miss Valix, may I ask you a few questions on behalf of the
Weekly
?”
—
Alia took Melni to a large den and left her sitting alone for several minutes. When she returned she’d shed her mourning dress for a simple dark blue blouse over black slacks. She took the seat behind the desk without a word and sat for a few moments studying a sleek beige cube emitting a harsh greenish glow from the front. In that light the woman looked cold, almost sickly. The box sat atop another, the lower one thin and rectangular in shape like the box that Blade’s had delivered Melni’s dress in. The front tapered down slightly and sported at least a hundred buttons in neat rows. A computer,Melni realized. She’d read about them but never seen one in person. Just a few years ago it would have taken up the entire room.
“Thirsty?” Alia asked without looking.
Melni shifted in the small, plush chair. “Gratitude, but I am fine.”
Alia tapped a few buttons on her computer and the green glow of information winked off. Without the cold glare on her face she looked more like the polished businessperson the press was used to seeing. She didn’t seem tired at all, despite the hour. “Well, I hope you have questions or this will be a short chat.”
Melni fumbled with her pad of paper. She set it in her lap and pressed the cover open to the page she’d jotted notes on while Alia had changed clothes. “Gratitude for speaking with me,” she started, lamely.
The woman across from her waved the comment aside with a tiny gesture and the flash of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
Melni glanced down at her notes, groping for the right strategy, torn between the need to learn answers and the desire to be forgotten by this person before the next setting of the Sun. The silence in the room became an oppressive, palpable thing. Alia began to tap her fingers together.
“Right,” Melni said. “The Think Tank.”
“Yes?” Alia asked, one eyebrow arched in slight amusement.
“How about a tour?”
Alia laughed brightly.
“Sorry,” Melni said. “Had to try.”
Another wave of the hand. A curt dismissal to an amusing question.
Melni tried a different tack, one she hoped would be unexpected. “Where are you from, Miss Valix? I mean, the Desolation obviously. We have that in common, at least,” she said, pointing to the pale skin of her own cheek. “But most of us went north or south centuries ago. Your ancestors stayed. Where specifically?”
A flash of annoyance touched the woman’s steady blue eyes. Shepuffed out her cheeks before answering, something Melni had seen her do in countless public appearances. “Given your profession,” she said evenly, “I’m sure you know the answer to that as well.”
“I know what most people know, probably. Raised in a remote cabin in one of the disputed regions. You have said you do not remember exactly where—”
“All true.”
“This always surprised me,” Melni said.
“Why?”
She leaned forward, pen poised above the
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