Page 43 of Shadows of Stardust

S: You’ll have to speak up a little, and try not to look directly to-camera

Z: Better?

S: Yes, so much better! Now, what can you tell us about your whirlwind romance with Roslyn?

Z: What do you want to know?

S: How about we start at the beginning?

Z: Seems like a logical place to start.

S: …

Z: …

S: Well?

Z: Well what?

S: … You know, I think you and Roslyn are going to get along just fine.

I’ve run missions in three dozen different galaxies, commanded a until of nearly a hundred soldiers, and prevented numerous intergalactic conflicts from breaking out with a well-orchestrated bit of spycraft or clever sabotage, but never in any of my thirty-two revols have I met a challenge like faking passion with Roslyn.

“You could look a little less miserable,” I mutter as we step down the bungalow’s front steps and into the sand.

Five hovercams circle us. Under the bright sun and clear blue sky, there’s nowhere to hide, no forgiving shadows, and the woman by my side looks more like she’s about to be taken prisoner behind enemy lines than spend a nice day on the beach with her paramour.

An auspicious start, indeed.

She looks up at me with a smile that could curdle a lesser male’s blood in his veins.

I lift a hand and run my thumb over her lower lip, half-convinced I’m about to lose the digit. “Is this a human defense mechanism? Showcasing these deadly fangs of yours?”

Roslyn jerks her head away. “You obviously don’t know human biology. Our bites contain bacteria that can cause a person to go septic.”

“And you obviously don’t know Revexoran biology. Our blood has antiseptic properties.”

Taking her hand in mine, I tug her down the beach toward the pavilion, where our first gauntlet of the day awaits.

“Well, maybe we’ll have to see how antiseptic it really is,” she mutters, and though—idiotically—I don’t hate the idea of feeling her blunt little teeth on me again, this is hardly the type of conversation that’s going to win us more points with producers.

In fact, I doubt we’re capable of doing much on that front at all, because the closer we get to the pavilion, the heavier the air between us becomes.

It’s stifling, the weight of her anger and mistrust and suspicion, her utter unwillingness to work with me on this. And while I can’t blame her for her attitude toward me, nor can I dredge up much hope that we’re going to make it through even one day before they call this whole thing off.

Not a single soul is going to believe Roslyn and I are in love.

Not with the way she drops my hand and stomps up the stairs, leaving me to fend for myself. Not with the way her misery and obstinance hang over her like a storm-cloud waiting to unleash its fury.

Facing the daunting task of breakfast with the cast all on my own, I pause at the top of the steps and survey the battlefield.

We’re late arrivals. It looks like nearly every other contestant is already here. Sitting in pairs or groups or picking at what’s left of the spread, with even more cams circling to capture every mundane moment.

Roslyn’s already half-way across the pavilion, making straight for her Volbherran friend.

Fine. If that’s how she wants to play it, that’s how we’ll play it.

I’ll get my own food and excuse myself, head back down to the beach and—

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