Stepping out of the lab, Jack saw Nova sitting at an empty desk in the main hall, her beautiful face lost in a haze of thought as she rested her chin on her hand. Stripped of her usual sharp, defensive armor, she seemed quiet and achingly vulnerable, like a flower blooming in the ashes of a battlefield.

  He couldn't stop himself. He walked over, reached out, and gently ran his hand over her head. The soft, golden strands of her hair slid through his fingers, a sensation so tender it made him flinch, the memory of the battlefield's cold brutality—the iron-and-ozone smell of blood and scorched air, the high-pitched shriek of tearing metal—tightening its grip around his chest.

  "I'm back," he said, his voice holding a softness he hadn't realized he possessed. "This is something worth celebrating."

  Nova trembled slightly at the warmth of his rough hand. She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned into his touch, resting her head against his side, grounding herself in his solid presence. Jack could smell the unique scent of her, a mix of the lab's cold antiseptic and a faint, comforting hint of jasmine.

  "Jack," she said, her voice low, "I missed you every day you were gone. I was so worried about you. And now you're finally back with me." Her eyes reddened, and a watery mist formed in her blue irises.

  She looked up, and in those shimmering blue eyes, Jack saw his own reflection. Nova didn't say anything more. She simply, with a tender but undeniable resolve, rose to her feet and initiated the kiss, pressing her soft lips to his forehead. The touch was as warm as an electric current, instantly banishing the last of the battlefield's chill from his soul.

  "Alright," she whispered, as if issuing a command. "Let's go get something to eat."

  "I want to go to the Smai Grand Hotel," Nova's tone regained a bit of its cunning glint. "I hear the food is excellent. You're going to treat me to the most lavish meal they have."

  The Smai Grand Hotel was a decadent, glittering jewel in the capital city of Garipan. War had cast a gray pall over the rest of the town, but here, chandeliers cut from real crystal still refracted dreamlike light from gilded ceilings, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and Cuban cigars—the smell of power.

  "Of course," Jack agreed instantly. "My queen."

  "Hmph, who's your queen!" A deep blush spread across Nova's cheeks. The memory of their frantic, passionate encounter on the cold floor flashed through her mind, and she shot him a smoldering look before turning and running off. "You wait outside! I need to change."

  Jack waited for an hour at the subterranean exit of the Seventh Lab before Nova reappeared. She had shed the lab coat for a white silk evening gown, intricately embroidered with silver thread, that elegantly showcased her otherworldly curves. Her long, pale legs were accentuated by a pair of crystal high heels. She had clearly showered, her golden hair falling in loose, slightly damp waves over her shoulders. Her face was adorned with subtle makeup, her full lips painted a shade of red that was both a warning and an invitation.

  Standing next to her in his standard-issue lieutenant's uniform, Jack felt like a country bumpkin at a royal ball.

  Nova made a cute, teasing face and dangled a key fob. "I borrowed the professor's car."

  When Jack saw Dr. Thorne's car in the parking garage, he froze. It was a retro-styled grav-car, a 'Voyager Replica' built in the 2470s by Vector Dynamics for eccentric collectors. The polished chrome curves and leather-trimmed cabin looked like something dragged out of a twentieth-century archive—but the moment Nova brushed the key fob against the door, the vehicle woke like a predator stretching after a long sleep.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The dash didn't light up with dials and needles. Instead, a holographic HUD blossomed across the windshield, projecting a ghostly three-dimensional city map in pale blue. A soft hum ran through the cabin as a micro-fusion core spooled up, barely audible but resonant enough to thrum in their bones. The seats molded themselves automatically to Jack's heavy frame and Nova's slender posture, adjusting lumbar supports with unnerving precision.

  "Holy shit," Jack muttered, running his hand—still calloused and rough from years in the mech bays—over the chrome-accented panel. He expected brittle plastic, but his palm met adaptive alloy skin that rippled faintly, alive with embedded circuits.

  Nova, normally jaded by the Seventh Lab's bleeding-edge toys, raised her brows despite herself. "It's a collector's car," she said softly, "but Thorne must have rebuilt it from the inside out. This is a military-grade nav-core. No wonder he never lets anyone else touch it."

  Jack leaned back as the grav-car lifted from the ground, fusion thrusters purring with the sound of a church organ. For once, even a mech pilot was impressed. "The old bastard's riding in style," he said, half in awe, half in envy.

  To his surprise, when Nova sat in the driver's seat and spoke a soft command, the car responded instantly. The onboard micro-AI plotted a course without a sound, and the cabin filled with the dreamlike, flowing melody of Debussy's Clair de Lune. With a pleasant, organ-like hum, the vintage vehicle lifted smoothly from the ground and merged silently into the capital's busy sky-lanes.

  Minutes later, the flyer left the main thoroughfare and ascended a winding, tree-lined path up the side of a mountain. At the summit, a magnificent, palatial hotel, all white marble and vast panes of glass, stood like a temple in the center of a manicured lawn.

  They had just reached the entrance when a powerfully built doorman stopped them, his politeness impeccable. "Your membership number, sir?"

  Jack froze. "You need to be a member?"

  "Yes, sir," the doorman said, his smile perfectly apologetic but utterly firm. "The Smai Grand is a members-only establishment."

  A lieutenant's salary for several months probably wouldn't even cover the fee for their lowest-tier membership card.

  Just then, Nova, who had been watching Jack with a small smile, stepped forward. "I'm a member," she said. "The reservation is under Nova Carter."

  The doorman's eyes widened slightly as he checked his electronic list. His smile was suddenly much more genuine. "Of course, Ms. Carter. Your exclusive table is ready. Right this way."

  Jack sheepishly rubbed his nose. He had underestimated the capital's opulence.

  The restaurant was a symphony of quiet luxury, with the gentle orchestral arrangement of "Moon River" drifting through the air. They were led to a window-side table with a breathtaking panoramic view of Garipan City spread out below.

  "Is this your first time here, fatty?" Nova asked softly.

  "Yeah," he admitted, scratching his head. "Didn't know about all the rules."

  Nova's smile was sly. "Well, you'd better be prepared. The food here is costly."

  Jack wasn't worried. He still had the hundreds of thousands of Commonwealth credits his parents had left him. It should be enough for dinner.

  The food arrived quickly. The appetizer was Foie Gras Poêlé aux Figues (pan-seared foie gras with fig sauce). For the main course, Nova had ordered Sole Meunière for herself, and a massive, pepper-crusted Steak au Poivre for the "carnivore" Jack. They were classic, perfectly executed dishes from France's Old Earth cuisine.

  As they ate and talked, a group of people entered the large, glass-walled hall in the center of the restaurant. The other patrons in the smaller dining area immediately stood up, some of them brandishing cameras and snapping photos.

  The other guests blocked Jack's view, so he couldn't see who the "important guests" were. It didn't matter to him anyway. He lowered his head and went back to work on his perfectly cooked, medium-rare T-bone steak.