1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

M usic sailed through the cool twilight air, spreading out from the source—a genuine string quartet, a touch of Central System elegance that everyone agreed was the pinnacle of class—and echoing through the streets in every direction. This was a place where sound, like light, spread across the land like water spread on other planets.

There was very little water to be had on this violent planet, but if the Alliance had their way, there would be peace.

Tonight was a special evening. An important evening, worthy of the expense of an imported, exclusively human string quartet. The inauguration of the first governor of the newest interstellar member of the Alliance, the ironically named Paradise, was the sort of event that attention-starved socialites and wealthy provincials longed for. Any distraction from day-to-day life on a rock that consisted mostly of barren desert, especially from those aspects concerning the reconstruction after the war, was pathetically welcome. Every dignitary, notable, and local politician who could wrangle an invitation had, and the brand-new governor's mansion was packed with people wanting to see, be seen, and to work out their place in the new social pecking order.

Naturally, most of this sucking up was directed at the new governor, but there was plenty to go around for his family members. General Caractacus didn't have much family, just a new young wife and a son from his first marriage. Claudia, said wife, was a constant at her husband's side that evening, a vision in a shining pearl-white dress: sleek, beautiful, and attentive. Garrett, the governor's son, was told he was just as beautiful as his new stepmother, but unlike her, he had made sure he was nowhere to be seen at the moment. He had slipped outside to the veranda and was staring out across the capital city of Rapture at bunker-like government buildings, glowing under two orange moons. He was alone and currently wondering why.

Garrett could only assume that it was because he must want it that way, and that was what was fucking with him. He never wanted to be alone. He was the quintessential social butterfly, an intrinsically gregarious creature who had to be the center of attention. He gloried in it; he craved it. Tonight was an evening he was made for.

But for some reason, he wasn't comfortable working the crowd right now. It wasn't thrilling him like it should. People flocked to him at any time: he knew he had a reputation as someone who was gorgeous, successful, and known for being generous with his company (others might call him a man whore, but they were usually the bitter ones he didn't want to sleep with). This sort of event should have been his playground. Instead, he mostly felt tired of it.

Mood swings weren't unusual for Garrett. He was as attuned to his blood chemistry as any scientist could be, but this time around was different. This felt like it had been building for a while. Weeks, maybe months. He was getting bored with playing. It was bizarre .

Probably the result of all the unwholesomely vanilla influences in his life lately. His father getting married to a pretty, adoring woman who Garrett actually liked. His ex and his ex's lover turning into his closest friends, which was more than a little screwy, considering they never let him play with them. Not even when he asked nicely. Garrett sighed.

"Big sigh."

Think of the devil … Garrett glanced over his shoulder. "Wyl. Don't you have a big, strong marine you should be dancing with?"

"Please," Wyl scoffed, moving up to stand beside Garrett at the railing. "Robbie has two left feet. He doesn't dance if it's not barefoot in the kitchen."

"He'd do anything for you."

"I can't dance either." Wyl passed him a glass filled with a white, milky liquid. "Drink up, it's on your dad."

Garrett stared into the glass. "What is this?"

"Not what I bet you'd like best right now," Wyl replied with a crooked smile. He was an inch or so shorter than Garrett, with jet-black hair tied into a short ponytail and a sharp, attractive face. Wyl was a ship mechanic from a working-class background, and the only thing he and Garrett had in common on the surface was their interest in Robbie. "But it's still creamy and delicious."

Inside they had a similar filthy sense of humor, though.

"So thoughtful." Garrett took one sip, then another more appreciatively. "Nice. He imported all sorts of good stuff for this."

"Your dad wants to get off on the right foot."

"The politically correct and very pricey foot," Garrett corrected. "No state funds used—the party's coming from his personal accounts. And he might as well get us all drunk and happy tonight because tomorrow the work really gets going. Governing a recently divided, even-more recently united planet with no profitable infrastructure in place apart from smuggling and a thousand different parasites waiting to descend and sink their claws into the construction process is no one's idea of a good time."

"Your dad isn't the type to let himself get pushed into anything. He'll do fine."

Garrett shrugged. "I know. He's got a good staff, he's got Claudia. You and Robbie and Jane. He can handle anything that comes up."

"He's got you too." Wyl grinned at him. "You might be mostly eye candy, but you've got better people skills than most diplomats. Plus, you're a trained terraformer."

If only. "There isn't much call for terraforming here; the big companies have given Paradise up as a lost cause. Apart from the greenhouses needed for food security, there won't be much to design."

"Well, there must be something for a biochemical climawhatthefuckever to do here. People if nothing else."

Garrett had to force a smile, which was another weird thing. He usually reveled in his sexual freedom, but he hadn't slept with anyone for nearly two months now, and he wasn't really interested in starting anything up with anyone. "Yes, I suppose I can always fall back on personal entertainment."

Wyl frowned. "When's the last time you went on a date, anyway? A real date, not a booty call?"

Garrett thought about it for a second. "I think it was sometime around that semi-suicidal mission of Robbie's. He's really healed up fine, hasn't he? I never know if he's telling the truth about personal injury, and despite what people think, Regen isn't perfect."

"He's fine now, the new leg works great, but Gare—that was six months ago." Wyl clearly was not willing to be distracted. "You went out almost every night the first year I was here. You had boyfriends, boy toys … what's up?"

"Nothing." Which was technically true; his social calendar was dead except for big, unavoidable group events like this.

"Your heart rate says you're lying."

"Oh, fuck you and your super senses," Garrett groused.

"Gare …"

"Wyl, if I knew what to tell you, I would," he said. That was true enough too. Garrett believed in being honest, especially with people he cared about. The problem was that he didn't know what was going on with him, and until he did, he could hardly articulate it to someone else.

"Will you tell me once you do know? Or Robbie, or your dad, or someone?"

Garrett smiled more naturally now. It was nice to have someone worry about him. "Of course."

"Good." Wyl pointed at the drink. "Finish it before it gets warm, otherwise the milk curdles."

"Thanks, that's incentive." Garrett spun the glass in his fingertips, then put it down on the railing. "I'll get a fresh one inside. I need to go back in anyway."

"Nah, stay," Wyl whined. "The music sucks."

Garrett rolled his eyes. "It's a waltz. What's not to like about a waltz?"

"Apart from the fact that listening to it makes me want to fall asleep?"

"Sounds like a fascinating conversation," a new voice commented from the door. They both turned to look at Robbie, who came over and slipped an arm around Wyl's waist. Garrett barely even felt a pang anymore when that happened, for which he was pretty proud of himself. Robbie Sinclair was a modern- day white knight: tall, good-looking, the kind of guy that made going gray at the temples look sexy instead of distinguished. Garrett had long ago resigned himself to the fact that Robbie was a thing of his past, at least carnally, but that didn't mean he had to keep his hands completely to himself.

"It was," he said breezily, twining one of his arms with Robbie's free one. "We were discussing who was going to get to dance with you next, and since Wyl is fighting off a bout of narcolepsy, it looks like I win."

"I don't dance," Robbie said instantly, his blue eyes going a little desperate at the idea of it.

"Perfect time to learn," Garrett coaxed, putting his cute face on. "Waltzes are easy."

"You think global climate modeling is easy too."

"You have the hand-eye coordination to be a sharpshooter in the Allied Marines, and yet you don't have the foot-eye coordination to learn to waltz?" Garrett was tempted to keep up the banter—it was kind of standard operating procedure for the three of them—but he just didn't have the energy. "Whatever. Stay out, enjoy the night air. It's the coolest it gets on this damn planet anyway."

He turned and walked back inside, leaving his warm drink behind. He thought he heard Wyl mutter something to Robbie, but it was lost in the sudden flood of sound as the door slid open for him.

Garrett squared his shoulders, dredged another smile up from somewhere, and proceeded to work the room.