Chapter 3

3

A s she entered the grand ballroom on President Murphy's arm, the weight of diplomatic responsibility settled across Evelyn’s shoulders like a flight harness. Years of military service had her gaze sweeping the room with practiced efficiency. The crystal chandeliers overhead cast dappled, soft light across the gathering. Earth’s most influential figures mingled with aliens she’d never met.

The midnight blue silk of her dress whispered against her legs with each step, a far cry from the familiar comfort of her dress uniform. After twenty-five years in the Air Force, fifteen of those as a combat pilot before her promotion to General, formal wear was more like a costume than clothing. Still, she maintained her posture, her bearing as crisp as if she were on the bridge of her command ship rather than playing diplomat.

“Your expression suggests you’re plotting escape routes,” Murphy said in a low murmur, hand over hers where it rested in the crook of his elbow. “At least try not to look like you’re planning a retreat.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, I’d rather be reviewing tactical reports.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “Or having a root canal.”

Murphy’s shoulders trembled with carefully controlled amusement. “We both know why you’re here, General. I need my most powerful pieces on the board.” His gesture encompassed the room, where humans in formal wear mingled with towering alien delegates. “Particularly tonight.”

The Latharians stood out, their seven-foot frames encased in formal leather armor that emphasized their warrior heritage. But it was the unfamiliar aliens that caught her interest. They matched the Lathar in height, but their skin ranged from deep crimson to rich purple, with prominent tusks curving up from their lower jaws. The most striking was a female who dominated the space around her, her purple skin marked with heavy scarring that told of a lifetime of battle and violence.

“The Vorrtan,” Murphy supplied, following her gaze. “That particular lady is the Vorrtan ambassador’s grandmother. She’s their most powerful warlady – think of her as their equivalent of a five-star general.”

Evelyn noted the way the Latharians cast measured glances at the Vorrtan delegation. There was history, written in the tension of squared shoulders and carefully maintained distances. The same body language she’d seen in countless briefing rooms before conflicts erupted. “Quite the powder keg you’ve assembled, sir.”

“Sometimes diplomacy requires a controlled burn to prevent a wildfire.” Murphy’s smile didn’t waver, though his voice dropped lower.

“Speaking of which, do try to avoid punching any admirals tonight. The incident with Admiral Chen last spring generated enough paperwork to last a lifetime.”

“He assaulted a civilian under my command presence.” The steel in her voice could have reinforced a bunker. “Rank doesn’t excuse criminal behavior.”

“I don’t disagree with your assessment or response, but perhaps we could avoid physical solutions to social problems tonight?” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Circulate. Play nice. That’s an order, General.”

Evelyn gave a slight nod, releasing Murphy’s arm as he moved away to greet other guests. She watched him for a few seconds, aware that even with the aliens in the room, the most dangerous person here was a plain human.

She performed her diplomatic duties for the next hour with the same precision she’d used to fly combat missions. Her trained eye noted the currents of power flowing through the room – the way the Vorrtan warlady’s presence created eddies of tension, how the Latharian warriors maintained strategic positioning throughout the space. The human military contingent’s reactions were equally telling, though they were by far the least professional.

Their constant grumbling about ‘aliens in leather’ bored her within fifteen minutes, and she glared at them, especially when they made the comments in earshot of their leather-clad guests. The petty jealousy was as transparent as it was unprofessional.

She took a measured sip of champagne, using the motion to mask her observation of a particularly tense interaction between a Vorrtan and a Latharian warrior.

“These aliens think they own the place,” Admiral McGaran’s whiskey-roughened voice interrupted her surveillance as he bumped into her elbow, and she nearly spilled her champagne down her gown. “Care to dance, General Allen?”

The scent of expensive scotch wafted from him, and her internal threat assessment kicked into high gear. McGaran’s wandering hands were legendary, and she’d already mentally noted three incidents of him ‘accidentally’ brushing against female staff tonight she planned to report.

Before she could tell him where to get off—after all, Murphy had told her to explore non-physical solutions—a tall figure stepped into her field of vision.

“I believe the General promised this dance to me.” The Latharian warrior executed a precise bow, his formal leather armor creaking with the movement, and offered her his hand. Like all his race, his features looked like they’d been carved from marble by a master sculptor, all high cheekbones and intense golden-green eyes.

McGaran’s face flushed, but even three sheets to the wind, he retained enough sense not to challenge a warrior who topped him by a foot and a half. He grumbled and stumble-retreated with poor grace, leaving Evelyn to assess her unexpected alien savior.

“I don’t recall making any such promise,” she said, her tone ringing with the same authority she used with her students at the academy, but she accepted his offered hand. Murphy had ordered her to play nice, so play nice she would.

“I observed your discomfort.” The big Latharian guided her onto the dance floor with a fluid grace that belied his imposing size. “I am K’raan, second sub-commander of the Diplomatic Halls. Your reputation precedes you, General Allen. Your combat record is... impressive.”

His hand settled at her waist as they moved to the music. Despite his warrior’s build, he moved with grace and control, adjusting his stride to accommodate her shorter height.

“That was... considerate of you,” she acknowledged, holding her body in a firm dance hold and keeping some distance between them.

“It was entirely self-serving, I assure you.” His golden eyes held an intensity that set off warning bells in her mind. “I’ve wanted to speak with you since learning of your dogfight maneuvers during your Titan-4 conflict. Few pilots could have executed such precision under those conditions.”

“That was classified information, sub-commander.” Her spine stiffened slightly, though her steps didn’t falter. It would take more than a charming smile to overset her. Unless it was Rhade’s. She ignored the thought and concentrated on K’Raan.

“Knowledge is power, General.” His hand slid lower on her back, his touch hardening in a way that made alarm bells roll through her. “Just as I know you graduated top of your class at the Air Force Academy, led three successful combat wings,” his voice dropped to a purr that reminded her uncomfortably of Rhade, “that you’ve never taken a mate despite numerous suitors.”

“My personal life isn’t open to discussion. Nor is it relevant to diplomatic relations.” She maintained her professional tone even as she calculated the fastest way to break his hold without causing an incident.

“Everything about you is relevant.” His grip tightened. “Your strength, your command presence, your beauty – they make you an ideal match for a warrior of status. Perhaps we could discuss this further over dinner? Somewhere more... private?”

The presumption in his tone matched the expression that had shifted from polite interest to something more intense. Like Rhade, he appeared to take her acceptance of a dance as agreement to something far more intimate.

Combat instincts gave her at least seven ways to drop him to the floor, but she didn’t, Murphy’s warning ringing in her ears. What would it look like if a human general decked a latharian diplomat?

“I’m afraid my schedule is quite full,” she said, disengaging from his hold with a practiced twist that looked natural but would have broken his fingers if he’d tried to maintain his grip. “Thank you for the dance, Commander.”

She didn’t wait for his response, making her way through the crowd with efficient grace that brought her to the terrace doors in record time. The cool night air was a blessing after the stuffiness of the ballroom, and she moved to the stone railing. Bracing her hands against it as she took a deep breath and pushed down the urge to punch the next guy who got handsy with her. Human or alien.

Murphy’s earlier comment about Admiral Chen made her lips quirk. Chen had grabbed a young waitress’s bottom during last spring’s military ball, and her right hook had introduced his face to the punch bowl. The resulting splash had ruined three dress uniforms and created a situation that had taken weeks to smooth over diplomatically.

Worth. Every. Second.

The sound of the ball continued behind her, muted by the glass doors. Out here, she could see the city's lights spreading out below the embassy’s hillside location. The view helped settle her nerves, though she knew she couldn’t hide here forever. Murphy needed her inside, playing her part in this complicated diplomatic dance.

Five more minutes, she decided. Five minutes to enjoy the peace, to let the cool air soothe her irritation. Then she’d go back inside and do her duty. But she’d be damned if she was dancing with anyone else tonight, Latharian or human.

A burst of laughter from inside grew louder, and she turned as the doors opened to reveal K’raan’s tall, heavily muscled form. His face was in shadow but she sensed the hard grin as he looked at her.

“I knew you couldn’t resist my charms,” he said, stepping through the door and stalking toward her. “What pitiful human female could?”