Chapter Text
It's raining. That much is true.
It's hotter than they said it'd be. A sun hotter.
“Bo, what is it?”
And it's quiet. The air is pregnant; heavy and fragile.
“I love you so much.”
Fingers twist together. Sweaty, hotter than outside and inside and everywhere. Her eyes are no longer brown. They are blue as her 'something blue' exactly one hundred and seven years ago.
“How are you today?”
Silence. Hormonal imbalance.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
“Don't you love me anymore?”
#
“I've made progress. And I recognise that. But my wife? It's just like–I mean–it's like, anything can set her off. It could be the phone ringing, or-something on the news. Something online. Something when's she's out shopping, maybe, like a, a t-shirt in a store window. You know the ones, with the big, slanted writing on the front, looks like graffiti or some other kinda street art?”
Dr Dennis knows. Her best friend had worn such t-shirts a hundred years ago.
“It just puts her right back in that place, and all my progress? Ripped away. I'm right back there with her.”
“And I feel the exact opposite,” a nasal voice retorts from across the circle of inward-facing chairs. Louise, her name—she wears a black scarf and speaks with her hands. “I see the news and the Internet and the t-shirts and I feel squat. I don't even think they're real. I mean, is that normal? Am I not supposed to feel something by now? Is this therapy bullshit paying off at all?”
Interesting question. The psychologist makes note to look into it, later.
Outside, the pitiless rain falls, falls steadily, with a fierce malignity that is all too human.
#
She's distracted and cuts her finger whilst chopping a courgette, and for the briefest second she considers going out to heal. It has been twenty nine years; feeding off of other people is no longer a question. At least not when it comes to life-threatening injuries, which are rare in the days since she's majored in clinical psychology. “Two sexy doctor lovers?” Bo can almost hear Kenzi in her head. She smiles a little. She may have only picked up the degree for a police case, but it is nice to have a stable, human job.
In the end, cold tap water prevails. It isn't that bad a nick anyway.
The buzzer sounds.
She opens the door to two tall men. They look like bouncers, or guards, or right-hand men to a war general.
“Can I help you?”
“We're looking for Dr Isabeau Dennis.”
Turns out they are emissaries.
#
The TV is new—and, with a little Succubus charm, free—so the quality of the Blood King's video recording is impeccable, even if his camera dates back to the late 1900s. Trick never was one for modernising even the littlest of objects. Bo's mind turns to her grandmother's sword, the one he had gifted her with on her thirtieth birthday, decades and decades ago, before turning back to the screen. The men stand behind her on her either side, right-hand men to their war general. Or, rather, the war general's granddaughter.
“Isabeau.” A short laugh. Bo knows it isn't genuine. “I can't imagine what you must be thinking, receiving a message like this. I'm sorry if it seems melodramatic but,” his voice goes quiet but the static is still as loud and bothersome “you are the only person I can trust, my darling.
I need your help. Heck, we all do. Myself, Dyson, Tamsin, Hale. We need you. We need you to come to Solaris.”
Solaris. Bo narrows her eyebrows, finally realizing that Trick's surroundings are grey and made of metal.
“I don't know how to describe what we are experiencing up here. We can't even agree amongst ourselves what is–what is happening. Or, what to do about it.
I suppose you're wondering why we have not left.
It's because we can't. None of us want to.
We had hoped to keep the Dark out of the loop, which is why you're getting this–well this outlandish request. Since you're Unaligned, we needn't worry about either side becoming involved and shutting the project down.
And with your experiences and your background, you really are the ideal candidate for this job.”
Bo leans forward. He seems to be eyeing her like he understands.
“So anyway,” he sighs. “I hope you will come to Solaris, Bo. I think you need to, and you will see what I mean.
I wish I could be more specific about all this but” and his eyes grow big and somewhat dangerous “people are listening.”
#
“You can imagine the distress General McCorrigan's message will cause if released to the High Elders.”
Yes, Bo knows. She interprets their telling her of this as a plea. Take the job. Save us the trouble. She stares at her grandfather's frozen face, notes the glint in his eyes. Confusion, fear, hope. A triad of emotions Bo can't quite wrap her head around. “Why not send in the security force?”
“We did.”
To this, Bo's head snaps up and around. The man addressing her has green eyes so brightly murderous they remind her of Tamsin. “We lost contact with the Athena as it was approaching Solaris. They haven't returned.”
Well shit. Bo frowns, tilting her head to look at the screen again. She's almost out of ideas. “There must be some sort of onboard AI system.”
“They shut it down.”
She can't help but glare slightly at the green-eyed man.
“General McCorrigan is hoping to solve this problem before either side becomes aware of it,” the other man says, finally. “There will be some amount of preparation involved but you shouldn't have any trouble. You have a previous with space flight, I assume?”
Bo nods briefly. She knows she doesn't have a choice in this, and it pisses her off. “Is this what everybody wants? My voyage to Solaris?”
“Of course,” Green Eyes replies. “The situation will disappear quietly and no-one need ever know about it.”
“We feel confident that, if you can board the Coalition ship, you can negotiate the crew's safe return.”
So you send a severely inexperienced psychologist as opposed to a professional team of highly trained astronauts. It really does pay to straddle the political divide.
#
Solaris is pink, and sometimes it's purple. By nightfall it's red and yellow. It's also twice the size of Earth and surrounded by rings and wisps of watery white dust. Bo sees it all through the glass of her helmet and the window of her spacecraft, the Dark Horse. She has to say, it's really fucking beautiful.
The Coalition, however, resembles a large tin can attached to a longer, thinner tin can, surrounded by huge silver hoops held in place by long thin beams. Abstract art, Bo thinks, and the biggest tin can she's ever seen, though she knows the hoops are satellites and the smaller tin isn't actually part of the ship.
She looks back at the planet. It's blue now, with rippled green veins cracking out all over.
Dark Horse connects with Coalition. She wonders if she'll receive a welcoming committee.