“What about the Mellureans?” Trevor asked, thinking over what he’d scanned in the archives, especially the classified ones Maeve showed him. “I read they extended a permanent invitation for you to visit them. Couldn’t they help?” So few people received such an offer from the ancient aliens and it pained him to know she could have gone to them for assistance and didn’t.
She shook her head. “My father refused to even ask, despite their offer. He had so much guilt about what happened to my mother and to us, once we got home he had a hard time functioning at all. He felt the entire galaxy including the Mellureans was judging him for being a terrible husband and father. He wanted our life to magically return to normal, which of course it never could, even if my mother had survived. He wanted us to remain out of the public view to avoid turmoil and reminders of the ordeal.” Now she gave him a wry look and chuckled. “But despite all his efforts the first line on his obituary was ‘survivor of the wreck of the Nebula Dream’.”
The information about her father had not been in the files Trevor had seen. He wasn’t about to ask her why Mr. Nadenoft had been affected in this way but things made more sense now. The father’s mental state would have influenced Gianna since she was only three and missing her mother desperately. Paolo had been eight, still a child, but not quite the same situation.
“Dr. Shane has had plenty of experience working with post-traumatic stress disorder in veterans and if anyone other than a Mellurean could get you through this voyage, it would be her,” he said. “If you want to go. I’m sure your brother will understand if you stay here.”
Gianna left the chair and went to the painting. She picked up a brush as if to work on the unfinished edge and set it on the palette again with a thump, causing the tool to fall to the floor. Trevor and the Tajikka both tried to retrieve it at the same time and bumped heads. The pet won and pranced as if they’d been playing a game. Gianna laughed and after a moment so did he.
“Could you spend the night here?” she asked, engaging in a good natured tug of war with Verlaine for the brush, speaking to Trevor over her shoulder. “As you can see, it’s a huge house and we have a number of guest suites. In the morning I’ll either be ready to go with you to the spaceport or I’ll have my wedding gift for them packaged up and you can take it and rejoin your ship with my thanks. You’ve given me things to think about and I need to reflect.”
He was speechless at the odd request but it didn’t conflict with his orders and it would save him the extra driving. Nights tended to be his worst time for flashbacks, however, and his gut clenched at the mere idea of suffering an episode here, at this woman’s house. She was dealing with enough of her own troubles and didn’t need his.
Verlaine came to him and licked his hand as if to be encouraging. Petting the hound reflexively, Trevor stiffened his inner resolve. Surely he could manage one night off the ship, couldn’t he? And Dr. Shane was only a com call away, to talk him down from the edge of an incident if needed.
Mistaking the reason for his hesitation, Gianna said, “My staff can print out fresh clothes for you for tomorrow, based on what you wore today. It’s no trouble at all. We have the most modern conveniences here for all the house is centuries old.”
Trevor remembered Gianna Nadenoft was a special case, a fabled survivor of the epic disaster, and a person of interest to the Mellureans, which was no small thing. He also pitied her, because even after surviving the Nebula Dream disaster in the most dramatic fashion imaginable, her life had hardly been normal. What was one night’s inconvenience? This was a mission, of a sort, and he’d never failed on an assignment in his entire career. He had the feeling if he got in the borrowed groundcar and drove away now, she’d lose whatever resolve she had for taking the voyage and he’d never see her again. You can do this, soldier. He swallowed hard and nodded. “It would be my pleasure. Thank you for the invitation.”
“Good. Thank you. Make yourself free of the house and grounds and I eat dinner at eight by the way, local time, if you’re so inclined. But the staff can prepare anything you like whenever you’re hungry.” She was all business now, leaving her chair and ushering him from the studio. “I’m inspired to paint, if you don’t mind, but Duffy will be here in a minute or two, to escort you to your suite.” And she shut the door in his face.
2
Trevor couldn’t decide whether to laugh or be pissed but opted for the former. Eccentric wealthy people were nothing new to him, not after working on the Nebula Zephyr, which catered to a high class clientele. He didn’t usually interact with them—he was used to hearing the stories in the Security Office and among his small circle of friends on the senior staff. He figured he might as well walk to the house and meet the servant on the way, rather than stand around doing nothing like a rich Socialite might do. Just an everyday soldier. Working man and proud of it, that’s me.
When he intersected Duffy on the path, the family retainer was grinning and maybe a bit teary eyed, which surprised Trevor. “Miss Gianna has never come this close to leaving the planet since the wreck,” the elderly man said as they headed toward the patio. “It would be such a good thing for her if she goes.”
Trying to sound as if he was making casual conversation, Trevor asked, “Have you worked here since she was a child?”
Duffy raised his eyebrows and harrumphed as if the answer should have been obvious. “Most of us on the staff have. She doesn’t take well to new people. We had several incidents where reporters and conspiracy theorists were able to infiltrate the estate, posing as servants. One even befriended her at the time of her father’s death, when she was emotionally vulnerable, which became quite an unfortunate situation when the truth came out about the person’s motives.”
“Conspiracy theorists?” His professional curiosity aroused, Trevor probed further as he entered the house and headed up an old fashioned staircase in the butler’s wake.
“Oh yes, of all kinds. The primary theory currently, I believe, is a belief Miss Gianna smuggled a number of her mother’s fabulous gems off the wreck concealed inside her stuffed bear toy. Then her father filed insurance claims on all the gems and collected huge sums he wasn’t entitled to.” With a gentle smile, the old man took a deep breath. “None of it true of course.”
Trevor remembered the records he’d read. There’d been a photo of Gianna clutching a bedraggled toy, with one mismatched ear. “These people think a three year old child hid gemstones inside a stuffed bear during a life and death catastrophe to commit insurance fraud?”
The butler or whatever he was shrugged. “One stone in particular was a new acquisition of her father’s, said to be cursed. He was planning to split it into five stones and set them in a necklace, which had been commissioned by—well, shall we say a famous planetary ruler? That’s the gem people want to know about most often.” As they walked along the third floor corridor, Duffy ticked off points on his fingers. “Then there’s the theory the Nebula Dream didn’t wreck at all, but was a big government conspiracy to cover up a spying mission into enemy territory. And one lively theory states your ship is actually the Nebula Dream and that the Nebula Zephyr was actually the ship destroyed in the wreck.”