GENERAL SOND
And now there are none.
The Council politely applauds.
CARMINDOR
You killed them all of them.
GENERAL SOND
Every one of them. Their leaders refused to conscript to the Path of the Sun, and so I gave them my judgement. This will happen, again and again, thanks to the powers given to me by the Black Nebula – no, gifted to me. Every planet that refuses to conscript will be terminated.
(pauses)
Unless the Federation Prince shows them the way.
CARMINDOR
You want me to become a mindless follower?
GENERAL SOND smiles, and it’s so deceiving because it is earnest.
GENERAL SOND
I merely want to save you, my Prince, because no one else will.
My hands are shaking. Somehow it feels like a threat. No, I know it is. And this time there’s no clues, no signifiers. It’s just a cropped photo of the script. Whoever the thief is, they’re learning—and that means I have even less chance of finding them.
I’m ruined.
Harper lays a concerned hand on my shoulder. “Imogen, are you okay?”
I look up and I want to scream that I’m not Imogen. That I’m about to be no one, the girl who leaked the Starfield sequel script and no Hollywood studio would ever work with her again. My career will be over.
But I can’t tell her that because she thinks I’m someone else.
She says softly, surprising me, “Are you hungry?”
“I don’t have any money with me,” I reply tightly. I can’t look at her.
“Lucky for you I am also very, very broke. C’mon, we haven’t had dinner yet.”
She takes my hand—her fingers folding between mine—and drags me in from the balcony and out of the Stellar Party, knowing before I even said anything that I was trying not to fall apart.
* * *
HARPER FISHES AROUND IN HER BACKPACK for her keycard and lets us in. We aren’t even in the same hotel anymore, but one adjacent to where I’m staying. It’s a modest room, like most are, I guess; there are two double beds and a minifridge and a pretty outdated TV on a dresser. I can tell from the suitcases strewn across the room and the bathroom full of shampoos and straighteners and toiletries that she’s rooming with three other women, but they’re all gone.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she says as she dumps her purse in the doorway and walks over to her suitcase.
I don’t exactly know what kind of food is supposed to be in a suitcase until she unzips it to reveal a jumbo-pack of those ninety-nine-cent ramen noodle cups. She asks me to fill the coffeemaker carafe—after washing it out—so I do that while she pulls the desk out from the wall and sets it up as a table, the edge of one of the beds serving as a bench.
My mind is still buzzing with the new script leak. I don’t want to think about it—can’t think about it. If I do, I fear I may lose all hope.
This is impossible. Why am I here? Pretending to be Imogen? It doesn’t make sense anymore. I’ll never find the thief. But I don’t want to be Jess again yet.
I pour the water into the coffeemaker and turn it on.
“Make yourself at home,” she tells me, but I’m not exactly sure how to do that. I feel like strange sharp edges right now, catching on everything I rub against. So I just sit down at the table that she prepared. “Do you want anything to drink? We have…” She pops open the minifridge and assesses the contents. “Bottled water, sparkling champagne—but oh, you’re underage, aren’t you? Seventeen, right?”
“Nineteen,” I say without thinking, and then bite my lip. I shouldn’t have corrected her. I should’ve just said yes, but…
“Oh!” She laughs and shoots me a look. “Eighteen.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but it’s weird. Since I’m so, you know, internet famous quote-unquote,” she says, “because of my trash Tumblr, everyone expects me to be thirty or something. It’s like we can’t be successful young.”
“Or if we are successful young, it’s through a fluke or luck or happenstance and not hard work—and yeah, some of it is luck or a fluke, but not all of it. You have to have at least a little talent, too.”
“Unless you’re a Kardashian,” Harper deadpans.
I snort, having met the youngest of them. “I’ll have a Diet Coke if you have one?” I say instead.
She hands me one from the minifridge. The coffeemaker begins to hum and drip hot water into the pot. She tears open the noodle cups and picks out chopsticks and a plastic fork from her bag, arranging them on the table in front of me. She’s so thorough. I could watch her for hours.
I pick up a teal teddy bear, one of its eyes missing.
“Oh, that’s November. I never go anywhere without him,” she says. “He’s my travel companion.”
“We always need one of those. Mine’s—” I catch myself before I say Ethan, because Imogen doesn’t have Ethan, Jess has Ethan. “Mine’s a good book,” I finish lamely.
She laughs. “Different ones or the same?”
“Same. It’s my favorite. Dog-eared and spine cracked. What kind of books do you read?”
“Manga mostly, some French comics. There are some great webcomics out there—I’m also a sucker for a fanfic. There’s this one General Sond fanfic that I shouldn’t like but starflame do I ever. The author, ThornyRose, is ridiculously good.”
“I can’t say I read much fanfic.”
“Really? I could’ve sworn you said you read her.”
“I mean, not lately,” I quickly deflect. “I’ve been busy, you know. With the Save Amara stuff. Do you always bring ramen to the con?” I try to change the course of the conversation, shifting uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.
Harper laughs. She didn’t notice. Good. “Do I ever! Con food is way too pricey, and I’m a poor starving artist so I don’t have money for all the fancy restaurants around here. My friends say I make the best hotel ramen in the world, and I had promised you I’d make it for you if we ever met in person, and here we are.”
“Here we are,” I echo distantly, trying not to feel upset that it wasn’t a promise made to me, but to Imogen. Why am I upset over something like that? I try to wrestle control of my feelings. I am a professional actress. I’m fine. “You know, that’s pretty high praise. I’ve had a lot of good ramen.”
She holds up a finger. “But you’ve never had my ramen. Passed down from coupon-savvy Hart to Hart, we have perfected the art of the ninety-nine-cent ramen. Observe!”
With a flourish, she takes the carafe and pours steaming water into both cups, closes the lids, and puts our chopsticks on top to keep them down. Then she sets her phone timer for seven minutes.
“Seven minutes in heaven,” I murmur aloud. Aloud. I slap my hands over my mouth, mortified. “I didn’t, that wasn’t what I—”
Harper laughs, and her eyes crinkle, and my heart flutters. “It’d definitely kill some time.”
I can feel my ears getting red, heat and mortification rushing to them. “I—I didn’t mean it. That just reminded me, is all.”