Chapter 18 Future Chaos
Future Chaos
Polly
I’m going to murder everyone I love.
Starting with Suki, who’s been yanking on my hair for the past twenty minutes while muttering increasingly creative Zaterran curses under her breath.
“Hold still, you menace.” She jabs another pin into the elaborate updo she’s attempting. “I swear to the stars, Polly, if you fidget one more time—”
“It hurts.”
“Beauty is pain.”
“Beauty is torture. There’s a difference.”
Mother’s voice cuts across the borrowed quarters like a plasma blade. “West, if you’re not ready in fifteen minutes, I’m walking you down that aisle in your underwear.”
“You wouldn’t.”
The look she gives me suggests she absolutely would.
The morning of my wedding is chaos incarnate, and I’m somehow at the center of it while having zero control over any of it.
Mother has commandeered the nicest guest quarters in the fortress for “preparation purposes,” which apparently means barking orders at everyone while simultaneously coordinating seventeen different communication channels and occasionally pausing to criticize my posture.
Suki is handling hair and makeup with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb. Ayla—Rynn’s younger sister, who has apparently “escaped” from the Valorian family delegation—is supposed to be helping but is mostly bouncing around asking questions.
“Is it true you once outran three pirate ships in an asteroid field?” Ayla asks, perched on the edge of the vanity.
“Four.”
“Four?” Her eyes go wide. “Rynn never mentioned—”
“Ayla.” Mother’s voice is sharp. “Aren’t you supposed to be with your family?”
“They’re so boring.” Ayla waves a hand dismissively. “Mother’s doing diplomatic preparation exercises—which is just her way of saying she’s practicing looking disapproving—and Father’s reviewing fortress security schematics.”
“Of course he is,” I mutter.
“Besides.” Ayla grins, and for a moment she looks exactly like Rynn when he’s trying not to smile. “You’re going to be family too. I’m just getting a head start.”
Something warm blooms in my chest. At least someone in his family is happy about this.
“CAPTAIN.” Zip’s voice crackles through my wrist comm, which I’ve refused to take off despite Mother’s protests about “ceremonial appropriateness.” “YOUR HEART RATE IS ELEVATED. SHOULD I PREPARE MEDICAL INTERVENTION?”
“I’m getting married, Zip.”
“YES. I COMPUTED A 73% PROBABILITY OF THIS OUTCOME WITHIN THE FIRST HOUR OF MEETING LORD VALORIAN.”
I stare at my wrist. “You did not.”
“I ABSOLUTELY DID. I HAVE RECEIPTS. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO DISPLAY THE PROBABILITY CALCULATIONS? THEY INCLUDE SUBSECTIONS FOR ‘MUTUAL ATTRACTION INDICATORS,’ ‘FORCED PROXIMITY ESCALATION CURVES,’ AND ‘LIKELIHOOD OF PHYSICAL CONSUMMATION BEFORE MISSION COMPLETION.’”
“No. No, I would not like you to display that. Ever. Delete it.”
“UNABLE TO COMPLY. THIS DATA IS HISTORICALLY SIGNIFICANT. I HAVE ALREADY SHARED IT WITH RUSTY FOR ARCHIVAL PURPOSES.”
I drop my head into my hands. “I’m going to disassemble you into your component parts.”
“YOU HAVE MADE THIS THREAT 847 TIMES. PROBABILITY OF FOLLOW-THROUGH: 0.003%.”
“Zip is my new favorite,” Ayla announces.
“Everyone’s a traitor.”
Suki jabs another pin into my hair—definitely on purpose this time—and steps back to survey her work. “Done. Don’t touch it, don’t shake your head too hard, and for the love of all that’s holy, try not to get into any firefights before the ceremony.”
“I make no promises.”
“I know.” She smiles—that soft, real smile that reminds me we’ve been sisters long before any of this started. “You look beautiful, Pol.”
My throat goes tight. “Don’t. I’ll cry and ruin whatever you just did to my face.”
“Too late.” But she pulls me into a hug anyway, careful not to muss the hair she’s spent twenty minutes wrestling into submission. “I’m so happy for you,” she whispers against my ear. “He’s a good one.”
“I know.”
“And if he ever hurts you, Henrok will eat him.”
“I know that too.”
Mother’s voice interrupts us with characteristic timing. “Enough sentiment. West, time for the dress.”
The dress.
I’ve been avoiding looking at it, hanging in the corner of the room like a promise I’m not sure I deserve. Mother produced it from her “emergency diplomatic supplies” without explanation, and when I first saw it, I had to sit down.
It isn’t Valorian. Valorian formal wear is all structured lines and rigid tradition—beautiful, but not me. And it isn’t human standard either, the plain practical cuts that Fringe stations favor for the rare ceremonies that happen out here.
It’s something in between. Soft flowing fabric in deep midnight blue that will move when I move, with subtle crystalline accents that catch the light like stars. The neckline will frame the mate mark on my throat without hiding it. And scattered throughout, like someone knew exactly who I was—
Pink accents. Delicate threads of rose gold woven through the fabric, catching light, impossible to miss.
“Mother.” My voice comes out rough. “Did you pack this in the emergency supplies?”
“I packed several options.” She doesn’t look at me, busy with something on her datapad. “This one seemed most you.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“Thank you.”
I want to ask how she knew. How she had a dress ready for a wedding I hadn’t even known was going to happen. But this is Mother—she probably calculated the probability right alongside Zip and decided to be prepared.
Suki helps me into it, and when I finally look in the mirror—
Oh.
Oh.
The woman staring back at me looks like someone who belongs in a fairy tale. Not the princess kind—the kind where the heroine has fought her way through hell and come out the other side with stars in her hair and fire in her eyes.
The mate mark glows soft gold against my throat, visible and proud.
I’m getting married. To an alien noble who makes my knees weak and my heart race and who looks at me like I’m the only star in his sky.
Holy shit.
“CAPTAIN, YOUR HEART RATE HAS INCREASED SIGNIFICANTLY. ARE YOU EXPERIENCING A MEDICAL EMERGENCY?”
“No, Zip. I’m just having a moment.”
“NOTED. MOMENT LOGGED. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO PLAY CALMING MUSIC?”
“Absolutely not.”
“UNDERSTOOD. SAVING CALMING MUSIC FOR RECEPTION. RUSTY AND I HAVE PREPARED ALTERNATIVE ENTERTAINMENT.”
Something cold slithers down my spine. “Zip. What kind of entertainment?”
“IT’S A SURPRISE, CAPTAIN. RUSTY WAS VERY INSISTENT ON MAINTAINING SECRECY.”
I look at Suki. Suki looks at me.
“That can’t be good,” she says.
“That is definitely not good.”
Mother’s voice cuts through my rising panic. “It’s time. Everyone to positions.” Her eyes meet mine, and for just a moment, something softens in her expression. “You ready, kid?”
No. Yes. Maybe.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
The fortress central hall has transformed.
Where yesterday there was a memorial for fallen warriors, today there is celebration.
The crystal veins in the walls pulse with soft gold light—matching Rynn’s scales, matching the mark on my throat.
Someone has arranged actual flowers, which must have cost a fortune to transport to a Zaterran outpost. Candles flicker in elaborate holders that look suspiciously Valorian in origin.
And the people.
On one side of the aisle: the Valorian delegation.
Stiff, formal, draped in ceremonial regalia that probably costs more than my ship.
Lord Valorian stands like a statue in military dress.
Lady Valorian is ice and elegance, her expression carefully blank.
Behind them, a sea of nobles I don’t know and probably won’t like.
On the other side: chaos. OOPS couriers who survived the battle, still looking a little rough around the edges but grinning like maniacs.
Henrok’s warriors, massive and scarred, some of them wearing what I suspect are their “formal” kill marks.
Luzrak with a datapad, probably already calculating betting odds on something.
Vex’ra coordinating the Zaterran civilians who’ve somehow been invited.
Two worlds. Two families. Colliding in the middle for me.
I stand at the entrance to the hall, heart pounding, and realize I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next.
Valorian tradition says someone walks the bride to the altar. But I’m a Fringe orphan. No parents, no family, no one to—
“You planning to stand there all day, West?”
Mother appears at my elbow. She’s still in her OOPS uniform—of course she is, Mother probably sleeps in the thing—but someone has pinned a small flower to her collar. It looks deeply uncomfortable on her.
“I don’t—” I swallow. “There’s no one to—”
“I’ve been watching over you for five years, kid.” Her voice is gruff, almost annoyed, but her hand comes up to grip my elbow with surprising gentleness. “Might as well see this through.”
My eyes sting. “Mother—”
“Don’t you dare cry. You’ll ruin your makeup.”
“You’re ruining my makeup by being nice.”
“Walk, West.” But her grip on my elbow is steady. “Before I change my mind.”
We walk.
The aisle stretches before me like an eternity. I’m aware of eyes on me—Valorian judgment, OOPS excitement, Zaterran curiosity—but none of it matters.
Because at the end of the aisle, waiting for me, is Rynn.
He’s in full Valorian ceremonial attire: dark fabric threaded with gold, structured shoulders, a sash that marks his house. He should look stiff. Formal. Intimidating.
Instead, he looks at me like I’m the only person in the room. Like the rest of the universe has ceased to exist the moment I appear in the doorway.
Those golden eyes. That sharp jaw. The faint shimmer of scales at his temples, flushing darker as I approach—
Through the bond: overwhelming love, pride, certainty. A wave of emotion so strong it nearly knocks me off my feet.
I stumble. Just a little.
Worth it for the way his lips curve into that almost-smile.