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Walsh’s favor, despite my personal feelings, is well within my capabilities to grant.
Because of course he didn’t ask me to orchestrate a regime change. That was only the privileged background he laid out for me so I could see the whole picture. Those four words were loaded with the implication that an honest man like the Senator wouldn’t ask?—
Fucking crickets.
For a favor.
He wouldn’t ask for a favor without at least pretending he was invested in informed consent. And no, no, he would never presume to make foreign policy moves without the backing of—as he also heavily implied—the State Department and certain members of his own party who have regular communication with the Oval Office.
So what he’s asking for isn’t a foreign policy move, not as such, it’s simply a matter of asset management.
It’s simply a matter of turning down the heat between the two parties in Mociar so they can stop posturing about a costly civil war.
The Senator is only asking for a meeting. He’s only asking for me to sit in a room with the Mocian ambassador and a high-ranking member of the opposition party.
I can give him that. No problem.
As long as I don’t float away in the Hudson as a lifeless corpse.
I’m not sure how I make it to the top. Some hidden well of resilience, I guess.
And on the deck of the aircraft carrier?—
Outer space.
I’ve gone too far. Somehow, I climbed all the way out of the atmosphere and into deep space. There are stars everywhere.
But there are also people, who are star-like themselves. Glittering gowns and black tuxedos with winking accents. Stars coalesce out of the dark, expand, and die before my eyes.
So I haven’t climbed to outer space. Space descended for the party.
I summon the remains of my strength and start walking, focusing on balance. I cannot look wasted at Calliope and Orion’s birthday gala. It would have been horrendous to look wasted at their family parties, but the birthday galas are sought-after invitations. The last thing I want is to embarrass them in full view of a collection of the city’s richest people.
It also wouldn’t bode well for my think tank, but I don’t care about world peace right now.
I care about getting to Artemis.
And I can’t see her.
More troubling is that I can’t remember what her gown looks like. I’ve seen it—or photos of it—at least once. A bleary look down at my tuxedo informs me that my accents are bright.
Golden?
What am I supposed to be?
We’re all standing in the middle of outer space because the theme of the party is?—
The theme of the party is the sky. And heavenly bodies. Celestial shit.
I’m the sun.
Because I glow at people.
Ha.
And that means that Artemis is the moon.
I pick my head up and search the glitter-black blur of people for the moon.
