Joe cleared his throat. Then, cleared it again.
I can't believe I'm even thinking about this.
"Would you like to come in?" he asked, a bit gruffly.
"Said the spider to the fly?"
Joe managed a grin of sorts. "I don't have a parlor. Besides, I watched you and A.J. If I had any dishonorable intentions, I'd choose someone who couldn't break my arm just by looking at me funny."
The answering smile dazzled him, like it always did. "And you don't find that intimidating?"
"No. I don't."
"Good. A lot of men have a hard time with it. Especially because I'm so small."
Joe watched appreciatively as the diminutive security specialist entered his cabin, moving with the slightly bouncy gait that seemed favored in one-third gravity. Which, in the case of Madeline Fathom, he also found fascinating. As religiously as she exercised, her figure was on a par with her smile.
Once she was in, he closed the door. "I look at it this way. If we were in the Renaissance working for the Borgias, I'd be a poisoner rather than a swordsman. Safer—and I'd know what I was doing."
Madeline's smile came again. "That's for sure! Even here, forget the Renaissance—since you're the man who's in charge of seeing to it we can eat real food."
Food. Joe had always been a gourmet, but he'd never once in his life imagined that his interest and skill with food would lead to . . .
This. Whatever "this" turned out to be.
To Joe's considerable surprise, once the voyage started he'd found himself the focus of attention of several of Nike's unattached female personnel. At first, he'd been most interested in Diane, who was intelligent, skilled at her job, had a decent sense of humor—and was certainly good-looking.
Alas, Joe had one admitted obsession. The redheaded information expert had run afoul of it when she had put ketchup—ketchup!—on the sesame-marinated filet mignon which had been the dinner he'd selected for their second date. He hadn't said anything about it, of course, since he wasn't rude and it was her meal to eat as she chose. But from that moment forward, he'd lost any real interest in the woman.
Okay, sure, he was a snob about food. But he figured everyone had their own area they were screwy about. Might as well ask Queen Victoria to get the hots for a caveman.
Madeline, on the other hand . . .
She'd approached him after her shift's dinnertime, three weeks into the voyage, and asked him about the recipe for the chicken tikka masala. Initially, he'd taken it for nothing more than Fathom's invariant politeness. Despite the fact that her position in charge of security put her in potential conflict with almost everyone else on the crew, Madeline had actually become one of the Nike's most popular people. Whether from her own temperament, or her training, or professional calculation—probably all three combined, Joe suspected—Madeline was just plain nice to people.
But it wasn't long before Joe realized that here was a woman who knew a great deal about cooking, and found the subject of real interest. A simple request for the recipe had become a conversation about cooking methods and preferences that caused him to be a half-hour late for his own shift.
By the time another month had gone by in Nike's voyage, that initial conversation had turned into a regular series of such—and ones which ranged far afield from cooking. Joe had always thought that Madeline Fathom was very good-looking, of course. Just about everyone did. But as the weeks passed, he found himself increasingly attracted to the woman's personality.
True enough, the phrase charming security official still struck him as an oxymoron. But . . . Madeline Fathom was no longer an abstraction. Whatever reservations he had about her occupation, by now he was pretty well bowled over by the woman.
Tonight, as had become their daily habit, she'd accompanied him back to his cabin after dinner. Madeline's own cabin was not much farther along the ring. Finally, after several weeks of that ritual, Joe had worked up the nerve to invite her in.
"So what's playing at Cinema Joe?" Madeline asked, her hands on her hips as she surveyed the cabin.
"Entertainments old and new. What's your pleasure?"
"Movies suit me fine."
"Not into the fancy gaming?"
Madeline shook her head. "That's definitely A.J.'s territory, not mine." She hesitated fractionally. "I prefer to let someone else do the entertaining."
"Genre? Time frame?"
"Well . . . " The unexpected blush looked especially pretty. "I'm afraid I'm going to disappoint you."
"Unless you're about to profess a love for McDonald's cuisine, that would be impossible."
"Almost as bad. I like superhero movies, or anything where the good guys kick lots of butt and the bad guys are really bad." Madeline looked genuinely embarrassed.
Joe couldn't keep from laughing. "You're kidding! Usually that's the kind of thing the guys are supposed to like and the girl rolls her eyes at."
"Stop laughing!"
"Hey, I'm not. I may be a snob about food, but I'm no literary giant."
He flicked through his memory. "How about Nemesis Factor?" he suggested. It was one of his recent favorites, combining spy thriller with a super-martial-artist vigilante heroine.
"Oh, yes! I kept catching bits and pieces of that one, but never got a chance to see it."
The movie decided on, the two settled into the couch to watch. Joe started the usual male-on-a-first-date fretting about whether-andif-so-when he should try to slide his arm around the woman involved. But Madeline cut the whole obnoxious business off at the pass. Casually, but firmly—the same way she carried out her professional duties—she took his hand and put his arm around her. Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do, leaned into his chest and nestled her head on his shoulder.
It might, just possibly, have been the single most thrilling moment of Joe's life.
While Madeline made a very nice armful, once the movie started Joe found she was far too much of a fan to just sit back and watch. It was actually more like watching a movie with one of the guys. She practically jumped up and shouted when a particularly cool set of moves was used, and she'd occasionally heckle the bad guys while onscreen.
But when the main villain, Valmont DuChan, got his major scene—using his unnaturally charismatic appeal to gather followers in a cultlike organization to use terror tactics against the entire city—Madeline went quite uncharacteristically silent. She then excused herself to go to the bathroom, and didn't come back out for a while. When she did, Joe noted she seemed rather pale.
"Madeline, are you okay?"
"Sure, why wouldn't I be?" she responded, almost curtly. She sat back down and, to his delight, leaned back into him. But almost as soon as she did so, he realized just how tense she was. The body that had seemed so soft and feminine earlier now felt exactly like that of a very well-conditioned female athlete. Not quite as hard as a rock, but awfully close.
Not knowing what else to do, he started the movie again.
"Could we watch something else?" Madeline asked suddenly.
Joe stopped the movie and turned to her. "Sure, of course. But look . . . What's wrong? Did I do something to upset you?"
She looked startled. "No, of course not. It's just . . ." Her eyes shifted to the screen, with its frozen image of Valmont DuChan's face staring out with a fanatic's gaze.
"God, I can't believe this. I haven't had that stirred up in years." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
"Madeline, come on. Give."
She was silent for a long time. Joe resisted the impulse to say anything. He just sat there, quietly waiting with a questioning look on his face.
After what seemed like hours, she sighed and nestled into him again. Then she spoke, almost whispering in his ear.
"I'm an orphan, you know."
"No, I didn't. I'm sorry."
"I'm not sorry at all. My biological parents . . ." She glanced at the screen. "Shut it off, would you, please?"
After Joe did so, she closed her eyes again. "You know who the villain in that movie is modeled after, don't you?"
"Hmm? Well, yeah. Washington LaFayette, I assume."
"My parents were with LaFayette. Order of the Seventh."
"Oh, God." Joe couldn't think of anything else to say, his mind racing back to recall what he knew of one of the darkest events in American history.
Washington LaFayette, while still quite young, had risen to prominence as a charismatic preacher and gotten himself elected to Congress. His handsome face was commonly shown in interviews, and he maintained the image of a reasonable and compassionate man, albeit perhaps excessively devout. After three terms in Congress he resigned, according to his claim, to devote himself fully to his ministry.
Image was all it was, however, for LaFayette was certifiably insane. In his private life, he was a radical "patriot" convinced that various "Un-American" forces serving the Anti-Christ were deliberately undermining the country through covert means. He built up an organization dedicated to "purifying" the country and "defending" it from these nebulous enemies.
Unfortunately, LaFayette was far more intelligent than most sociopaths. Even as his insanity grew, he was mostly able to conceal it, while tightening his grip on his own core group. LaFayette was able to gain total control over those most closely associated with him, who were divided into various "Orders," with the highest being "Order of the Seventh." They accepted everything he said and did, even when his personal habits as well as his political views became more and more extreme.
He designed a number of "purifiers"—his euphemism for targeted weapons of mass destruction—and was on the verge of actually beginning a strike against the most "contaminated" areas of America when one of the intelligence agencies finally realized what was going on. In a last-minute raid on LaFayette's compound, twelve officers of various enforcement agencies were killed and a number of others wounded. Four hundred and twenty-three of LaFayette's followers also died, the majority by suicide. LaFayette himself was shot before he could trigger the devices which would have destroyed the whole compound.
"Jesus. You couldn't have been much more than, what, eight?"
"I was nine." She looked up at the screen again, which was now dark. "Mike Dixon—the actor they chose—did an awfully good job. He even looks something like LaFayette."
A lot of things about Madeline Fathom that had always puzzled Joe now started making sense. "That's why you went into intelligence, isn't it, with a specialty in security? I wondered, since . . . well, you really don't seem the type."
She nodded. "They saved me. Killed him just before he killed all of us in the compound. My parents"—she spat the word out—"were ready to die with him. Did die with him, thank God, when they committed suicide. But they'd already stopped being anything like 'parents' to me by the time I was five. I knew they were grooming me to be one of LaFayette's so-called 'brides'—the bastard was partial to girls who'd just reached puberty—and I did everything in my power to avoid catching his attention. Which wasn't much. Fortunately, it was all over before that could happen."
The icy, calm way she spoke the words didn't seem to belong to a human voice at all. Joe groped, trying to imagine the self-control she must have started developing at an age that was normally the most carefree in a human being's life.
"I knew I couldn't fight him, that no one could fight him. But then the soldiers came, and they did fight him. And they brought me somewhere safe. I told myself when I got older that I'd make sure that people like him couldn't hurt anyone ever again, and that I'd help the people that saved me. And . . . that's what I did. I was training for it by the time I was ten. Never had any other career I wanted."
She took a deep breath, and stood up suddenly. "Sorry that I ruined things. Look, can I take a rain check on the evening. Please?"
"Sure, of course."
She smiled. "Thanks, Joe. I like you an awful lot, just so you know. But . . . this kind of thing isn't easy for me."
Joe rose also. "You want me to walk you back to your cabin?"
She chuckled, a bit darkly. "I think I can manage, even if this is the rough part of town."
"See you tomorrow, then?"
"Yes." She turned to go, stopped, and suddenly kissed him on the cheek. A moment later, she opened the door and slipped through, closing it behind her.
Joe stared at the door long after it closed, gently fingering the cheek she'd kissed.
"I will be good God-damned," he said finally.
As always in moments of stress or deep emotion, Joe's thoughts turned to food. Not eating it, but cooking it. Nothing relaxed him so much as working in the kitchen. Like most of the crew, wanting to enjoy the company and the conversations, he usually ate in the mess hall. But, needless to say, his kitchen was fully stocked.
The recipe he chose was a very tricky one. But that suited his mood—even more, his purpose.
Joe Buckley was not particularly experienced in the business of falling in love. But he was very intelligent. Falling in love with Madeline Fathom was going to be a lot trickier than any recipe, so he'd better start warming up.