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There were tables set against walls, and mirrors at sensible intervals to reveal the hidden corners. Though the back of the house had huge windows with a view of the hillside above, there were only two doors leading outside, and he could see them both from the tables, if he kept his back to the wall.
He stepped in, with Athena by his side, bracing himself for the inevitable demand for her papers.
As a Maltaffian Canine Officer, First Class, Athena was entitled to all the privileges her position conferred, even post-retirement.
But no one accosted him, and he realized that of course, this whole thing was manufactured just for him and his intended surrogate. There would be no other customers, and the AI who designed the space had to know about the dog.
He strode over to an ideal table with an easy view of all egresses, and sat with his back to the wall.
Athena settled in beside him, leaning the warm weight of her shoulder against his thigh in her usual way, so that he could be sure of her without glancing down.
This was not something she had been trained to do. Gage liked to think it was her expression of their special bond.
“Good work, Athena,” he told her.
Her thick tail whacked once against his chair.
Then he leaned back, and they waited together for whatever the Center wanted from them next.
Just as he sank into the golden peace of the calm watchfulness that sustained him during long periods on duty, the back door to the bistro opened.
A woman with long, dark hair stepped inside. She was tall for a Terran, her soft features set in a serious expression.
She moved inside, blinking twice, presumably to adjust her eyes to dim lighting after the warm sunlight outside.
Something about the way she carried herself seemed to crack a stone wall he hadn’t known was in his chest, leaving him breathless.
There was no room in his mind anymore for the uncomfortable tie, the security sweeps, or even his memories of the old farm.
There was only the woman.
And she was turning her head and about to notice him.
3
Naomi
Naomi stepped into the farmhouse, blinking away the transition from bright sunshine to the softly lit interior.
But it wasn’t a farmhouse, really. It was set up like an upscale café, and she guessed it was most likely a charming farm-to-table affair, based on the setting.
She relaxed a little. Her work had put her in a dozen little places like this for lunch meetings with clients. It even smelled familiar, like fresh bread and simmering garlic.
She felt a bit more at home than she had a moment ago.
Scanning the space, she noticed a man in a very expensive suit at a table by the wall was the only other occupant. His skin was a pale green, and his head was adorned with a glorious pair of horns sprouting out of a mane of silky hair.
Maltaffian.
She tried desperately to remember whether Maltaffians had to actually mate to conceive a child, but drew a blank.
He was looking at her, an odd expression on his annoyingly handsome face, and he stood to greet her, almost like he heard distant music and was trying to remember the composer’s name.
Though she had no particular interest in high end fashion herself, she recognized the bespoke fit of his clothing the instant he stood. And that tie had to be Drathian silk.
The awful lawyers at her firm were always bragging about what they were wearing, and yelling out the prices, as if anyone should be impressed that they spent so much on a tie they could have chosen to feed a shelter of hungry families or retrofit an entire school library on one of the lower Terras and still had enough change left over for a closetful of equally ugly ties.
Don’t judge. This outrageously rich snob is the reason you’re here, the reason you might be able to conceive a child of your own one day.
