YEAR: 23

Braheton City, Central Tharsis, Mars

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Gwen woke bathed in sweat, the horror of the dream chasing her out of sleep. She'd been having the dream for as long as she could remember, but lately it had become more vivid, the sounds clearer and the action more realistic. Less like a dream and more like the memory it likely was. Whether her mind was recalling truth or filling in details based on the data she'd turned up on her parents recently, she didn't care to guess. Mostly, she just wished it would stop. She had thought the research would help with that—Matthew had talked her into believing that bit of pop psychology—but it only seemed to be making things worse.

Carefully, so as to not disturb her husband, she slid out of bed and made for the shower. When she was dressed and downstairs in the library, safely out of ear range of both the hired help and her husband, she took out her locator and called Matthew. He answered without the holo, yawning at her as he spoke. "What's the matter, Wendy? A little early, isn't it?"

"I had the dream again."

A pause, a sigh. Then: "I'm sorry. I know this is hard on you."

"Yes, it is," she said. Then, realizing she sounded as peevish as her teenage daughter, she modulated her tone. "I wish I hadn't started this. It's making me remember things I don't want or need to remember."

"It's better to find out now than later," he reminded her. He was pointing out the obvious, and it irritated her.

"I should just drop the whole thing. The records are sealed, so what are the chances of anyone finding out, anyway? Even the investigator has turned up almost nothing."

"You're probably right," said Matthew. He wouldn't push her; he never had, even when it was his job as her Creche proctor when they were both orphans. Instead he'd protected her from bullies and begun a relationship with her that had endured, in one form or another, across four decades. But the "probably" hung there, too potentially damaging to her career to ignore. The media would love to discover that a Mendez was the orphaned daughter of Radical Sovereigntists. She would have to follow through.

"Breakfast?" She trained her voice down an octave, going into lawyer mode. Control mode. "I'll be downtown this morning."

"I don't know, Wen. I'm seeing someone and I don't want to screw it up."

"I didn't ask you to fuck me. I asked you if you wanted to eat breakfast. In public."

Matthew laughed. "Okay then. Is eight good? I'm not up yet."

"Eight is perfect. I have court at nine-thirty."

"I thought you weren't taking trial work anymore since you decided to make a run at City Administrator."

"That's what I thought too. It was a mistake to make a public announcement because now everyone in Braheton is calling in one last special favor."

"You can hardly blame them. You're the best."

Gwen snorted. She was the best, but she knew damn well she wouldn't have attracted so many top tier clients in her career without her name and social status. They believed, with some justification, that it curried favor with certain judges. "Never mess with a Mendez" was how Laken had put it recently, in a rare moment of adolescent clarity between gaping at episodes of Space Pirates of Normandy.

"See you at eight," she said, and shut down her loke. She didn't answer live work queries before nine, and she knew they'd come flooding in if she left it on.

Matthew arrived at Cartouche precisely at eight o'clock, as was his way. They'd been meeting here for breakfast since she'd moved back to Mars fourteen years ago, and she'd only seen him late once, when a girlfriend had spent a night in the hospital. Now he stood at the top of the steps that led into the recessed dining area, scanning the room. He smiled when he found her and made for the table, his light tan suit contrasting with his ebony skin. He cut a striking figure, but none of the other patrons looked at him, just as Gwen didn't look at them. Cartouche might be ridiculously named, but its reputation for discretion was well-earned; it remained the only place in Braheton where the top tiers of society could enjoy the semblance of an anonymous meal. The astronomical menu prices and lack of kowtowing by the staff kept away the pretenders.

"You're looking good," said Gwen as he sat down opposite her. He ignored the compliment, leaning forward to focus on her instead.

"How are you doing? Better?"

"It was just a dream. I'm fine."

"Good." Over the years, Matthew had learned to modulate his outward concern for her in public, but it flashed briefly in his eyes now. "I really think you should go see someone, talk it through."

"I don't need a shrink. I have you."

He sighed and straightened in his chair, giving her a pointed look. "How's Cray?"

"He's busy, as usual." She allowed herself a split second of disappointment that Matthew had apparently meant what he said about seeing someone, then bottled it up. "He's off meeting with Senator DeMarco trying to push through some finer details of the headquarters relocation. I'm sure you've heard all about it."

"Ah, yes. Taxes and antitrust and all that. Trident is a beast by any legal or economic measure. But if anyone can handle it, your husband can."

"He could use your help." She meant it. With a dozen industry certifications, a de facto interplanetary law degree, and a history of high-profile successes, Matthew was the best freelance negotiator money could buy.

"I can't say I'd mind that gig, but if he wanted my help, I'm sure I'd have a message from his office by now."

"I don't know why he thinks he needs to do it all himself. He's stubborn. And foolish."

Matthew finished entering their orders into the menu that floated between them. At a touch, it blinked out of existence, and he gave her an even look. "Foolish is the very last word I would use to describe Creighton Mendez. If he's handling the details personally, I'm sure there's a good reason."

"Nothing beyond Norman paranoia, as far as I can tell."

"You're awfully down on your husband today." Matthew's expression didn't change, but she could sense his disapproval. This was one thing of late that drove her crazy about him, his moral compass. He'd spent a decade seething with jealousy, begging her to leave Cray, then seemingly overnight reversed his attitude. For the past five years their relationship had been platonic with rare slips off the wagon, mostly initiated by her. She would love to know what made him change his mind, but suspected he would never tell her.

"I'm just tired," she said, reminding herself she had to be in court in an hour. Residual emotion would throw her off her game. Matthew, perhaps sensing this, accepted the excuse without further comment.

"So why is he moving the company to Normandy, anyway? Does he just miss his home planet, or does he know something we mere mortals aren't yet privy to?"

"More the former, I think. He's been talking about a move for a long time, but until the past year it was only in a speculative way. With Laken off to boarding school next semester, he seems to be engaging in some midlife metamorphosis."

"That makes sense. I tend to forget he's my age. He looks quite a bit younger."

"Neither of you look like you're almost fifty, and you know it. But I won't give you another compliment since you seem to be refusing them today."

Matthew chuckled. "I enjoy it even when I don't let on. How is Laken, by the way?"

"She's a typical sixteen-year-old girl. Obnoxious, all-knowing, obsessed with the Feed. Also too smart for her own good and adorable as hell, which lets her get away with murder."

"Sounds like her mom," he said, grinning. "Got any holos?" She showed him a few recent ones and he stopped the display at an image Cray had taken of Laken and Gwen at a gala the week before. "She looks exactly like you now that she's growing up. Amazing. Same blonde hair, same blue eyes. She's even kept your curls. I thought they might have gone by now."

"I have strong genes," said Gwen, shutting down her locator again.

This was a game Matthew played with her occasionally, hoping she'd spill the secret of Laken's parentage. Even Cray didn't know that detail; Gwen had truthfully assured him at the onset of their marriage that Laken's father would never claim parental rights, and after the requisite five years Cray had made it legal by formally adopting the girl who was for all intents and purposes his daughter. The old cliché won out—Cray indeed couldn't love her any more if she was his own flesh and blood, and Laken for her part was a daddy's girl through and through. Sometimes Gwen thought she could remove herself from the equation and the other two would hardly notice, but this sentiment didn't bother her as it might another mother; for better or for worse, her maternal instincts had found a more relatable target in her niece Natalie, the adopted daughter of Cray's brother and sister-in-law. Her mouth twisted at the irony, and Matthew gave her a searching look as their food arrived.

"What?" he said, cutting his vegetable omelet into bite sized pieces in precise motions. He'd been on a no-meat kick for the last six months, yet another symptom of his moral striving that ebbed and flowed. Gwen gave it a month before he broke down and had a steak.

"Nothing. Do you want some of my bacon?"

"Very funny." He took a few bites of his omelet, then put his fork down. "Actually, I did want to ask you a favor. A professional one."

"Of course," she said without hesitation. "Name it."

"I've been working with some clients from Aryabhata and I need someone to draw up some contracts. Normally I'd use a local lawyer familiar with the area, but these are, let's say, highly placed people. They're not going to trust just anyone."

"As long as it falls within Republic jurisdiction, I can do it."

"It should," said Matthew.

Gwen didn't miss the hint of doubt in his reply. "What do you mean, it should? Either it does or it doesn't. This isn't some crazy Sov stuff, is it? Or a land rights thing?"

Matthew shook his head. "No. I mean, not exactly."

"Not exactly." She eyed him over her coffee cup. "Okay, spill."

"I can't spill unless you're taking the case."

Gwen leaned back, thinking. She held a Class Four license, allowing her to practice Republic law on any planet, but local land disputes lay beyond the scope of that. Matthew, aware of this fact, wouldn't ask her to compromise her license, but obviously it was edging close to that territory if he couldn't give her a direct no. If it was anyone else, she wouldn't even consider taking such a case. But for Matthew…

"Okay," she said. "What the hell, I'm in. Now tell me what's so special about it."