30 plus years after the Battle of Syria...
***
Colonel Jag Panzer, impressive in his formal black uniform, rose from the high-backed chair and stepped aside to push it back into its place at the dining table. His expression was somber as he rendered a deep, ceremonious bow to the smiling brunette. She was still in her place across the table from him, and she watched him with amused brown eyes. Jag extended one hand to her as the first traces of a bare smile began to curve his lips and ruin his countenance of solemnity.
If the smile only began to ruin it, the eyes did him in. His pale green eyes twinkled as he made his invitation. "May I have the honor of shared evasive maneuvers?"
He was rewarded first by Jade Jordan's quiet laugh. Then she reached for his hand and accepted his proposal. She straightened the skirts of her gown as she stood, tugged at the laces that cinched her waist, and stepped away from her chair, closer to him. Jag slipped an arm around her waist, intending to take advantage of the fast jig the musicians were playing by making a quick escape. The dance would be cover in case they were being watched.
They merged into the crowd of whirling and bobbing noble guests. With faintly devilish smiles on their faces, both young pilots divided their attention between their partner, the dance, the people around them, and the nearly-hidden exit that would lead them into the hallway and in search of the trophy room. A sense of anticipation that even Jag could feel settled between them, and for one impossibly fun moment, brandy-brown eyes met pale green teasingly. They spun closer to the door.
The band eased out of the jig, and the couple was forced to a standstill along with the rest of the dancers. The crowd applauded politely, but Jag and Jade remained frozen. Around them, dancers milled; some switched partners, some left the dance floor, some simply roamed, and some - like the two young fighter pilots - stood stock still and waited for the next dance to begin.
Jag gave the young woman before him a significant look, then glanced just as meaningfully toward their intended target. The silk-draped alcove was less than four meters away-four meters of dance floor, uncannily clear in an all-too-beckoning path to freedom, flanked by dancers.
He made a decision. Though the glittering banquet hall was pretty and the food had been delicious and the guests in the room could help him and his mission in more ways than even he cared to count, he'd much rather find out just how much fun harmless mischief with Jade could be. As he began to turn and drop his arm from her waist to make a break-albeit a dignified break-for it, the hidden band struck up again. This time, it was a hopelessly slow and traditional waltz. He and Jade were swept up in the zephyr of bodies and the swirling of skirts. Jag wanted to laugh.
Jade did laugh, and he glanced down to meet her eyes. She rested one hand on his shoulder and flicked her gaze toward the nook. As quickly as the music would allow, they made their way across the seven meters - they'd lost three to the waltz - of polished dance floor and courtly banquet hall to duck into the shadows of the door-hiding alcove. The gently draped silk and a fragrant arrangement of large white flowers hid them from prying eyes.
Jag finally released his hold on her waist, but did not let Jade's hand go. With one final glance over his shoulder to be sure that they remained unobserved, he pulled the door open. He led Jade into the darkened, silent hallway, still gripping her hand.
They stood there for several breathless moments, both of them with impish grins on their faces and mischievous glints in their eyes. The paneled door swung shut behind them, squeaking softly on antique brass hinges, without human aid.
Jade shot Jag a long glance, her brandy-brown eyes dancing. He suspected the illusion was only partly due to the lit candles around them. Her grin softened into a faint, teasing smile that merely curved her pretty mouth.
"Colonel Panzer," she said, affecting formality neither of them felt. "You dance so well."
The grin he gave her was quick and cocky, a fighter pilot's grin, a Korscian's grin. "I'm a man of many talents."
Her lips twisted slightly. "I don't doubt it. But I'm curious... where did you learn?"
"In the cockpit. What is a dogfight, anyway, but a deadly dance?"
He was getting philosophical. Jag supposed the wine had been stronger than he had originally presumed. He always got philosophical when he'd had something too strong, or something he hadn't been quite prepared for.
Jade seemed to consider that. She was silent, her eyes searching his face. "Yes," she mused, then changed the subject idly. "Do you any of your talents concern exploration or reconnaissance?"
He flashed her another quick grin. "I found you tonight, didn't I?"
In the predicted show of exasperation with his arrogance, she groaned and rolled her eyes. "Korsican egos..." she muttered.
"Do I need to remind you that you're half-Korscian yourself, Lieutenant?" He arched one eyebrow at her.
"As if I could forget in the first place," she grumbled, but smiled again up at him. "So, care to put any of those recon skills to use? We have a trophy room to find."
"We do," he said.
Jag looked up and down the hall. It was long, stretching into shadows to his right and to his left. Then again, that could have been the trick of light; there wasn't much light to begin with. The tall walls were made of stone, marble by the look of it, and affixed to the stone were elegant candelabras at varying heights. Real candles filled the candlesticks, the white columns topped with flickering yellow flames. The only other light for the passageway came from dimly-lit glow-panels, concealed within ironwork and suspended from the high ceiling.
The floor was wooden. Long, wide planks of dark wood were fitted together, and the candlelight gleamed off of it. An ornately carved baseboard ran the length of the hallway-at least as far as he could see. A few brightly-colored rugs seemed to have been tossed down haphazardly. Jag suspected art of some kind, or at least a sort of logic, but could see neither.
He took a moment to consider which direction to take. Absently, his gaze settled on Jade. She'd spent some time in the palace-as he understood it, she and the Princess were close childhood friends. Undoubtedly, she knew exactly where the trophy room was. If he knew her at all, Jade Jordan was the type of person who was always aware of her surroundings. He could simply ask her. She could lead them. It would be more efficient that way, and Jag Panzer was an efficient person. Under normal circumstances, that's exactly what he would have done.
But circumstances weren't normal, and for the time being, efficiency meant nothing but less time spent in the company of the young woman. And less time was not what Jag Panzer wanted with Jade Jordan.
He tightened his grip on her hand and nodded once to their right. "I think we should go this way."
She rewarded him with a smile that made his heart leap. "I'm your wing."
They started off down the hallway. Progression was purposefully slow; he wanted to take his time and enjoy himself, enjoy the scenery, the atmosphere of the evening... and her.
Jag glanced surreptitiously down at Jade. He hadn't seen her in two years, two years he'd spent trying to convince his father and the ruling Jaheem houses that they had to help the Fifth Reich fend off the alien invaders. Two years he'd spent working, flying, fighting. In that time, he'd always been aware of her and had listened for any news about her. Not actively, of course-he was too busy and she was too far away for him to spend too much time focusing on her. But at night just before he fell asleep, or when he was alone in the cockpit of his ship watching the dance and swirl of hyperspace, he'd catch himself remembering something she'd said, something she'd done. He'd wonder where she was, what she was doing, if she was happy... if she was thinking about him.
