Zwarg. Two years ago.
"Michel, you don't understand. I am willing to do anything."
I looked at my childhood friend, wringing my hands, trying to make him grasp just how desperately I did not want to become Lady Lacoste. His expression was full of pity, worry, and mild bewilderment. I felt like a dragonfly caught in an invisible but very solid web; the dragonfly is fighting with everything it has while any outside observer can already see how this ends.
"Celesta, you're the one who doesn't understand what you're asking," he said, for what was probably the thousandth time that night.
While we'd waited for Kristof, while Kristof had explained that his career mattered more than the remote possibility of one day having children with me, while I'd cried and then talked to Yudes, evening had quietly become the middle of the night.
"Think about it. Even if we got married and I used my rights as your husband to get you an exit visa under the cover of a honeymoon, it would still go through the Zwarg Planetary Management Apparatus. Lacoste would be the first person notified. I'm almost certain he's already contacted Planetary Security and put surveillance on you around the clock. They simply won't let you through the spaceport, and most likely they'll pick you up before you even get that far, the moment they figure out what you're planning. And they won't care that you're my wife."
The words I'd been about to say got stuck in my throat.
"What?" was all I managed.
That Yudes had been told about my call to the medical center wasn't surprising; he'd probably briefed the staff in advance, the way experienced chess players castle anticipating an attack on their king. But surveillance? A direct violation of the absolute law that every citizen of the Federation was a free individual? Apparently, my capacity for shock and heartbreak had hit its daily limit. I sank slowly into the armchair and tried to process the full scale of the disaster.
"He's not just a member of the Planetary Management Apparatus, he's the head of Planetary Security." Michel rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "It's fairly well known in my circles. Illegally removing a Zwargian woman from the planet has been treated more and more like a crime against Zwarg in recent years."
I nodded on autopilot to show I'd heard. Which meant that for this particular crime, Michel could face execution or its equivalent: rotting on some miserable asteroid for the rest of his life.
"You have no idea how few girls have been born in recent years," my childhood friend said quietly. And I suddenly thought of the strawberry perfume trailing off Yudes at the ball. Not that it interested me particularly, but…
"Michel, are there only Zwargians on the planet right now?"
"What do you mean?" he frowned. "You know that after it came out that certain humanoids were routinely ‘accidentally’ pocketing moissanites from the mountain tours and essentially looting our resources, the Apparatus banned tourist visas entirely."
I cut him off, "Right, no tourists, I remember. But there are other ways to get onto Zwarg, aren't there?"
The lawyer thought about it.
"Tanorgians sometimes get business passes to set up electronics manufacturing here. Mittarians occasionally get specialized medical visas; short-term, usually for professional exchanges, since our air is too dry and cold for them. And very rarely, a Zwargian can sponsor a visa for a non-Zwargian fiancée; it covers both entry and exit, but that option obviously doesn't work for you."
I shook my head impatiently. Right, a woman who'd come to launch a business or do professional work had every minute accounted for and was not going to end up tangled with the first Zwargian she ran into. And the idea of Yudes secretly cornering someone else's fiancée somewhere didn't quite add up either. Something wasn't fitting. I'd never given much thought to what the single men did, but suddenly the question felt urgent. After all, there simply weren't enough women for all men.
"Michel, where do Zwargians and half-Zwargians find themselves a… ahem… companion for the night?"
My yellow-eyed friend went scarlet to the roots of his hair, his usually pale freckles flaring distinctly copper. I hadn't known Zwargians could blush like that.
"Celesta, what makes you think that…"
Zwargian women were generally far too well-mannered for this kind of question. But we were talking about my immediate future, so it was time to cut to the chase—or launch at escape velocity, as the pilots say. I breathed in and out.
"What makes me think that? The fact that I'm surrounded by men who are over a hundred years old and presumably not all of them are managing with holofilms and novelty toys? I was married, Michel. I have some understanding of how these things work. Please don't tell me every single man on this planet simply doesn't need it or has found a perfectly wholesome solution. I'm sure most of them found a way."
My friend looked away at the floor, and I was fairly certain his hands were trembling slightly. Of course, questions like this weren't asked in polite company. And no Zwargian woman ever needed to ask them; her personal life was perfectly sorted. Besides, given Zwarg's strict moral code, any man who admitted to a less than respectable private life was signing his own professional death warrant.
"Michel, I'm not judging you, not even a little," I said, tiredly. "I don't care how many women or what kind. Just answer the question. Please."
"Tur-Rin," the lawyer said quietly, still studying the parquet pattern. "It's a Federation planet. Lots of establishments there. With night butterflies."
"Like a zoo?"
Michel made a strange sound.
"Celesta, I'm not talking about a tropical insect exhibit…" he shot me a sideways look and swore under his breath. "I can't explain it like this. Make me some coffee. Please."
I shrugged and headed to the stove. It was only when I turned my back to him that I realized he'd actually needed the distance.
"A night butterfly is an expression for women who are willing to have sex for money. Tur-Rin has plenty of them; every taste, age, temperament, and species. That's why it's known primarily as a pleasure planet. Zwargians fly there occasionally to… unwind."
"Oh."
That explained Michel's embarrassment. It wasn't just about a complicated private life; it was about having to pay for it. Not many men could admit to that.
I set the cezve on the burner, thinking. Some slippery thought was circling in my head like a fat fish that couldn't quite break the surface.
"And how much do night butterflies charge?"
"Depends."
"And what kind of women do Zwargians prefer?"
"Celesta!" Michel practically yelped from somewhere behind me.
I turned around and looked at his face: scarlet with embarrassment, ears burning at the tips where they stuck out from under his disheveled hair.
"I'm asking about races. It matters to me."
"It varies… Eltonians are beautiful but high-maintenance. They also tend to choose their own clients. Mittarians are a bit… cold. Human girls are rare, and they're usually nervous around Zwargians, though honestly, most humanoids are."
I let the lawyer's words settle while I added the ground coffee to the cezve and poured in the hot water.
"And are there any such establishments on Zwarg?" I asked, just to cover all bases.
"What? Of course not!" the righteous indignation in his voice was so thick I nearly laughed out loud. "Celesta, think about it! What Zwargian woman would ever do that with a man for money?! It would be the absolute height of… of…"
Michel clearly couldn't find the word. I set a cup in front of him and poured the coffee.
"Nonsense," I supplied. "Which is doubly strange given that we have a Laboratory specifically designed to match suitable candidates. And if I remember correctly, for a man's profile to even enter the database, he has to provide Intergalactic Bank statements showing a substantial sum; proof that a future wife would never want for anything."
"Exactly," my friend exhaled with visible relief, pulling the coffee toward him. He wrapped both hands around the rounded mug and laced his fingers over the porcelain, in no hurry to actually drink it.
I gave him a few polite seconds to collect himself, then continued, "But none of that changes the fact that flying all the way to Tur-Rin every time you need company is a considerable inconvenience. And I suspect the Planetary Management Apparatus approved a small quota of short-term entry and exit visas for… personal requests from men of means. Let's call it that. Michel, am I right?"
The half-Zwargian looked at me with an unreadable expression, pressed his lips together, and said, "You're right. But tear me apart atom by atom, Celesta, I have no idea why you're asking me all of this. I'm sure Yudes will be a good husband and won't cheat on you. I understand your marriage to Martin wasn't happy, and I can see that Lacoste is being heavy-handed, but maybe give him a chance? Honestly, I completely lost the thread of your logic somewhere around the night butterflies."
I shook my head, looking at my old friend. We'd been out of touch for too long, and as a half-Zwargian, he genuinely had no idea what he was suggesting. As far as I was concerned, everything about Yudes was perfectly clear. And it wasn't about the women's perfume I'd caught on him at the ball. I simply was not going to step on the same rake twice. Then again, maybe it was just as well that Michel hadn't figured out what I was planning.
"Isn't it obvious? I said from the beginning that I'd do anything to get off Zwarg. I'm going to be a night butterfly. Please help me get a visa, that's all I'm asking."
"What?! Celesta, do you hear yourself?!"
He jerked his hand and sent freshly brewed coffee across the table. I sighed and tapped the cleaning code into my communicator. Somewhere in the distance, tiny robots whirred to life, rushing toward the brown puddle. Through all of it, Michel stared at me.
"I hear myself perfectly." I nodded. "You said there are special short-term visas for women arriving on Zwarg to… sell companionship. I'll play the part of one of those night butterflies."
The half-Zwargian pressed both hands hard over his face.
"A prostitute, Celesta. A prostitute is what you'd be pretending to be. You. A widow Gyu-El, an aristocrat from a distinguished family, owner of… I couldn't even give you a rough count of the properties, shares, and credits sitting in your accounts right now. I was just preparing the documents for the prenuptial with Kristof; I have everything written down…"
He started searching frantically for the papers. I put my hand over his to get his attention.
"It won't work! They're different! Fundamentally different!" he practically begged, grabbing at his own hair. "Celesta, think about this. You have everything, and you'll have everything! You'll be taken care of! What would you even do out there? Where would you go? You've never been anywhere; you don't know anything about the world outside! Your speech, your manners, your education; any tiny detail will give you away!"
But the more he panicked, the more certain I felt that I could actually pull this off. Some strange, completely inexplicable sense of confidence had settled somewhere deep inside me.
"You'll help me. Michel, this is so outrageous that even you can barely believe it, which means no one will suspect I'm Zwargian. Get me the visa, that's all I need, and I'll handle my appearance." he was still looking at me with unconcealed doubt, so I brought out the heavy artillery. "I've always thought of you as my closest friend, the one person who should understand me better than anyone. Zwarg's laws have always worked against you. Right now, they're working against me. There's nothing keeping me here. But if you don't want to help, I'll understand."
My old friend let out a long, heavy sigh and shook his head.
"Of course I'll help you."
***
From the moment I confirmed I was completely serious, Michel snapped back into the composed professional I knew. He made a call somewhere and said, in a deliberately casual drawl, that he'd brought a girl from Zahran on his personal jet under a belleza visa.
I gave him a silent question. He shrugged.
"I'm a lawyer, Celesta, and a fairly successful one. I actually have a valid invitation visa that I never got around to deactivating. The girl it was issued for found out I wasn't a pureblooded Zwargian and refused to come. Apparently decided I couldn't afford her rates. I figured if I confirmed I'd brought someone, it would make it easier for you to leave the planet."
"And belleza means…"
"'Beauty,' from one of the old Federation languages. I can't remember which one exactly."
After that I pushed for us to move as fast as possible. Dawn was already breaking when Michel left the penthouse and asked me to pack a bag while he ran a quick errand.
"Keep it small, like you'd only come for a couple of days. Take only what matters most. And stick to cash as much as you can. Once people realize you're gone, your bank accounts will be watched."
I went through my wardrobe several times and couldn't decide on clothes. In the end I packed a few sets of underwear, two pairs of jeans, plain solid-colored t-shirts with no visible branding, and five versatile wrinkle-resistant dresses that looked as un-Zwargian as possible. I even turned on the Federal holochannel to see what people were actually wearing on Tur-Rin and other planets.
Money was trickier. I had cash hidden in the safe, but I had a feeling it wouldn't last long; so I swept a quick look around the dressing room and started dropping jewelry into the suitcase: rings, bracelets, earrings, necklaces, pins. Jewelry was useful that way—it can be a currency in any world.
By the time I was fighting with the vacuum packer trying to force the suitcase shut, Michel was back. He took one look at my efforts, sighed from the depths of his soul, and handed me a tube of cream and a box of hair dye.
"This is a special paste that changes skin color. It works at the molecular level, penetrates the deeper layers of the dermis. As long as you don't scrub hard or soak in baths and saunas for too long, it lasts about a month. It'll sting a little when you apply it, but you'll need to wait for it to absorb fully. And this girl who was supposed to come had light hair. It's a common enough color for human women. Lucky for you, Zwargian women don't have horns or tails, so the disguise doesn't need to be complicated."
I nodded, taking the purchases from him.
"How do you know about the skin cream, by the way?"
I'd always assumed it was something women used for tanning.
He ruffled his hair and smiled.
"You're not the only one who's left Zwarg incognito. A lot of people are afraid of our species; they attribute all kinds of abilities to us. Most pureblooded Zwargians can't do much about their appearance. I've been lucky in some ways: my horns are small, barely more than bumps, and my build isn't typically Zwargian. With a hat or a cap, and a tail tucked into pants with the right cut, I can pass for a human; or with blue skin, even a Mittarian. Apply it now, two layers to be safe. Having the cream in your suitcase might raise questions at customs. Once you land on Tur-Rin, buy more."
I spent longer in the bathroom than I'd planned. I showered and worked the cream into my skin thoroughly, paying extra attention to my face. If a trace of violet showed up on an arm or a leg, that could be managed with a long sleeve or pants. But the face was serious. Michel had bought a generous amount. Rather than waste the rest, I went over the fold of my elbows, the backs of my knees, my thighs, and my neck a third time, anywhere the skin was thinnest and most likely to show through.
The hair dye was more complicated. I laid out the instructions on the edge of the sink and immediately understood that getting the back of my head without any experience was going to be nearly impossible. I had to call in the household cleaning robots and spend a considerable amount of time explaining what I needed from them. I got so deep into the settings that I stumbled across a function I'd never noticed: Paint partial wall surface. Despite everything, it made me smile. Who on earth needed to paint part of a wall? I found the explanation later, while the robots were already working: If your child frequently uses walls instead of a glass board or electronic paper for drawing, add this function to the nursery cleaning schedule. A child. Somehow, I hadn't thought about that.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, a stranger looked back at me from the mirror. A slight, brown-eyed blonde with the soft peach complexion common to human women. I stood there unable to quite believe that hair color and skin tone could change a face so completely. Then I noticed the scissors I usually used to trim the bamboo plant lying on the counter, picked them up, and cut myself a fringe. Decisive. Clean. I'd looked at Zahran fashion, too, earlier that morning. Apparently, many human women wore their hair short around the face, covering the forehead and sometimes even the brows, which gave them something unexpectedly delicate about their expressions. On Zwarg, that had never been fashionable. The ideal of Zwargian beauty had always been tied to the appearance of perfect emotional control. A playful fringe, the kind you'd cut for a child or an affectionate fluffy puppy, was about as far from Zwargian standards as you could get. As for male preferences, most Zwargian men either shaved close to the skull or swept everything back to make their horns look more imposing.
But if I was changing my appearance anyway, why not?
"Oh," was all Michel managed when I came out. "Celesta, is that actually you?"
I smiled at him and nodded.
"I don't look like myself at all. Pretty good, right?"
He exhaled loudly and groaned.
"Yes, you've managed to… exceed all my expectations. I put thirty-five years on the visa, but with that fringe you barely look twenty-five in human years."
I stopped smiling.
"Is that a problem?"
"No, not at all." He scratched the back of his neck the way he always did when he was flustered, circled me slowly, taking in the new look, and started talking in broken fragments. "It's just… I feel completely out of my depth here. I mean, of course, women in every world like to look younger, and from a cover story perspective it's actually perfect… Oh! But I'll be driving you to the spaceport in full view of everyone! Hmm… though on the other hand, that would explain why a client would give away a moissanite necklace. I've been trying to figure out how to get it off the planet legally…"
I still wasn't entirely sure what was bothering Michel. He'd been huffing and going red every time night butterflies came up. From the general logic of it, I gathered that the younger and prettier the girl, the more she earned. He'd refused to answer any direct questions on the subject, brushing them off and pivoting straight to my suitcase.
He went through everything carefully, approved the clothes, and completely overhauled the jewelry. The gold ankle chains stayed, as did five pearl bracelets, a pile of platinum and silver rings, and sapphire and ruby pins, but he removed everything else.
"Put on as much as you physically can, and whatever doesn't fit stays here. Moissanites in a suitcase will raise questions. But this way… we'll just say I was so taken with you that I wanted to give you something to remember me by."
"The entire moissanite set?!"
I stared at Michel. He was holding not just the family heirloom necklaces, but the simpler pieces, too, the ones Martin had given me for birthdays and holidays.
"Celesta, trust me, this is the only legal way to get moissanites off Zwarg. And I'll honestly sleep better knowing that in an absolute worst-case scenario, you could buy yourself a ship and disappear from anywhere in the galaxy."
"Are you sure you won't have problems because of me?" I looked at the half-Zwargian, feeling a strange mix of nerves and something that surprised me, the first pang of grief at leaving home.
"I will, if anyone finds out how you left. But no one's going to find out," Michel smiled warmly, and I did something I hadn't planned: threw my arms around him and held on.
The ride to the spaceport passed in near-silence. I watched the snow-white mountains of Zwarg pass by the window one last time, trying to hold onto the view I'd known my whole life. Michel parked, took my suitcase, and we walked into the departures hall together.
For a moment he froze, not quite sure what to do with himself. We were standing in the middle of the spaceport, and dozens of Zwargians were openly staring. Passengers, porters, cleaners, even security guards. Some shot Michel disapproving looks. Others looked frankly envious. I understood that by helping me, he was taking an enormous risk with his reputation, I just hadn't understood quite how enormous until this moment. Gratitude flooded through me, and I did what no well-mannered Zwargian woman would ever do in public: let it out. Any display of emotion was first and foremost an amplification of beta-waves, and well-bred Zwargian women simply didn't do that. But I wasn't a Zwargian woman anymore. I wasn't Celesta Gyu-El. What did it matter what anyone thought?
A second or two later Michel thawed and hugged me back, a little awkwardly.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For everything."
He pulled back. Those strange yellow eyes looked at me carefully.
"You're absolutely sure?"
"Absolutely sure."
He'd asked me that at least five times in the last hour.
"And you won't come back sooner?"
Why would I? So Lacoste can invoke the law? No, not before I'm a hundred and fifty, at the very earliest.
"No. But time flies. You won't even notice."
"And…" He drew breath to say something else, but I cut him off.
"They've called boarding for my flight. Michel, I have to go."
"Right, of course. I'll miss you."
I winked at him and took my carry-on from his hands. Unlike Michel, my mood was getting better by the second. We'd thought everything through. I'd signed a document transferring control of my financial assets and property to Michel in the event of unforeseen circumstances, which, legally, included the disappearance of a humanoid. To make sure no one would think to dig into his involvement, Michel had suggested backdating the power of attorney to make it look as though I'd signed it while Martin was still alive.
I'd left the penthouse in a coat with the hood up so no one would notice my transformation. I'd made a point of going up to Michel's apartment in front of the building's concierge, giving him an alibi. On the day Celesta Gyu-El was officially declared missing, her trusted representative would be probably occupied with another woman. And to make sure Yudes didn't come looking for me immediately, I'd made a round of calls to wedding boutiques and left appointments to try on dresses.
Crossing the enormous, camera-covered hall of the spaceport still made my skin crawl. And it was genuinely strange, almost physically uncomfortable, to release my emotions and let them fill the space around me, after Michel had pointedly remarked that I was radiating absolutely nothing. Human girls weren't blocks of ice. They were, by Zwargian standards, extremely emotional. I nodded to myself and started picturing my future life somewhere far from Zwarg. At first, it didn't come easily, and the customs officers checking luggage gave me suspicious looks. But the more I thought about never having to control my emotions again, never having to wear black, never having to lie, the better I felt. I didn't even notice the exact moment when the fear of being caught transformed into pure excitement at the thought of seeing other planets.
"Documents, please."
"Oh, yes, here.” I handed over the visa and the additional card Michel had managed to produce through his contacts while I was on the phone with wedding boutiques and florists.
"Short-term belleza visa?"
The officer looked me over carefully. Right, while others might have only guessed at my status on the planet, this particular Zwargian had it spelled out in the paperwork. I nodded, bracing for anything; pursed lips, a disapproving look, a quiet lecture about how night butterflies were the lowest of the low. But the man silently stamped the visa, logged something in the system, and handed the documents back, then cleared his throat quietly and asked, slightly flustered, "Forgive me, but… ah… how much do your services cost?"
I raised my eyebrows, glanced back at Michel still standing beyond the barriers, watching me from a distance with visible tension. Whether it was the euphoria of having cleared the last checkpoint, or the new persona of a smiling human girl who didn't need to hide anything, I don't know exactly what happened in that moment, but I pointed to the necklace and said, loudly and clearly, "Almost certainly more than you can afford. My clients are exclusively the wealthiest Zwargians on the planet."
The horned officer's face went slack with surprise, and I picked up my suitcase, laughing, and walked on.
Not a single word of that was a lie. Gyu-El had been very, very wealthy.