to stop painting, etcetera.”
“No, Gray-son. Your paintings served only as a marker, to draw attention to you. Your aggressors don’t wish you to stop painting—they wish you to stop living.”
He’d figured that, what with the speed and secrecy the FBI agents had moved him here, but hearing it again, and from her, made it more real. “Well, Fenretti can afford some top hitmen,” he muttered.
She shook her head. “I do not know of this Fenretti. The beings who want you dead, and your line ended, are Taurian.”
“What the hell’s a Tah-ree-an?”
“They are a race of intelligent, aggressive, and warlike beings who will, in your future, wish to take over a certain planet. A planet much like your Earth, which will be called Frontiera. A planet which, if all goes well, one of your great-great many times removed progeny will help to settle for the Inter-Galactic Alliance, a peaceful organization of planets engaged in trade.”
She looked at him expectantly.
Gray shook his head. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked at his coffee cup and wondered if someone had laced it with peyote too.
“Did you just say … in the future?” he asked, squinting at her.
“Yes. I am from your future.”
One detail spring from the mind-boggling morass of intel she’d just spouted. “You’re telling me someone from the future, from another planet, cares that I paint portraits of celebrity criminals?” Yup, definitely peyote in the food and drink.
It was her turn to stare at him. “No, Gray-son. Not at all. Although the paintings you speak of earn you enough credit to procure a comfortable lifestyle here, they are important only in your time. The paintings that brought me here are like this one.”
She waved her hand, and Gray started violently, coffee sloshing over his hand. He sucked in a breath and set his cup hastily on the counter. In the kitchen doorway floated the half-finished painting of his futuristic dream.
“It is a very good likeness of him,” she said.
“Of … whom?” Gray managed around the lump in his throat. “You know this guy?” And he was real? Or would be?
“His name is Logan Stark,” she said. “Unfortunately born in poverty, as his father is little more than a sperm donor, and his mother longs for her absent husband instead of making a good home for her son. But eventually, Logan Stark rises to become one of the wealthiest men in the galaxy, and creates a fine life for himself, his two younger brothers and the thousands he employs.'
'That is … if the Taurian-hired assassin does not succeed in preventing you from procreating. In that case, the Stark family will die with you, and instead of Frontiera being peacefully explored and settled by the Alliance, it will remain a haven for space pirates and eventually become another war base for the Taurians.”
She fixed a stern look on Gray. “Which will be a tragedy for millions upon millions of beings.”
Gray drank coffee and absorbed all she’d said. So, he had to stay alive to found a veritable dynasty of Starks? That was pretty hard to believe.
He had good parents, great parents, but seemed as if they should’ve had more kids, provided a little broader base for procreation, if the fate of the galaxy rested on the Stark line.
“I have cousins,” he pointed out. “My mom’s side. They live somewhere in Canada—Saskatchewan, I think. Can’t they take care of this? Pretty sure at least two of them have kids by now.”
“No, Gray-son. Logan Stark, if he is to exist, will be your descendant.”
“That means …” He looked at her, slim, lovely and focused on him, just the way Brynne always had, but with a difference. Now, the melting brown eyes meeting his gaze were friendly but dispassionate, in the way of a paid advisor, not a clinging girlfriend. “Uh—that means I get married.” Something he had no intention of doing. He wasn’t against the institution, it simply held no appeal for him.
“Not
“No, Gray-son. Your paintings served only as a marker, to draw attention to you. Your aggressors don’t wish you to stop painting—they wish you to stop living.”
He’d figured that, what with the speed and secrecy the FBI agents had moved him here, but hearing it again, and from her, made it more real. “Well, Fenretti can afford some top hitmen,” he muttered.
She shook her head. “I do not know of this Fenretti. The beings who want you dead, and your line ended, are Taurian.”
“What the hell’s a Tah-ree-an?”
“They are a race of intelligent, aggressive, and warlike beings who will, in your future, wish to take over a certain planet. A planet much like your Earth, which will be called Frontiera. A planet which, if all goes well, one of your great-great many times removed progeny will help to settle for the Inter-Galactic Alliance, a peaceful organization of planets engaged in trade.”
She looked at him expectantly.
Gray shook his head. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked at his coffee cup and wondered if someone had laced it with peyote too.
“Did you just say … in the future?” he asked, squinting at her.
“Yes. I am from your future.”
One detail spring from the mind-boggling morass of intel she’d just spouted. “You’re telling me someone from the future, from another planet, cares that I paint portraits of celebrity criminals?” Yup, definitely peyote in the food and drink.
It was her turn to stare at him. “No, Gray-son. Not at all. Although the paintings you speak of earn you enough credit to procure a comfortable lifestyle here, they are important only in your time. The paintings that brought me here are like this one.”
She waved her hand, and Gray started violently, coffee sloshing over his hand. He sucked in a breath and set his cup hastily on the counter. In the kitchen doorway floated the half-finished painting of his futuristic dream.
“It is a very good likeness of him,” she said.
“Of … whom?” Gray managed around the lump in his throat. “You know this guy?” And he was real? Or would be?
“His name is Logan Stark,” she said. “Unfortunately born in poverty, as his father is little more than a sperm donor, and his mother longs for her absent husband instead of making a good home for her son. But eventually, Logan Stark rises to become one of the wealthiest men in the galaxy, and creates a fine life for himself, his two younger brothers and the thousands he employs.'
'That is … if the Taurian-hired assassin does not succeed in preventing you from procreating. In that case, the Stark family will die with you, and instead of Frontiera being peacefully explored and settled by the Alliance, it will remain a haven for space pirates and eventually become another war base for the Taurians.”
She fixed a stern look on Gray. “Which will be a tragedy for millions upon millions of beings.”
Gray drank coffee and absorbed all she’d said. So, he had to stay alive to found a veritable dynasty of Starks? That was pretty hard to believe.
He had good parents, great parents, but seemed as if they should’ve had more kids, provided a little broader base for procreation, if the fate of the galaxy rested on the Stark line.
“I have cousins,” he pointed out. “My mom’s side. They live somewhere in Canada—Saskatchewan, I think. Can’t they take care of this? Pretty sure at least two of them have kids by now.”
“No, Gray-son. Logan Stark, if he is to exist, will be your descendant.”
“That means …” He looked at her, slim, lovely and focused on him, just the way Brynne always had, but with a difference. Now, the melting brown eyes meeting his gaze were friendly but dispassionate, in the way of a paid advisor, not a clinging girlfriend. “Uh—that means I get married.” Something he had no intention of doing. He wasn’t against the institution, it simply held no appeal for him.
“Not
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