Thetis Intergalatic

Prologue

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“Veronica Wolfe!” sounded a reporter as he rushed after a woman. Evoking a name whose power he failed to comprehend, he nearly tripped over himself. In the middle of up-town Moscow, the woman stopped and pivoted, forcing the accelerating reporter to skid to a halt. She crossed her pale, slender legs at their ankles, creasing her navy blue dress. In an authoritative stance, she bundled the shoulders of her faux-fur coat at her bust and stared down at the reporter over the rims of black sunglasses. A crowd of security men stopped in a semi-circle around her.

“Yes?” She arched a pruned, brunette brow, revealing brown eyes alight with faint annoyance. A guard leaned sidelong and whispered that she'd be late.

Worried he'd miss his opportunity, the reporter hastened to speak.

“Mrs. Wolfe, President of Thetis Intergalactic?” His heart beat like a fly in his throat. Mentally, he shouted at himself – of course she was the famed entrepreneurial baroness, in the flesh and just inches from him.

“Speaking,” she up-spoke. She crossed her arms, fingers curling as though expecting an electronic cigarette. The United States still oft depended on Russian infrastructure for outer orbit launches – and beneath the overcast sky, caressed by fading, Russian words spoken by hushed passerby, Mrs. Wolfe commanded his absolute attention as though she'd taken his frontal love betwixt those two, gloved digits.

“You've just launched the TIS Providence – there's been some controversy over the name,” he stuttered, stumbling over his ill-proportioned, fifty dollar suit. He hoped to God he'd switched on his recorder.

She laughed, the kind of laugh which bespoke culture and culture's subtle mocking of its lessers. “I'm an atheist, darling,” she cooed the answer which had placated all media outlets but himself. She turned to leave.

“Wait!” he shouted. The interjection startled the technological revolutionary in her tracks. “Then why risk the controversy, the confusion even, by naming it Providence?”

Veronica peered at the reporter over her shoulder, sable locks spilling like coffee over her shoulder.

“Providence,” she pronounced, “if it exists – think of all the men which have died and women wasted to its metaphysical plague – Before all of God's loyal servants, I'm going to grasp the Heavens. The First, the Only, Veronica Wolfe.”

She spun on her stiletto heel, flicking the locks of her hair across her neck. As she strutted away and snapped her fingers, the guards filled in the gaps around her. The reporter didn't notice that one guard moved to assault him until a fist collided with his solar plexus. Doubling over, he collapsed with the second, well timed swing. His recorder was plucked from his fingers while the world faded into black. And from the blackness rang her purring voice:

“I'm going to make a killing while doing so.”