Clementine stormed out of her house, with Daisy at her side. Glaring up at the pale blue ceiling of the cart, she walked at full speed to the tunnel station, putting as much distance as possible between her and those unreasonable people who claimed to be her parents.

"One stupid pane of glass... I finally have something good going... No way am I moving..."

She weaved between other commuters, glad no one from the house had caught up with her. She'd heard enough of what they had to say.

Their living room window had yet to be fixed. Making glass was apparently rather difficult when there was no sand around, and the only tarps or big slats of plywood were being held by the police in preparation for Lota, so their living room was now without any barrier to the outside world. Since it never rained, and there were no bugs on the cart, this ordinarily wouldn't have been a problem, but with someone evidently having decided to target them, her parents and Mr. Crayden were constantly on edge, nervous that someone was going to climb through the window and... do whatever people who climbed through windows did.

That morning, however, they'd been contacted by the President's new Chief of Staff, saying they had been invited to move to a house in sector four, which was very well protected because that was where Congress and most of the federal government employees had been located. Without even talking to Clementine about it, her parents had accepted, making plans to move that weekend.

Clementine wasn't stupid -- as she'd reminded her parents. She knew they'd be safer in a different house. But did they have to move so far away? The orchestra was finally coming together. They had at least one of just about every instrument now -- even some triangles and a tuba. She'd have to start from scratch if they went to a different sector.

The path was so familiar to her now that she barely looked up. Only when the crowd began to thicken and sounds of protest reached her ears did she start to slow down, as these were the telltale signs that she was nearing the tunnel station.

The day after the VP had been kidnapped, a group of activists had begun daily marches in the town square, advocating for a new form of global government. Many carried pro-Relican signs, but based on the interviews Clementine had seen on the news, not all of them supported the alien race. Unlike the militant groups like Humans Right -- who hadn't been seen in public since they claimed responsibility for the kidnapping -- the people participating in these early morning demonstrations weren't as organized, without a single, unifying group name, but they were more diverse. Moms marched with babies strapped to their chests, several of the protesters looked to be college-age, and a large swath wore the same grungy, colorful wardrobe as Mr. Crayden.

Those passing by who supported the rally but were unable to join lifted their fingers in a peace sign. Clementine started to do the same, as she usually did, but the warnings of her parents that morning to keep quiet and stay unnoticed rang in her ear.

What if someone from Humans Right recognized her as Tierney's sister and decided to get more personal than a mere pipe through their window? Or what if the pro-Relican faction decided to use Clementine as the face of their movement, causing even more negative attention to be cast their way?

Whatever, Clementine thought, raising her hand high. Shouts of jubilant thanks sounded from nearby protesters, and a couple pedestrians next to her joined in the salute.

"Break as many windows as you want, assholes," she mumbled, "I'm not going anywhere."

As she made her way down the ramp to the transport doors, someone bumped her from behind. Clementine's heart rate skyrocketed as she spun around, but it was only a woman reading her phone, who didn't even look up as she muttered her apology.

Clementine groaned inwardly. Her parents had been so freaked out that morning, giving her all of these doomsday scenarios of murderous gangs crawling through their still unrepaired window and slitting their throats while they sleep.

Well, maybe it hadn't been that gruesome. But practically.

Taking her place in a line that looked like it was moving quickly, a flash of leather caught her eye. In the moment it took to slowly turn her head, a hundred different thoughts raced through her mind. Was it the same mugger who had tried to take Daisy? She hadn't had any more problems since that day with Zack, but she'd never been in the tunnels alone before. She was always with Mr. Crayden, whose 6'-6" and wide shoulders made him look imposing, even if he wouldn't swat a wasp if it landed on his nose (she'd seen it happen). What if the man had been watching her and waiting for the right moment to strike? What if he was still pissed about being knocked out, and would do more than take her cello?

Though the leather jacket ended up belonging to a different man who was simply switching lines, Clementine hugged Daisy close, scanning the crowd for potential ne'er-do-wells and preparing to scream for help at a moment's notice. Only when the transport doors closed behind her, leaving her alone in the pod, did she finally relax.

She was at least an hour early for rehearsal, so it wasn't surprising that no one was in the auditorium. What she hadn't counted on was the pitch black. She'd never been first before, and hadn't given the lights even a first thought, let alone a second.

The idea of walking into the thick darkness made her palms start to sweat, but she wasn't about to go back and wait in the station for another musician. Maybe she'd luck out and the lights would be motion sensitive...

Stepping out of the transport, she kept her hand on the cool marble wall. A faint breeze told her that the doors to the silent pod had closed, but the lights had yet to come on. Maybe they were voice activated?

"Computer, lights."

She kept her voice soft, but the words echoed in the vast -- and still dark -- space.

"Come on," she groaned.

She followed the wall for another several feet, running her hand up and down in search of a light switch. Still finding nothing, she ventured away from the perimeter, waving her arms. A moment later, the hall brightened, the lights that were integrated into the walls and ceiling casting a warm yellow glow.

"Finally," she muttered. She went onto the stage, planning on practicing until the rest showed up, but right before taking her seat, she paused, gazing around the empty chairs.

Tears pricked her eyes at the thought of leaving her group. She'd grown to view most of the musicians as friends and colleagues rather than strangers forced together by totally insane circumstances. They were all here because of her. They respected her. What if there was already an orchestra in sector four? What if they had enough cellos and didn't accept her? Sure, she'd still be able to play... in her room... alone.

A muffled clanging sound drew Clementine out of her self-pity spiral. She turned back to look at the entrances, thinking that one of the other musicians had come early too. But the auditorium was empty. And besides, the noise had come from backstage.

Her next thought was to grab Daisy and run. But what if it was that thief, waiting until the rest of her group arrived to steal all of their instruments?

A surge of responsibility for the safety of her orchestra overtook her, and before she could think better of it, she was slipping her sandals off and lifting one of the chairs, holding it in front of her like a lion tamer as she crept upstage. Taking care to glance often at the other backstage opening at the opposite end, she peered behind the wall.

Scanning the wide space, she didn't see anything that she hadn't seen before. On the first day of rehearsal, she and the others had poked around, but there was a disappointing lack of interesting alien artifacts. Whoever had used this space before had taken most of their belongings with them, leaving only several rows of bare shelving units, a few tattered costumes -- with five sleeves -- draped across a table, and a bunch of empty metal containers.

She was about to chalk it up to paranoia when she heard it again -- louder, and closer. It was coming from the back wall. Unlike the main auditorium, the walls backstage were lined with metal tiles, each about three-feet square. Was it pipes, or something else to do with the inner workings of the cart?

She took a few more steps and noticed that one of the tiles wasn't quite in place. It was hanging slightly ajar, revealing about an inch of darkness on the other side. A trap door?

Another sound emanated from within the wall.

Yes, it was definitely coming from that crawl space. And yes, there was definitely someone shuffling around in there. Towards her.

Towards her orchestra.

Should she run for help? Should she try to fight? She'd taken a couple months of self-defense with Tierney, but had to stop when it conflicted with her chamber ensemble. Still, she was confident that she could hold her own if someone came at her.

Unless they had a gun. And there was more than one person.

The noise came closer. Any moment the person would emerge from the crawl space and see her.

Gripping the chair, Clementine bolted towards the panel. She was about to slam it shut when a head of caramel-colored hair and a bronze neck appeared.

"Inlan?"

Inlan froze, then silently cursed to himself. Slowly lifting his head, his gaze traveled from Clementine's bare feet, up the dark red leggings that clung to her long, slim legs, past the black long-sleeve shirt that hung loosely around her breasts, and finally to her very confused freckled face.

First day on the job and I've already blown my cover.

"Clementine!" he greeted, slapping on a grin. "Why is that seat in your hand?"

With a soft laugh, she lifted it and said, "Defending myself, obviously." After a couple mock blows to his head, she put it on the floor directly in front of him and sat down, leaving him no room to slide out. A smile that made her round eyes brighten curled her lips as she asked "Whatchya doin'?" in a way that implied she already knew he was up to something.

Though it felt like a dozen homa were fluttering and bumping around in his gut, Inlan folded his arms and rested his head on them. "Oh, boring Relican Squad stuff. Fixing lights, crawling through dusty..." He searched for the English word, gesturing to the tunnel he was in. "Holes?"

She scrunched up her face and rocked her hand back and forth. "Sort of. I'd probably say tunnel or crawl space. Tube might work too." Her eyes flickered to his silent sleeve. "Your English is so much better already. Are all Relicans as adept at new languages?"

"It is easier for me because I enjoy it. Words are like music notes -- some work better together than others."

"Well that's good, because your delivery is much better than your translator. You'd think a race as advanced as yours could give that thing some emotion."

"Yes, the old ball and chain is not perfect." Her forehead crinkled with confusion, and he sighed. "That is not the right usage?"

"You meant to say that?" she asked with a laugh. "No. 'Ball and chain' is usually what a man calls his wife -- if he wants a slap in the face, anyway."

Inlan pushed himself up and made a show of trying to emerge from the crawl space. "Got it. Ball and chain is off the list." When she made no effort to get out of the way, he said, "This is where I become upright again."

Her wry smile returned, and she crossed her legs. "Not until you tell me why you were sneaking around in the tunnels." Suddenly her mouth fell open, and her eyes widened in surprise. "Are you searching for the Vice President?"

"No," he said quickly, his casual facade cracking. Was he that obvious? He eyed the space between them. Could he force his way past?

"I was fixing lights," he said, pushing himself forward. He grabbed hold of the top of the open panel with the intention of slipping out beside her, but soon realized he wouldn't be able to do that without bumping into her in what would likely be a very intimate -- and ungraceful -- way.

Sliding back into place, he propped himself up on his elbows and forced himself to meet her stare. Her pink lips were pursed and her eyes narrow as she studied him, but the expression seemed exaggerated, as if she was still going for a laugh.

"You know I can freeze you solid with the push of a button, right?"

He couldn't help but laugh at her arched eyebrow, thinking that Lutari would have reacted to his empty threat in a similar manner.

"The lights were off when I arrived," she said, more to herself than him. Then a glimmer of mischief bloomed in her eyes and she leaned forward, peering into the dark tunnel behind him. "Maybe if you show me where the circuit breaker is, I'll believe you."

Her nearness brought with it a tart, citrus scent. Was that a natural fragrance? Tierney hadn't smelled nearly as intoxicating...

Clementine stilled, then leaned back, suddenly wary. Had she decided he was lying after all? Had she somehow inferred that he was on an unsanctioned mission that directly countered her government's wishes?

A tinge of red appeared in her cheeks as she stood up and pulled the chair out of the way. "Never mind," she said, all humor lost. "Rehearsal's starting soon."

"I know," he said with a smile, trying to draw it back out again. "That is why I am here."

She'd picked up the chair and started walking away, but paused at his words. "You mean..." She looked over her shoulder but didn't turn around fully, keeping her back to him. "You're joining the orchestra?"

She didn't seem as thrilled about the idea as he had expected. If she hadn't practically begged him to join, he would have thought she sounded almost... sad.

Climbing out of the tunnel and closing the panel behind him, he followed her to the main stage. "I received allowance. I will come to the rehearsals I need to." He winced at his English, stilted even to his own ears. It was definitely better than it had been, but he was trying to reply too quickly, and his syntax was suffering because of it.

Clementine was already by her seat, removing her cello from its case. "Well that sucks."

Across the stage, standing by the nubla, Inlan wasn't entirely certain he'd heard her right, or that he understood her words even if he did hear correctly. Her tone, however, was unmistakably miserable.

She glanced over at him and let out a long sigh. "Sorry. I didn't mean... It's not about you." She started tuning her cello, the notes sounding exotic to his ears. Her face was tight with concentration, but she was gazing at the floor, her thoughts beyond the instrument in her hands.

Inlan turned the tablet on that he had brought down with him and accessed the timpani part for the Dvorak symphony. He was debating whether to inquire further into Clementine's state of mind or simply begin practicing, when her instrument fell silent.

"Oh, Daisy," she muttered. "What are we going to do about this?"

Although she clearly hadn't been speaking to him, her words carried in the empty space, and he couldn't help but ask, "Your instrument is named Daisy?"

She gave him a surprisingly scrutinous stare before sighing again and turning back to her cello.

"This used to be my grandma's. Her mom played it in the Vienna Philharmonic, and Grandma Daisy," she paused for emphasis, "played it with the BSO, the Boston Symphony Orchestra, for thirty-three years."

The lights reflected on her lips as she smiled gently. "I can't remember ever seeing my grandma without it. She'd bring it when she came to visit and play it for me. Whenever my parents told me Daisy was coming over, I thought they meant this. I'm pretty sure it was my first word, but Dad insists I was saying 'Daddy,' not 'Daisy.'"

She rested her head against the instrument. "Today's my last day with the orchestra."

Her words struck him hard, leaving a surprising emptiness in his chest.

"Why?" he asked. Was it something he had done?

Instead of answering, she began to play.

He'd listened to the New World Symphony enough times since Clementine first mentioned it to recognize the passage from the beginning of the second movement, the slow largo. Only the strings were playing at that point, a lyrical yet melancholy melody that made him think of watching the stars on the Gorda Cliffs as a child.

She played the music as written: gently at first, and he could almost hear the violin melody accompanying her. Then her steady arm skated back and forth with heightened intensity, the long notes shortening and cascading one after another into a swell of achingly beautiful harmony, leaving him breathless.

Abruptly she dropped her arm and closed her eyes. Inlan said nothing, unable to do anything but stare at her. When he was young, he'd often used music to try and communicate his feelings to others. Few understood, and he'd been teased constantly for wanting to spend time with instruments rather than people. Now, seeing Clementine's chest heaving, her head thrown back, revealing her smooth, pale neck, he knew she shared his deep connection to music. It was more than simply entertainment. It was a language, a part of who they were.

Her lips tightened into a smirk, but when she opened her eyes, there was no humor in them. "Some idiot smashed a pipe through our window with a less than amicable message attached to it. Since we can't get it fixed, and my parents are convinced more trouble will come if undesirables know where we live, we're moving to a different sector."

"Why do these... undesirables threaten your family?"

She ran her bow across the strings for a moment before saying, "They're mad at Tierney, so they're mad at us."

"A group of the species we save sometimes questions our... motives. Their... doubt does not often..." He sighed in frustration and turned his translator on. "Their animosity rarely escalates to the point of violence."

Her smile returned, genuine this time, making the homa in his stomach become skittish once more.

"Did I say something humorous?" he asked.

"Usually you're really laid back, making jokes. But every now and then you put on your Relican Squad voice and get all serious."

A chill touched his cheeks as he realized he had unconsciously assumed his formal air. Giving a playful shrug, he said, "Gotta get the practice in if I want to become commander some day."

Desperate to change the subject, he asked, "Why can't you get the window fixed?"

The sound of voices startled them both, and they looked up to see a small group of musicians stepping out of the transport.

"Hey guys!" said Clementine, standing and moving across the stage towards Inlan. Her perfume once again enveloped him, and he couldn't help but inhale deeply, breathing her in. "Look who finally decided to join us!"

While they yelled out celebratory cheers, Clementine turned her back to them and whispered, "Don't say anything about me leaving. I want to tell them myself."

"Only if you don't mention that crawl space," he whispered back. "You guys aren't supposed to know about those access tunnels, so you can't accidentally turn the cart off."

She gave him another of those exaggeratedly suspicious looks, but nodded, then spun around to chat with the new arrivals.