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around before gesturing for her to come closer.
    “The commander’s been looking for you,” she said in a low voice.
    After the pulse spike waned, Monica crooked a brow at her. “Of course he’s looking for me. I’m three hours late.”
    Jasmine bit her lip.
    “Hello?” Monica prodded when she failed to say anything more. “What is it you’re not telling me?”
    “I’m not sure,” came the frustrated reply. “I’m just getting a weird vibe lately.”
    “Vibe? What, is my aura shaking or something?”
    Jasmine frowned. “Monica, I’m serious. Haven’t you noticed all the guards in the halls?”
    “Yeah. What about them?”
    “Doesn’t it seem like they’re kind of…guarding you ?”
    Monica stared, her mind racing. Shit, she was probably right. No doubt the commander had sicced the guards on her out of concern that the pheromone incident might repeat itself. The jerk. She’d told him it wouldn’t happen again, now that she knew to steer clear of the demonstrations.
    “Don’t worry,” she said with authority. “I’ll take care of it.”
    23
    Robin L. Rotham
    She strode down the hall, prickling with annoyance. It was bad enough he’d had her transferred without asking permission, and that he had Lieutenant Shauss skulking around keeping an eye on her. But to have posted a whole slew of guards to make sure she didn’t molest some unsuspecting—
    My God , does he think I ’ m going to attack him ?
    Cheeks burning, Monica slammed the door behind her and then immediately
    wished she hadn’t. Fucking headache. She yanked her lab coat off a hook on the wall and pulled it on, then sank into the cheap imitation leather executive chair, holding her breath as it creaked under her weight. An impatient nudge of the mouse activated her computer, and she sucked down more coffee—hazelnut this morning, her favorite—and brooded while waiting for her e-mail folder to pop up.
    Here she was, having erotic dreams about the commander, and he had her under guard! Why did he have to be the one who made her pulse spike, damn it?
    Finding nothing in her inbox—surprise, surprise—she pulled a file from the mess on her credenza and tried to turn her attention to work. Spreading the folder open on her desk, she flipped past the first few pages until she came to the list of recruits for the afternoon orientation. There were seventy-two names in all, and though right now they were little more than ink on paper, a meaningless collection of statistics, soon many of these women would become her patients, her charges and perhaps even her friends.
    Tomorrow the first of their physical evaluations would commence, putting her one step closer to the launch pad.
    A rebel yell nearly burst from her at the thought.
    If someone had told her five years ago that one day she’d travel God knew how many light-years to help repopulate a planet decimated by genocidal enemies, she’d have sworn they were on crack. Or looked for the hidden camera. Everyone knew she was a total space nut and she wouldn’t have put it past some of her coworkers to humiliate her on national television.
    For as long as she could remember, Monica had dreamed of being an astronaut, but with a list of physical defects as long as her arm, she’d never stood a snowball’s chance of making it into the space program. So she’d settled instead for studying astronomy, devouring science fiction novels and following every Star Trek and Star Wars incarnation with fanatical devotion. Her obsession with space hadn’t made her many friends, but it had sustained her through her grandparents’ defection and the resulting shitty eternity in Denver’s foster care system, and then through the lonely and demanding years in medical school.
    The stunning landing of the Garathani ship, broadcast worldwide on every channel, had alternately chilled her with distrust—they were shaking hands with politicians, for God’s sake!—and warmed her with an unreasonable hope for