Petra had one simple rule for herself. One her mother had taught her from moment she opened her mouth to burble and coo:

Hallie Giani had been a titan of industry as the head of the world’s second largest music production and distribution agency. The business was literally in her blood, inherited from Petra’s grandfather when her mother was just twenty-two.

And Petra was a mistake — one of just a few that her mother had ever made. 

But Hallie didn’t shy away from mistakes. Couldn’t, when someone was always watching.

So she dominated them instead. She ground them to dust beneath her designer stiletto and made them beg. 

Could that be called a parenting-style?

From an early age Petra knew her place wasn’t as a daughter, but as a jewel to adorn her mother’s hard-won crown. A tool. And if she worked hard and did what she was told she could rule by her mother’s side. But that was an if, not a when, and in the meantime to earn her keep she had to win. 

That meant Little Petra Giani had the best grades. The most elite friends. An early recording contract and a heavenly voice polished and warped and molded to fit the tastes of the masses. Her mother had insisted on producing her debut album herself, working Petra long into school nights with a critical eye and no tolerance for anything except perfection.

Petra did what she was told and she did it well. She did not fuss, she did not rebel, and she did not care for theatrics. She was the perfect machine, and she had been just a few months from inheriting that coveted spot beside her harshest critic.

And then Hallie Giani had died.

It had been sudden and unglamorous. Two gunshot wounds to the back of the head in a dirty hotel hallway. Her mother would have hated it.

It was unsuitable for a Giani. 

But Petra hadn’t been sad. She’s been angry. Denied her ultimate victory once and for all.

Still, even after 10 years in her ornamented grave, her mother’s lesson stuck with her. Petra needed to win — not just barely but crushingly.

So when the alien Queen thrashed, Petra bit. 

It wouldn’t be enough to leave with a base concession. Vanity? That could be bought on Earth. What Petra wanted was inarguable victory. And just when Petra feared she’d accomplished all there was, when she’d lapsed into the agonizing boredom of being on top, she’d been handed this otherworldly opportunity to show she was the best.

And she was starving for it.

They sat patiently in the study, awaiting word from Earth to allow breach by the Queen Commander and any accompanying conditions. Petra’s government-issued satellite phone was heavy in her velour tracksuit pocket. She didn’t bother to wear her pleasant affect, or remedy her unnatural stillness. Instead, she let it do exactly what she wanted it to: unsettle the enemy and strengthen her bargaining position.

With a pointed little “buzz” she was given approval, similar messages in all likelihood sent to her absent military guard. The conditions were fair and limited: no other members could join them, and they were to be accompanied and met by international guards at the port. It would be easy enough, given the more advanced transport on the craft.

The Queen Commander watched her with a practiced militaristic patience, constantly evaluating. Her battle hardened training had made her physically strong, Petra could tell that by the power of the hands that had bruised her wrists.

It remained to be seen if she would suffice in a war of wills.

“That’s our signal,” Petra said, closing the secure messaging app and pocketing the phone. “You’ll be coming alone.”

The Queen Commander rose, all six and a half feet of her. Her armor creaked. “As is to be expected. I’ll lead the way, we will need to use the teleporter.”