Vivian Rehberg:
Mardi Goodnight stood at the gilt mirror, studying her reflection and bracing herself for another evening on Repetition Island. She adjusted her tasteful jade silk gown, clipped back her gleaming waves of burnt copper hair, applied a slash of coral lipstick, and emptied her face of all emotion. Tonight, of all nights, she could show no visible trace of regret for taking up with Dr. Snow. She had considered herself a patriot at the time, but her year on this stealth, floating barge of an island, despite all the luxuries it offered (luxuries she would have never known without him), had brought her to her senses. Snow, whom she once thought a visionary, was slowly but surely going mad.
They were moored near an archipelago in the South Pacific. Snow had opened Repetition Island up for one of his occasional, very selective public relations junkets. Top journalists, business people, and heads of state had flown in from all over the world. ‘I am an open book,’ Dr Snow frequently quipped, ‘and every page is as white as…Snow!’
To demonstrate his goodwill, and for the purposes of the junket, Snow had deactivated the ship’s invisibility shield (while keeping all weapons on maximum alert). The existence of Repetition Island was no secret, and many of its technologies were legal under the Global Seas Trade Agreements, thanks to the clever manipulation of loopholes. Snow’s extraordinary philanthropy turned blind eyes to the rest.
Nobody but Snow’s inner circle knew the destructive power of that island.
Snow had recruited Mardi straight from the intelligence and engineering degrees she had aced, against everyone’s expectations. She became Snow’s protégé, his private helicopter pilot, and soon after his lover. But, for Snow, the pleasures of the flesh paled in comparison with the frisson that grew as his vision of world domination was about to be realized. There was still affection between them, but she knew that he was suspicious of her, and that he would brutally eliminate her the moment he sensed betrayal.
And Mardi Goodnight was quietly plotting a betrayal.
Once Mardi arrived on deck, she circulated between the guests with her customary charm. Her photographic memory served her well on these rare public occasions—each guest felt they were given special treatment when she greeted them by name. She approached Snow, who was having a lively, private conversation with the local Foreign Secretary. She kissed Snow’s tanned cheek and shook hands with the Foreign Secretary, who coolly appraised her. ‘You look beautiful, my dear. Now, be a pet, and entertain our guests,’ Snow said. She was dismissed. He was hiding things from her.
The sun was starting to set and the salt air felt against her luminous skin. The surface of the sea was smooth like glass. She noted there were a few guests she did not recognize. In an effort to make the best of things, she walked over to the bar for a flute of champagne, sipped the icy liquid, and smiled her winning smile at the impeccably dressed stranger nearest to her. ‘Mardi Goodnight,’ she offered, her green eyes twinkling, her hand extended. He took her hand in his. ‘Good evening Goodnight,’ he said. ‘The name’s Bond, James Bond.’
