Not Another Hero

by Wendy Rathbone

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  We are silently eating for a good solid two minutes.

  Finally, I can’t take it any longer. “What were you working on so diligently that you forgot the time? A novel or something?”

  “No. No, nothing like that. Just some of my hobbies.”

  “Tell me.”

  “They wouldn’t interest anyone.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s like a game with numbers,” he says.

  “A holo?”

  He shakes his head. “More like a puzzle. Numbers, no people.”

  “Oh. Like Sudoku or something?”

  “Or something.” His head bows. He shovels in more pasta. He’s a good eater, so there’s that. Along with the handsome stuff going on. He even chews in a sexy way, his jaw tightening, strong and firm with every crunch.

  His dark eyes lighten when he tries the garlic bread.

  “Fantastic,” he says, mouth full.

  I smile. “Good to know.” Garlic was never going to be a problem between us. That’s one win.

  “So what do you think of your first time in space?”

  His eyes sparkle. “It’s amazing! I am thrilled by it. How everything on this ship works, the scents, the sounds… I’m in awe.”

  That was the most excitement I’d ever seen from him. And it wasn’t about fucking; it was about the ship.

  I can actually relate to him on that level. I love the ship myself. “I can stand by a viewport for an hour and look out and not notice the time passing.”

  Drac’s smile is the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. He stops eating. He looks at me like he is hungry. Hungry for more of this. My words. It is a start.

  “I have a live feed of three of the ship’s ports up on my computer at all times.”

  “Really? At first it made me dizzy whenever I walked by a viewport,” I say.

  “Me, too!” His chest rises and falls.

  “Years ago. I got used to it in a few days.”

  “I’m still getting used to it.”

  I have the stupid shallow thought I wish it is me who makes him dizzy. Well, we have time.

  “You write about space a lot.”

  Surprised, I nod. He has not offered a comment on me or my habits until now. Frankly, I had the notion he forgot I existed this afternoon. He hadn’t really stood me up, he’d just forgotten the time, so he said.

  I pick up my wine glass and take some sips. It’s earthy and good.

  “I’ve read some of your work.”

  I almost spit out that last sip. I lean forward and set my glass down. “What?”

  “I sampled The Texture of Stars.”

  “Oh?” My most famous book. Just a lot of rambling, though.

  “You’re very good.”

  I blink. “Oh?”

  I recall a lot of critical derision and fun at my expense. The Porn Star Poet, some have called me. Talent has nothing to do with this book’s popularity. Anyone can get a hit book if they are already a celebrity, is the one review I remember. It isn’t false, but my heart beat more painfully in my chest a few days after that one. I remember smatterings of others: Silly descriptions that make no sense. These poems have no depth or story. Amateur at best. I get good reviews sometimes, too, but one tends to remember the bad, right?

  I stopped reading any of my reviews years ago on my books and my vids. But my publisher sells those books, and insists I turn over whatever new pages I come up with. It’s only the love poems I keep close to my heart. Secret.

  “I’m just a dabbler.”

  Drac’s eyebrows rise. “I think not. You have seven bestselling books to your credit. For poetry. That’s a difficult feat in itself. People don’t read poetry.”

  “But you do?”

  “I glanced at yours before boarding.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to know who was running this ship.”

  “Surely you’ve seen the recordings.”

  “No.” He looks away. “I haven’t.”

  “But what made you want to become an actor? Sign on for this job?”

  His eyelids half-close. “I wanted to experience going into space. All of this.”

  He glances about the mess as if it’s the most beautiful place he’s ever been with its white cabinets, white bulkheads, long square tables and simple black chairs fastened to the deck. This room has one piece of art on the wall, a sort of faux stained glass of red, yellow and brown leaves. The huge port is on the far wall taking up most of the space, and is turned to normal view, showing only blackness out there, thick and empty.

  I grab my wine again, take more than a sip. It’s weird he doesn’t comment on the vids or watch them. The soap opera we are part of. It’s the number one thing about these missions. The rest is for some boring, scientific survey group back on Earth to go over, to control, and that’s all on auto.

  But Drac is interested in that? Not the sex?

  Armstrong is right. We do have a scientist on board. Well, hobbyist at the very least.

  Drac has motives other than acting and I’ve never met anyone like him.

  But I do not accuse him of being a scientist, amateur or otherwise. It’s a bad word out here, and I’m not into name-calling. Also, it could ruin his career here, if he wants to keep at the acting/filming part, I mean.

  “That’s interesting.”

  He sighs. “Not very.”

  “Is that why you have been more shy? Your first time out here and you’re more thrilled about space bodies than the pretty ones on board?”

  He’s silent.

  “It’s normal to be nervous,” I assure him.

  “Danielle says the same.”

  “She’s right.”

  “Well, it’s not a crime. Your hobbies can be anything you want. But you realize they affect your ratings. Not that you have anything to worry about that yet. You’re pretty high already.”

  “I am?”

  “You haven’t checked?”

  He shakes his head.

  “You’re doing well.”

  “I don’t see why. I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “Have you looked in the mirror?” I ask.

  He starts to roll his eyes and stares down at his food.

  “People like a handsome mystery.”

  “I suppose they do.” His voice is low, almost defeated.

  “I know I do.”

  He starts to glance up, then stops. “I’m just on some checklist. But all right. Will the hook up be in your quarters, then?”

  I’m stunned at his words. “A checklist?”

  “Yes. That’s how this works, right?”

  He is right. That is how this works. So how can I tell him this date, this dinner and our conversation has made me interested in him? That doesn’t happen to me. Would he even believe me?

  “You’ll go through the entire crew on this voyage at least ten times each, right?” he asks.

  “I thought you didn’t watch my vids.” But my inner thoughts sound defensive. You said you never watch my vids. You don’t know anything about me.

  “I understand the formula.”

  How he talks. Like a real scientist. “This is an equation to you?” But somehow, him being different, it’s hot. It has me intrigued and defensive and ready to defend my honor all at once.

  “Everything is.”

  “Even sex?”

  “Of course. Body chemistry. Hormones. Capillaries expand and contract. Pleasure is manifested.”

  “Manifested,” I echo. “Interesting choice of word to describe an erotic condition. Or love.”

  “Love?” he asks.

  Nice segue into my own thoughts of late. I can’t stop myself from asking, “Have you ever been in love?”

  He looks at me with those intense eyes, still and calm. Finally, “No.”

  I clamp down hard on memories of John Luke. He was hard like that, too. Told me he’d never been in love and never intended to be. Like maybe
it’s my weakness to fall for that sort? A default of my own where I fall down a well of desire and longing to take that hard look and watch it melt under my talented hands, mouth and body?

  Yes, I have a type. And I am doomed because of it. To feel more for those guys. Women, too, but I’ve yet to meet one with that particular look. And I prefer the men. Luckily, ninety-nine percent of the people I meet do not have that look. So I’ve been safe from love. Safe and free and open to all opportunities.

  “Have you?” Drac asks.

  “What?” I had been distracted by my own thoughts.

  “Been in love?”

  I shrug and nod. “Once.”

  “I see.” Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think his eyes soften.

  When I don’t elaborate, he leans back. His plate of pasta is only half-finished, but he seems sated. He has not touched his wine. The candle has long since burned out from the guttering mess it was when we walked in.

  “So you never answered my other question,” Drac says.

  “The one about the checklist.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want you to think like that. That you are some name on a list only. You’re human. I’m human. It’s a friendly ship. There’s a script. But you are by no means required to do anything you don’t consent to.”

  “I came aboard. Isn’t that consent?” he asks.

  “You know what I mean. You don’t have to have a checklist. You don’t have to go off with anyone you don’t wish to, um, be with. That includes me.”

  He glances at me. Up and down as if seeing me for the first time. “I accepted your date.”

  A thrill courses through me. “Yes. You did. But I’m beginning to question your reasons.” This is getting uncomfortable. I don’t like being unwanted. If he has better places to be, I want to be let down now, not later.

  “I accepted your date,” he repeats.

  “I heard you the first time.”

  “That means I said yes. I consent.” He isn’t looking at me, but again at the boring white walls. His lips do not curve up, but I sense a smile in the muscles of his face. His cheeks dip in. His chin firm.

  “Well, that just enlivened the mood in here.”

  “What?”

  “All this talk of chemicals in the body and checklists and consent.” I squint at him. “So passionate.”

  He clears his throat. “I’m—I’m not used to this. I apologize.”

  Then why sign on for the job? I really should have opened the guy’s file when I pulled it up. Done some sleuthing.

  “You want to be here, don’t you?” I lean my elbows on the table.

  “I do.” His hair brushes his shoulder like a graceful shadow.

  “Well, it’s your first voyage. There’s always a transition phase. Longer for some than others.”

  “I’m mucking it up.”

  “No. You’re being honest. Which I appreciate. I don’t always get honesty. Actors, you know.” I force a grin.

  “Everybody’s acting all the time to get what they want, aren’t they? Here, back on Earth. In life.”

  “I suppose if you put it that way—“

  “But you’re frustrated. You expected more—passion.” He looks up, muscles tight about the brow and his upper cheeks.

  “I don’t know what I expected.”

  I do some quick analysis of my own behavior. I’ve been shallow. I’ve been forward. I’ve been enamored, turned on because he’s my type, but now I’m forced to look at what I might really want. Is Drac only a hook up to me? Am I fooling myself that I want him only in a physical way? Because I usually don’t date. I don’t wine and dine. I’m a total fiend. I have a boner for everyone. And I like to preen about the fact that they all want me back.

  “Well, think about it. I’m asking you now,” Drac says.

  I lick my lips. My hands are folded tight in my lap. I don’t have a boner right now. Which is warpy. Weird. “I like talking to you.”

  “Why?”

  I laugh. “You ask hard questions. And that’s one of them. I like it. It gets a lot the same up here, blank and boring.”

  “Pretty people, actors, scripts, poetry, ratings. Not that boring, I think. Exciting.”

  “Are you excited by that? You told me you haven’t even checked your rating.”

  “I would be stupid if I said I wasn’t flattered.” He half-smiles and there’s a curve of a dimple in his cheek.

  “Yeah. It’s a head-trip, all right. You get famous and some can’t handle it. But you’ll do fine.”

  He nods. “Maybe. So… you like talking to me? Really?”

  “I wouldn’t have said if I didn’t mean it.”

  “Well, would you like to talk some more, then?”

  My grin widens. “You asking me for a second date?”

  His face darkens. There is a blush washing over him. It’s amazing. Becoming. I love it.

  “I guess I am,” he answers.

  “I accept.”

  “Tomorrow night? My quarters?”

  “I’ll be there.” But now I’m even more enamored. Intrigued. Taken. What the fuck am I going to do for twenty-four hours waiting to see him again? Waiting to—talk. Just talk.

  I haven’t done this sort of thing since I was a kid.

  It feels good.

  Chapter Six

  I roam the white corridors pretending to do a job. To be the captain. Even though I am the captain of Lacrosse, a title I am damned proud of, it’s a label only. A role. I’m not really in charge of anything. That all goes to the PTB back on Earth.

  But I get the badge, so to speak. Or the braid. There are no uniforms here in space, but the icon on my name all over the nets—my brand—shows it all. Pretty. Golden. Ornate.

  I am not nervous about my second date with Drac. But I am killing time because it’s all I can think of. All I want. I wish I could go to him now, but even though he hasn’t said it in words, his behavior has made it pretty clear that he wants this strictly timed appointment. He wants to set that structure. Maybe he likes rules. Even though he stood me up on our first date—well, almost stood me up—he wants a plan.

  So, okay then. It’s moony-petunias on a ship like this within a script that’s more porn than reality, but I’m agreeable. We’ll date.

  I guess it feels like I’m a kid again. I have all this built-up anticipation. I didn’t sleep soundly during ship’s night. I tossed and turned a lot. I kept seeing Drac’s half-smile, and the way his eyes would go from hard to soft. They way he questioned me. The oddness of it all. And of course I could not forget how he finally—finally!—gave me the once-over, gaze moving down my body, then up at the end of our dinner conversation.

  I keep telling myself he likes me. So stupid. What’s not to like? More assumptions on my part, shallow dude that I am. I’m cute. So what? It’s obvious it takes more than cute to impress him. He came to life when he talked about my poetry. My moronic poetry! Really? But my heart rate ramps up just remembering the praise, like my poetry is more important than my looks. Hard to believe. I may have books published of that stuff, but I still compartmentalize that from my life as if it’s not real. It’s an indulgence. Like some people knit. It’s no biggie. Not a serious thing, anyway, just some fun. But it is creating. It is about the heart, but still separate from what’s real, you know?

  And my hidden notebooks. Those are really separate, in the far corner of my world… fantasyland meanderings. Just me muttering in my sleep. They are mine, but they are hidden as if behind a final layer of clothing I’ll never take off in front of the cameras.

  I go to the ship’s gym and work out for a while with Armstrong. No sex. He doesn’t ask. Seems the rumor mill has replaced the “scientist on board” whisperings with “the captain’s dating??!”

  I laugh it off.

  I take a long sonic bath. The crystal blue energy fizzes about me and I relax and nap.

  I skip lunch, something I never do. I tell myself it’s not nerves. No way. I
’m simply not hungry.

  I play a holo. Not a sexy one this time. Just one where I’m catching and freezing aliens for further study. They all have different ways of being elusive and it’s a puzzle to figure out. The scarlet ones with three heads are the worst.

  I think more about researching Drac’s file. But I hate research. Reading, if it’s fiction, okay. But not real work. And besides, it’s like peeping. Creepy, especially since Drac is going to be right in front of me and I can, in theory, ask him anything I want to know.

  Finally the time arrives when I can start our second date. I practically run to his door and buzz my arrival.

  He opens it. He looks—a little frazzled maybe. His hair is tangled but still with that bright, dark shine. He’s wearing a half top, netted, in dark purple. And those same “V” leather pants.

  I totally did my hair and eyes. You know, that tint of makeup that highlights but doesn’t look like make up? I picked my outfit carefully to show off my attributes, tight, torn old-Earth jeans, white shirt and tie, gold vest. I am showing less skin, but the shirt accents my broad shoulders and lean waist and hips. I tucked it in and left the tie casual and loose, the top shirt button undone. I will admit, my hair is perfect. I used Gloss-and-Shine on it. The kind that doesn’t leave it hard, but still styles it. It’s loose. My bangs are pushed back except for one artful curl. The Gloss-and-Shine sponsors will be happy.

  Drac glances about, as if he has someone else in the room he’s hiding, but he doesn’t. It’s nerves. I laugh it off.

  “Is it time?” he asks.

  “You don’t keep track of time very well, do you?”

  “I get—engrossed.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I see that.”

  He ushers me inside. His room smells of conditioned air and coffee. Not bad. My stomach growls from not eating lunch.

  Drac gestures for me to sit on a black couch facing a long, glass coffee table. There are two plates stacked there, and a couple of pink plastic glasses.

  He goes to his wall fridge and opens the door, taking out two small paper wrapped packages and a bottle of Coke.

  “I’ve got frozen burritos and Coke,” he says, turning, graceful, unassuming. “If that’s not great, I can go to the galley and find something better.”

  My mouth waters. “Are you kidding? I love it. I haven’t had a frozen burrito in so long. They’re incredible. And Coke. It’s so hard to find these days. The ship’s stores don’t have any in stock. Where’d you get that?”