Certainly I bought the act. I was intrigued. So intrigued I fucking fell in love.
There are vids of him staring at the stars with the same fond look I remember him giving me. My eyes heat again. I blink hard and pull up more vids.
Alone all the time, he runs a few games in the playroom (he likes group interactive sports).
Even though he’s alone ninety percent of the time, even I can see from the vids how photogenic he is, and how his looks and the way he moves engage the eye and the mind. He dominates every scene, even the most boring ones. He’s got major Personality Charisma Factor, which is what the PTB looks for when signing us up.
After awhile of viewing his life habits, however, I notice an inquisitiveness in him that is not present in the others, including Danielle. Danielle is smart, but it’s all book-learned. Drac figures things out, and he has a kind of curiosity that shows up at the oddest moments.
In one scene I watch him inspect a door frame, running his hands along the sloped angles. In another, he’s got his ear cocked to the wall of the main engine unit, listening to who knows what. I’ve never heard a sound from our engines. The purr in the bulkheads is from the air turbos. In another vid, I watch him beat my live-mystery game in less than an hour.
My eyes burning, my brain filled to busting with Drac Drac Drac recordings, I decide to invite Danielle to my quarters for dinner. Because I know she will decline, I make it an order.
She stalks into my room wearing layers of black silk draped across her breasts, and long pieces of silk tied at the hip, leaving her midriff and right thigh bare. One piece she has used as a scarf to hide her hair.
“Why are you making me do this?” she grumbles as she goes to sit at the temporary table in the center of the room. She faces my port window to the stars.
“I want to talk about your brother.”
“Please. I’ve been humiliated enough. Haven’t you?”
It hurts but I ignore it. “I know. I’m sorry. But I have to know a few things. You know him best. He’s your brother.”
“But I don’t want to talk about him,” she says quietly. “I’m ashamed. And I feel betrayed.”
“Were you really fooled by him?”
“Weren’t you?” She plays with a thick gold bracelet on her forearm. It is the color of candlelight.
“Danielle, he’s got great PCF, which might throw anyone off, but you had to notice certain things about him. His curiosity, for one.”
“Yes.” She shrugs, fingers the silverware. “And you had to notice it, too, after that long tour of the ship you gave him.”
I pour us each a glass of white wine. She takes a slow sip before continuing. Her upper lip glistens.
“I thought he outgrew it,” she begins. “He always experimented with things when we were kids. He made stuff like, you know, rocket ships and fireworks. Once he set the house on fire with some kind of new anti-gravity device he was trying to invent. It was just kid stuff, though, just a phase. He was so likeable, funny, you know, born to perform, and the rest of us just thought he was a natural-made Hero. Then he disappeared for awhile. He told me he was traveling the world. He wanted to see it all before he got older. I thought he was being a bum, you know, backpacking through the Himalayas or something.”
“But he was lying.”
“His whole life is a lie.”
“Would you have accepted him if he told you the truth?” I ask.
Danielle looks up, blue eyes motionless in her star-lit face. “Yes.”
“Is that the truth?”
She looks down. “I love him. I would have accepted it. Eventually.”
I love him, too. Loved.
But is that past tense true? I have such strong feelings for him, even now. If I didn’t feel so rejected…
I turn toward my viewport spacescape, sipping my wine. “We set ourselves up as superior.”
“It’s our job,” she says.
“Yes, it’s expected. We are, after all, Heroes. But sometimes I wonder who the real heroes are, with a small ‘h’.”
“People who brave the unknown, or do the impossible,” she replies.
“And we don’t really do that, do we?”
“No,” she agrees. “I’ve come to realize that over the years. But we still serve a purpose. We keep the space industry going. We fund it. We make it fun and entertaining so people invest.”
“That’s the way it’s always been, throughout history. You need flashy people or hype to sell things, even if those things are necessary, good for you, for the benefit of all Mankind. The real heroes never get the credit.”
Danielle leans her chin on her upturned palm. Her eyes seek the view behind me and barely succeed in holding back a wave of shimmering tears. “How Drac must hate us.”
*
I sit with the lights turned low in the mess hall. It’s late ship’s night. There should be tons of fucking going on, and happy people partying hard. The ship is way too quiet.
Despite the fact that Drac is not confined to his quarters, he hasn’t come out for two days, not even for food.
Much as I don’t know what to say to him, I feel obligated, as Captain, to schedule a visit.
I’m still mad. And hurt. More, I am afraid he really does hate us. Hate me.
The dinner with Danielle has given me some insight, but I’m still frustrated by my failure to see this coming. And my weakness for Drac. Facing Drac in my current mood is a disturbing prospect, and yet it seems he’s starving himself in there, or performing some such dramatic gesture since he can’t be starving. He has his Cokes and his frozen burritos.
I’m just about to the point of convincing myself to let him stay alone and call it a night, when Hunter bustles into the galley, her thick hair obscuring most of her face. The silver suit she wears clings so tightly from ankle to throat I wonder if her circulation is impaired.
“There you are,” she announces to the room.
“I’ve been here for quite awhile,” I point out. “What is it?”
“Sig’s been tapping into Earth a lot, following the off-market charts. We thought you might want to know what we’ve just found.”
“What?” Real dramatic tension is so different from pretend. Despite the pills Shariff gave me, my headache has returned.
“Drac’s just gone to number one.”
My mouth opens and freezes that way. I imagine I must look like a six-foot fish in pain.
“Not only that, it bumped John Luke to third.”
Regaining my voice, I ask, “Well, then, who’s second now?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“It’s upset the whole male listing. Apparently, someone got hold of the interrogation recordings and before the PTB could formally issue it, pirate copies got out. The civs love him. They love that he’s a scientist.” Her lips curl in a display of disgust. “They love that you stuck up for him.”
“Great.”
“I know. It’s terrible, isn’t it? The bastard has nice form in danse l’amour, a perfect PCF rating, and he’s smart to boot! He didn’t even need to save the ship to get votes.” She harrumphs dejectedly and hops upon a nearby table, lying back. “He’s ruining the competition. And now all the fans are dying to see you two make up.”
The galley has the second largest viewport, rectangular and running the length of the room. The largest is on the observation deck. The bridge port takes third place in size.
From the angle of our ship right now, you can see Sol becoming more distant every day. Right now our star is the size of an apricot, and all that golden light pulsing at us makes Hunter, sheathed in silver, glow.
I get up and slowly approach her. “Ruining the competition?” I say. “No. It just spices it up.”
She watches me hungrily. “Then let’s compete.” Already her hand has found the invisible seams of her suit. The pieces of it fall away from her like water, her voluptuous skin awash with stars.
“But I have to make up with Dra
c. You just said so yourself.”
“Fuck, I don’t understand all these stupid love stories the fans care about. Damn it! But I guess you’re right. It’d be seen as cheating if you guys don’t formally break up first before you fuck me.” She stands naked before me, totally unself-conscious. I feel nothing.
It’s Drac I want.
And I must go see him right now.
Chapter Thirteen
In my hand is a hot plate. Its contents include fettuccini alfredo and a frozen burrito I found in a large stash in the galley just in case he’s run out of the ones in his personal freezer. Two meals from our first two dates. They mean a lot to me still.
I head straight for Drac’s quarters.
Sigourney comes around a corner and raises both her dyed-white eyebrows. “My vote? Don’t take him back. You should let him rot,” she mutters, then moves past me in a scent of orchids.
I turn toward Drac’s door. First I knock instead of hitting the buzzer. I expect no answer and have the override ready just in case—because I intend to see him one way or another—but after a mere two seconds the door slides open.
Drac’s gaze moves from the plate in my hands to my face. “Well,” he says, stepping away from the door to let me in. “You’re the first. Not even my sister has visited me.”
He doesn’t look like hell, but he’s got a tired slump. His face is paler, gaunt. He wears an ugly pair of shorts, red, which are baggy and show off nothing of his finer qualities. I see an old bag of dried chips on his bunk. It’s empty.
“Been living on that?” I ask, nodding toward the bag.
He doesn’t answer. He stands, arms folded, facing his desk. Amid a disarray of pillows, game headbands, boots, backless jeans and what look like real computer notebooks, I find a clear spot on the table by the couch and set down the plate. Just as I do, I see my lucky gold Sacagawea coin sitting in the center of the mess. I pick it up. It feels so cold, yet so familiar. I flip it twice across my knuckles.
Drac watches me. “Say what you came to say.”
“Well,” I begin. “I would, but I don’t know what to say. I’ve never talked to a scientist before.”
“Idiot,” he mutters under his breath.
“I don’t deserve that.”
He turns to look at me. “No. You don’t.”
“What is your plan now? To just disappear from this mission? Lock yourself away for the next three months?”
He doesn’t answer.
I go to his couch, sweep aside strewn pillows and clothing, and take a seat.
“The stars look pretty tonight, don’t they?” I venture, gazing at his open viewport. He’s turned up the colors and the magnification to include a rainbow effect. They are beautiful in this rendition.
His head bows; his arms unfold. I can see his fists clench. “We sleep the beauty of the night away, the dark wonder, secrets kept secret.”
“What?”
He turns, grimacing. “Don’t you recognize it? It’s a poem you wrote.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I scrunch my right eye shut. “Wait. You have some of my poems memorized?”
“I thought you were writing about how too many people are not inquisitive, observant, aware. But you don’t even remember writing it, do you?” Beneath a tangle of dark hair, his dark eyes glare.
“I’ve got tomes of that star-crap.”
“I hate you,” he says suddenly. He jerks himself back, away from me. His arms dangle back and forth as if he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“Okay,” I reply. “Now that we’ve got that out in the open…”
“You don’t even try, do you? You don’t even care.”
I set the coin on the table. My hands rise, palms-up in question. “About what?”
“Everything. Anything.”
“I care about you.”
“Not sure about that,” he replies in a low tone.
“You’re wrong.”
His head bows. He swings his hands forward again, clasps them in front of him. “You don’t care why things are the way they are, what makes them work.” He takes a step toward me.
“You mean science?”
He nods.
“I failed physics in school. Got a D in eleventh grade biology. I managed to skip chemistry altogether. Why would I pursue something I can’t possibly understand?”
“Why pursue poetry?” he asks.
I stare at him. He’s not trying to be funny, but I don’t understand the question. “I just have words in my head banging to get out. That’s all.”
“Exactly.”
I sigh loudly. “I don’t get it.”
“You love life. You love the stars. But what do you really know about either one? Why write about what you don’t know?” He’s starting to get passionate about the subject. I can tell by the stance of his body. And his eyes are more alert.
I’m beginning to get perturbed. “I’m not an intellectual like you.”
“Says who?” He comes to stand in front of me.
“I’m no good at figuring things out. I saw you run that mystery game in less than an hour. I haven’t gotten through it yet.”
“I used to play it all the time in college. It took me a year to figure it out.”
“Oh.”
He waves my comment aside. “But that’s not the point. Why pursue me? You didn’t know me. In fact, I went out of my way to keep you from knowing me.”
“I’ll admit, it was shallow at first. You’re my type. And I thought it might help my ratings.”
“And then?”
“It did help my ratings.” Hearing how that sounds, I add. “And then I just kept wanting to be around you.”
“You thought you got to know me, but you found out I was a scientist and that was it. I’m last week’s conquest.”
“No—no. You’re wrong.” I lean forward, elbows on knees.
He continues to bombard me with questions. “Why does the PTB stress that knowledge is boring, that figuring out answers to real questions is low entertainment?”
“It doesn’t rate well, that’s a fact. And these missions cost money. They have to pay for themselves.”
“It’s because of media suggestion. Cultural programming. They don’t make scientific exploration exciting enough. They play it down. There’re fewer and fewer scientists because the media says it’s drudgery to be one. And so nothing new is being done in space.”
“Well, there you’re wrong. This mission is a first. We’re going to see if Jupiter has a core and what it’s really made of. It might even make us all rich if we find diamonds or something.”
He shakes his head, laughs. “Not diamonds. More like iron. Or gold. This mission isn’t for furthering knowledge. It’s a mining job. If the PTB get richer off it, maybe they won’t need Heroes anymore and your job will be obsolete.”
“It’s still worth our while,” I argue. “I have enough to retire anyway.” But maybe there is never enough. With inflation, and how crazy Earth has become. I pause. “Gold, you say?”
He rolls his eyes. He does it often. Even in bed. I should feel insulted but I like it because it makes me know he’s listening to me, maybe even taking me seriously. Even if I am an idiot.
“Well, how do you expect me to react?” I ask. “This is the biggest planet in the solar system. If it’s a gold mine.”
“At least you are starting to understand,” he grumbles. “Space travel can pay for itself. It doesn’t need—actors.”
I pat the space on the couch next to me. “Sit down, Drac.”
To my surprise, he does. I stiffen a little, still slightly intimidated by his smarts, but it gets easier with each passing minute. He’s acting pretty Hero-ic, so it’s getting easier to accept what he really is. A human being. A man with his own dreams even if they’re not the same as mine. And he smells good. Like spice.
“Back home, for many years I was working on long-distance spaceflight. For trips outside the solar system.”
“Really?�
� So hit me, it does sound intriguing.
“Yeah.” After awhile, he hangs his head. The fringe of his long hair shadows his chest. “But that’s not good enough. It seems nothing real is good enough for publicity unless it’s sanctioned by the PTB.”
“Well, that’s not entirely true. We got distracted when I first came in here and there is something I wanted to tell you. Something you should know.”
“What?” He sounds bored.
“It seems reality can be good enough as you put it. You’re number one on the popularity charts, and you didn’t land there until after it was discovered you were really a scientist.”
His head comes up. His mouth is a perfect, dark ‘O’. “Huh? Eh? Nah. Everyone believes scientists aren’t sexy.”
“Bullshit. Sexy is about trends. You’re trending. And perhaps you always should have.”
“Trending?” It’s as if there’s a light temporarily out in his eyes that’s just clicked back on.
“You even beat me out: I’m number two.”
The light in his eyes deepens. Dark depths sparkle. He leans toward me. “Really?”
“And you didn’t even have to save us all from dying to get there.”
“Really?” He grabs my shoulders, shakes me. “Really?”
“Yes.” I try to shrug out of his grip but he’s too strong. Instead, I just grunt.
“Really? I’m number one? Right now?”
“Yes. Yes! But it’s crucial we play this right.”
He turns toward me, knee bumping mine. “What do you mean play this right?”
“The fans are looking for some conclusion between you and me. Something—“
His eyelids lower. “I’m not going to play that game.”
“It should be easy for you,” I accuse. “You played me quite well this past week.”
Not Another Hero Page 9
