"True," Ciari agreed, "to a point. But generally speaking, if two bods in suits go for each other, it's for keeps. You have to know how to handle yourself. You have to have an edge."
"Which is?"
"Go for the weak point."
"The air, you mean." She stifled a yawn. "Yank the hose?"
Ciari snorted. "That's a novice answer, Shea, I expect better from you. Think this through, if you can." Her eyes snapped angrily open. "You disconnect the suit from the airpack, then what happens?" She shrugged. "If the link isn't restored, the bod's dead."
"Time, Shea, that takes time. There could be five minutes of breathable ambient atmosphere inside the suit proper. Anything could happen. If you're in a scrap, you want to end things fast—how?"
"Helmet?"
"Bravo! The body's a magnificent machine; it can sacrifice any extremity to survive, save one. Indeed, suits are designed to do precisely that. If the arm is holed, it'll seal at the shoulder; you'll lose that arm but live to tell the tale. The head, however, is the sole exception. Helmets have to be designed to be locked easily into place by people in bulky pressure gloves; there's no time for delicate fastenings when you're in the middle of an explosive decompression, and you can't depend on magnaseals that might jam open or closed."
"But that means killing?"
"Simplest way there is of resolving a dispute."
"You saying it always comes to that?" She was wide awake now.
"More often than not."
She pulled herself up the railing to the "Home" Carousel access hatch and thumbed it open. "Maybe that lights your torch, Ciari... "
"Don't judge what you don't understand, Lieutenant. Ours is the most merciless of environments, we rarely have the luxury of being gentle. And the cost of being wrong, of making a mistake, is usually your life."
"So everyone keeps telling me."
"There's a reason, Nicole."
"I don't think I want any more sessions, Marshal."
"With respect, Lieutenant, you don't have the option of refusing. A demain."
Hana Murai was in the wardroom, masked from sight, as Nicole clambered awkwardly down the ladder from the core, giving full vent to her fury. "Goddamned, arrogant, pig-fucking, buggering, motherless bastard!" she cried, her voice building to a roar that boomed through the huge torus.
"I beg your pardon?" Hana asked, poking her head into view.
"Oh, shit, Hana, I'm sorry," Nicole said, instantly ashamed of her outburst. "I didn't realize anyone was here."
"Obviously. I'm making a snack. Want?"
"What'cha got?"
"Nova salmon and cream cheese."
"Yum—Hana, this stuffs real!"
"The last of my personal stash," she said with a heartfelt sigh.
"Oh, I couldn't, you should..."
"I am, and if I want to share, that's my privilege."
"You are a true friend."
Hana ordered a teapak for Nicole from the meal console; as usual, it tasted stale. But the fish was heavenly. She ate slowly, savoring the taste for as long as she could. Now she was beginning to understand why the restaurants, and even basic Da Vinci Base catering, had so high a rep; after months of living on pastes and dehydrated, reconstituted, semi-synthetic "food," astronauts demanded—and deserved—the best of the real thing when they returned home.
"Rough session with the Marshal, Nicole?"
"Scumbelly slime."
"That good?"
"He's teaching me to kill people, Hana."
"And maybe in the process, avoid getting killed yourself?"
"You defending him?!"
"Just remembering what General Canfield told us at dinner, when she announced the mission. We're virgins, Nicole, Novice Astronauts; the lady might know what she was talking about. And the man, what he's doing."
Nicole sighed, wishing her cup would cool enough to safely drink. "It wasn't what I bargained for."
"Really? Then why'd you join the Air Force?"
"I wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted starships. Blue-suits have the inside track. If I'd flunked out of astronaut training, I suppose... I'd've become a test pilot. But Ciari's so goddamned cold-blooded, it's as if he's trying to remake me in his image. And I don't like it!"
"You tell him?"
"Kind of. Not that it made any difference. He means to keep at it, regardless of how I feel."
"Appeal to Cat. She's Mission Commander, she could stop him."
Nicole thought long and hard, then shook her head.
"Got a reason?" Hana asked. "You figure she'd side with him?"
"Hell, no! Quite the opposite, in fact. I don't think she likes these training sessions at all. I say the word, they're history. But I don't want to involve her." The flatness of her tone made her lack of trust obvious.
"We've barely begun this trip, Nicole," Hana said seriously. "This is not a healthy attitude."
"I'll work it out." Nicole blinked, as if noticing something for the first time. "Why're you wearing that turban?" Hana had a vibrant, peacock blue silk scarf wrapped tightly around the crown of her head. To Nicole's surprise, the young Japanese looked agitated. Then, with a wry, self-mocking chuckle, Hana unclipped the scarf and swept it away. Nicole couldn't help a gasp of astonishment.
Most of Hana's shoulder-length, raven's wing hair was gone; only a four centimeter wide strip of glossy black running from forehead to the base of her skull remained; the rest of her scalp had been shaved. The "Mohawk" had only been slightly trimmed and as Hana ran her hand back across her head, its natural wave reasserted itself, so that her hair stood straight up for a few centimeters before sweeping elegantly to one side. It had been left longer at the back, and a modest tail fell to her shoulders.
Grinning shyly, Hana asked, "You're the first to see this, outside of Andrei. What do you think?"
Nicole bugged her eyes slightly, grinned like an idiot, made a silly face that she prayed looked funny. Anything to cover the fact that the only thought to immediately come to mind was envy; she wondered how she'd look, and that fantasy immediately convulsed her with giggles. Hana was looking at her suspiciously, unsure whether she was being made fun of.
"I love it," Nicole assured her. "God Almighty, Andrei, he—?" Hana nodded. "The sly dog, I didn't know he had such talents in him. But, Hana, why—?! Whatever possessed you?!"
Hana shrugged. "I felt like it. I figured, if it doesn't work, I can always shave my head completely and let it grow again. I mean, who's to see—outside of my friends—you are my friends, right—" Nicole nodded enthusiastically, "—before we get back to Luna?"
"You're a braver woman than I."
"You military types have to look all prim 'n' proper."
Nicole closed her teeth and made a wistful, cluck-noise with her tongue, shaking her head. Now it was Hana's turn to laugh, because her friend's thoughts had become so painfully transparent. She was really debating whether or not to call Andrei and have him try the same cut with her, or something equally outrageous. But then, Nicole shook her head. On a later flight, she told herself, aboard my own command.
"I was wondering, Nicole," Hana said, turning serious again, "how do you feel about Ciari?"
Nicole looked up, a little surprised, the question—the change of subject—had come out of left field.
"I hate the sod's guts. Don't look at me like that, Hana, I do!"
"I believe you. I was just thinking back to that day before we launched, when you two were..."
"Oh, hell, I don't believe this, I'm blushing!"
"It's very becoming."
"Bitch!"
"He still gets to you, hmnh?"
Nicole slowly nodded, slumping deep into her chair. "I didn't want anything to happen, or maybe I did," she said, absently munching on a cracker, "because when we woke up, I felt so incredibly horny. It was this primal male/female thing, but it was also that I wanted him, Ciari! I've had affairs, but never anything like this, the rush was indescribable."
"So
unds wonderful. How is it nothing's happened since?"
"Are you kidding? Every day, in every way, we try our best to bash each other's brains in. What more traditionally loving, quintessentially American relationship could we have?"
"How clever." Nicole made a face. Her tea was cold, but she drained the cup. Hana ordered another from the console.
"There wasn't time in orbit; we were all too busy. Since then... I dunno. He's been all business and I guess I've been taking my own cues from that. I saw him with his guard down, maybe that scared him; with it up, he scares hell out of me. But what about you? What's the line on you and Paolo?"
"He's nice." Hana smiled at Nicole's nod of agreement, and pointed from one to the other. "You two, uhh... ?"
"Classmates. Friends. Partners. To hear him tell it, we're the 'Team Supreme.' Shared the sack a couple of nights on a survival test, but nothing earth-shaking. He wasn't my type."
"Don't get me wrong, I like him a lot...."
"He's an eminently 'likeable' fella," Nicole agreed.
"...and I have to admit, nobody ever makes me laugh the way he can. But at rock bottom, it's a casual thing."
"I hope Paul knows that," Nicole said quietly, then asked, "You have anyone back home?"
"Waiting?" Hana paused for a breath, looking anywhere but at Nicole, and faked a grin. "Gracious, no! I couldn't be that cruel." Another pause, longer, the grin fading as her memories wouldn't be danced away. "I had two what I'd call real affairs. One in Japan, undergraduate, the other at Stanford. That was serious. For nearly three years we were inseparable. We went the whole route. Worked together, vacationed together, lived... together. I made no secret of my application to NASA. That was why I came to Stanford. But I don't think either of us ever thought seriously about what we'd do if I was accepted."
"And when you were?"
Hana's voice went flat, her eyes hooded, and Nicole wanted to reach out to her. But she held back, sensing rightly that it would be a mistake. "A lot of screaming," Hana said quietly, "a lot of tears. Cops came by one night, a neighbor was really afraid one of us would kill the other. I don't think she was that far wrong. All my life, I'd had this dream about going to space. It was what I wanted, more than anything, where I knew, I knew, I was meant to be.
"I couldn't give it up, Nicole, even for love."
Now, Nicole's good hand touched Hana's. The other woman took it, unconsciously holding it as tight as she could. It hurt, but Nicole said nothing as they sat silently for a while, before Hana sniffed and blew her nose. "Sorry," she said, wiping her eyes and face with her hands. "S'all right."
"I heard from Beth, just before we left DaVinci." Nicole wondered if she'd heard the name right, if she understood. "She moved East, she's teaching at MIT, still solo. But at least we're speaking again. I really hurt her. I was so afraid she'd never forgive me."
"Would you do things differently, if you had the chance?"
"Would you?"
"The choice never came up."
"Lucky you." Hana sighed and turned away. She tapped the communications panel. "I'm playing MixaMeal, Andrei Mikhailovitch, you guys interested?"
"Chagay is enraptured by his slides and smelly chemicals, as usual, and I fear will not be tearing himself away anytime soon, but I, dear lady, would love a snack."
"Stop babbling about it then and come on up."
Zhimyanov moved through zero-gee with an easy grace that put the rest of the crew, with the possible exception of Ben Ciari, to shame; he was no less impressive in gravity. The tallest of them, he'd barely slipped under the maximum height requirement, but his body possessed a dancer's lean, muscular frame. Nicole considered him one of the most beautiful men she'd ever seen. Unfortunately, he was happily married and while always in a mood to flirt, he showed no interest in going beyond that. His lover was a psychologist at the Russian base at Gagarin, so well regarded that his practice extended across to the American zone. Nicole had met him early on during pre-flight training and had been stunned to discover he was even better looking man Andrei. Her initial reaction had been: there ain't no justice. But as time wore on, and she got to know them better, she realized that this was one of those rare relationships where both parties really were made for each other. The bonds between these two men were stronger than among almost any couple she could think of, including she realized with a start, her own parents. If she found something half as rich, she decided, she'd be content.
Andrei looked at their plates and made a sorrowful face: "This is a snack?"
"Suits our needs," Hana told him.
A look told them what he thought of that.
He considered a moment, using a compad to access the computer's recipe and stores file, scribbled some notes, and began entering an order into the main menu.
"Did I ever tell you, Andrei," Nicole said, "I saw your parents skate, when I was a kid."
"So did most of the world. If not their first Olympics, then certainly the second."
"They were wonderful."
"The best."
"You don't skate?"
"Not here, no."
"You know what I mean, dammit!"
He tasted his concoction, then slid it back into the console and programmed a pinch more space and flavoring. "Not like that," he replied, shaking his head. "I never considered it."
"Why?"
"Why, Nicole, did you not become an attorney, like your father, or a writer? I've read your mother's work—as journalist and novelist—she is superb."
"She has the Pulitzers to prove it."
"Precisely. And in my parents' home, above the mantelpiece, hang three gold medals. For ten years, and those three Olympics, my mother and father were the finest pair figure skaters in the world. No one has ever proved their equal, before or since, and I really had no desire to try. Like them, I have little patience with being second-best. I want to be remembered as Andrei. Not Mikhail and Larisa's boy."
The console pinged and he busied himself for a minute with his soup. "Here," he said, holding a spoon out to Nicole," try this. Careful, though, it's hot."
"It smells delicious!" Hana told him, leaning forward for a taste herself.
"Yum," Nicole groaned. "How do you get that beast to perform such wonders?"
"You forget, I've been this way before."
"Don't rub it in."
"Fyodor and I had the same system installed in our flat, so I could practice and"—he made a fluttery gesture with his hands, coupled with a slyly self-mocking smile—"play a bit. Our way of pushing the outside of the culinary envelope."
"Is there enough for Paul?" Nicole asked. "He's got Watch, up on the flight deck."
"Take this." He sealed the bowl, clipped it to a tray and handed it to her, ignoring her protests. "I'll just make another for myself. The basic recipe is in the menu's permanent memory; you can call it up whenever you like and simply season to taste. Then, if you prefer, you can file that variation and, from that point on, let Wanderer do all the work. Actually—" he tapped a command onto his compad—"now that I think of it, I had better take a container down to the Bear. He's so absorbed in his work, if I didn't remember to bring him food, he'd probably starve."
"You two make a pair." Hana grinned. Andrei's response, to both her and Nicole's surprise, was serious.
"The last of a breed, I think," he said, in a slightly musing tone. "Within a generation, this way of life—slowship transport through the Solar System—will be gone. There won't be as much need for people like us." He meant them all, Nicole realized, not merely himself and Chagay.
"What d'you mean?" she asked.
"Loners. Solitary souls who can endure months in these pretentious tin cans. Even in the submarine service, there are opportunities to sail on the ocean's surface, for the crew to stretch their legs, breathe fresh air, take in the view. Not here. The closest analogue would be the Antarctic scientific stations, where the teams are literally housebound for the entire winter, completely cut off from the outside worl
d. That way of life demands a special type of person, as does ours. We're allowed our eccentricities because, for the moment, there's no one else who can do our work. But that will change. It always does. The mountain men had their day in your country's Wild West, Nicole, but days always end. For them. For us."
"Cheerful thought," Hana muttered.
Andrei nodded towards the container Nicole was holding. "I think Paul would prefer that hot, don't you think?"
"Shit, yes! I forgot—! See you guys later. Hana, thanks for the fish!" That last was said over her shoulder as Nicole hauled herself up to the access hatch. She thought better of it halfway and made a brief detour, past the others, to her cubicle, where she grabbed her leather Edwards flight jacket before heading at last to the Command Module at the very nose of the spacecraft.
She heard music as the hatch cycled open and she smiled, recognizing the rich, whiskey-rough contralto at once.
"Since when were you a Lila Cheney fan?" she called.
Paul shrugged from his right-hand seat and turned the volume down a notch. "She ain't bad, but I've heard lots better."
"The hell you say."
"I got a friend in Houston who has a friend in her entourage—a techie, one of the sound engineers—and we worked a deal for some tapes."
"That's Rollin' Thunder. I heard crowd noises, is it live?"
Paul smiled more broadly than a Cheshire cat. "San Francisco, exactly one calendar week ago."
"Son of a bitch, you're kidding!"
He shook his head. "What you got here are legal, artist sanctioned, friend to friend private stock reproductions of the best of Lila Cheney's Sundowner Tour. And some studio jam sessions that should curl your hair. And as if that wasn't enough..."
"There can't be more."
"Christ, you're like a six-year-old at Christmas! I wish I had a camera."
"Thank your lucky stars you don't, bubster."
"Danno tossed in some archive Nazgul tapes as well."
First Flight Page 7
