Another knock. Kolya stayed silent, stayed still. Soon they would go away. The door opened a crack. Kolya tensed.
This wits ridiculous. There were no spies for the Mideast Sweep on board Starfarer. If there were, they would have sought him out months ago. Either he would be dead, a victim of the Sweep's death sentence, or he would have killed them in self-defense.
And it would be doubly ridiculous to be stalked by the Sweep during the only time he had been really drunk in the last twenty years.
"Kolya?"
Kolya's body sagged with relief, his reaction magnified by intoxication. Then, angry, he pushed himself to his feet and jerked the door open. Griffith started. For an instant he looked as dangerous as he was.
"I might have known," Kolya said.
Griffith was the only person on campus foolish enough and self-confident enough to enter Kolya's house, or rude enough to enter anyone's house, uninvited.
"What is it?" Kolya snarled.
Taken aback, Griffith hesitated.
"Do you want something?"
"I can't figure you out," Griffith said.
"That suits me well," Kolya said.
"One time I see you, you're friendly. The next time
you threaten to kill me. Then you apologize. Then you bite my head off." "And you suppose," Kolya said irritably, "that your actions have nothing to do with my reactions?"
"I was worried about you. You look like shit, since you ran out of cigarettes."
"Thank you, Marion. I'm grateful for your opinion."
Griffith glowered at him, as he always did when Kolya used his given name. Kolya sometimes could not resist, though he knew he should have more self-discipline. Today, though, getting a rise out of Griffith gave him no satisfaction.
Kolya sighed and stepped back from the door.
"You may as well come in." He did not particularly want to talk to Griffith. But he had neither the energy to make him leave nor the strength to remain standing.
He folded himself back into the window seat. He had never gotten around to getting a chair, for he seldom had visitors. Griffith sat crosslegged on the floor without comment or complaint.
Griffith had changed his clothes. When he came on board he wore the attire of a General Accounting Office middle manager, slacks and shirt and jacket. Now that he had given up pretending to be a GAO accountant, he wore Starfarer regulation pants, cotton canvas in a rather military green with an EarthSpace logo on the thigh, and a similar sweatshirt. If he was trying to fit in, he had, for once, guessed wrong. No one on campus wore regulation clothes without altering them.
The strangest thing about Griffith's clothes was that they were grubby. Griffith looked rumpled, not his usual neat and unnoticeable self. Kolya tried to recall seeing him unkempt before, even after an hour in a survival pouch.
"Where have you been?"
"Camping," Griffith said. "in the wild cylinder. I needed . . . to get away for a while. To survive on my own.,,
An overnight on the wild side, which-as far as Kolya knew-hosted no large predators and few pests,
did not sound very challenging. But, then, Griffith came from the city. Kolya's lips twitched up in an involuntary smile that Griffith saw before Kolya could repress it.
"What's so funny?"
"Marion Griffith, guerrilla accountant."
Kolya thought he had gone too far, as he often did with Griffith. Sometimes he went too far deliberately; this time, he had spoken without thinking because he was past rational thought. He shivered, and wished again for a cigarette.
Griffith opened his mouth to retort, then stopped. He shrugged, and his lips quirked in a smile.
"More or less accurate," he said.
He always had maintained that he really was an accountant. But he usually did not admit that he was anything more.
"Do you want a cup of tea or something?" Griffith said. "When's the last time you ate?"
"Who knows? It isn't tea I want. It's nicotine." He shivered, imagining one long drag on a cigarette. Then he could not stop shivering.
Griffith went to the kitchen nook, heated water, made two cups of strong tea, brought them back, and insisted that Kolya drink some. It did help. He still felt dreadful, but his shivering stopped.
"What is your father's name?" Kolya asked.
"Peter," Griffith replied. Then his usual suspicion kicked in. "Why?" "Your patronymic is Petrovich. The same as mine."
"I guess. So?"
"Your given name doesn't form a diminutive that you'd like any better than you like Marion. Masha, perhaps."
"You're right. I don't like it any better."
"It's a custom for friends to call each other by their patronymics. I'm going to call you Petrovich."
"What should I call you?"
"Petrovich."
"Uh . . . okay."
No one had called Kolya "Petrovich" in many years. In decades. He had persuaded his colleagues on Starfarer to call him Kolya, or Nikolai Petrovich, instead of General Cherenkov. But he had never before developed a relationship of the right sort, respect and friendship combined, to ask anyone to call him simply Petrovich.
"And I am all right, Petrovich," Kolya said. "Thank you for your worry. Every minute, I think, I cannot survive this, and every other minute I remind myself I have no choice."
"What if you did?"
"But I don't! It's pointless to speculate."
"But what if?"
Kolya slid down in the window seat till he was lying flat on his back, with his feet up against the wall. His thigh muscles twitched and trembled. He flung one arm over his face. The unpleasant cold sweat soaked into his sleeve.
"I would probably kill for a bit of tobacco."
"You don't have to. Here."
Kolya looked out from beneath his arm. Griffith held a fistful of large crumpled green-brown leaves.
"What-! "
"If I remember right, and if Arachne's refs are right, that's what this is."
Kolya scrambled to his feet. He grabbed the leaves, rudely, crushed them under his nose, breathed deeply. They smelled like tobacco. Green, wet tobacco. The smell of it made his whole body thrill.
"Alzena said there was no such thing."
"Maybe Alzena wasn't the most reliable witness in the world. Or maybe," he said quickly, "somebody else planted it. Or maybe I'm wrong and Arachne's wrong and it isn't-"
"It is."
Now that Kolya had it, he had no idea what to do with it. He peeled off a shred of the leaf, put it in his mouth, and chewed. The green tobacco released the worst taste he had ever experienced, sour, bitter, potent.
Saliva spurted froin every salivary gland, as if he were about to vomit. His mouth filled with revolting liquid. He gagged. He pushed past Griffith, hurried out onto his porch, and spat violently over the rail. The green blob of chewed tobacco plopped in the dirt.
He hung over the porch rail, panting and sweating. His mouth tasted vile. "God, I'm sorry," Griffith said.
"Don't be," Kolya said.
It astonished him, how much better he felt, and how quickly, as if the nicotine had diffused straight into his brain. He fingered the leathery leaf, and pulled off another shred of tobacco.
Victoria entered the physics building gratefully, glad of the cool constant underground temperature. She wiped the sweat off her face with her soaked sleeve. She felt dirty and sticky. Her shoes were muddy from the garden; so were her pants, from the knees down. She flung herself gratefully into the deep, soft chair.
The maintenance work on Starfarer was important, of course, but she had to get some of her own work done. If she could spend some concentrated time on the algorithm, she knew she could speed it up. Starfarer was less than a day away from transition, and she still could not tell where they were going.
I keep reassuring people about it, she thought, but I'm nervous, too.
What if Europa suspected we might follow, what if she led us somewhere she can survive, but we can't? Would she do that
? Are we such a threat that she'd be willing to wipe us out?
Starfarer ought to be more resistant than Europa's ship to difficult conditions. Starfarer enclosed its ecosystem. But Victoria had no way of knowing what hidden abilities Europa's strange ship might have, and Infinity had brought home to her the essential fragility of Starfarer.
No, she thought. Fragility's the wrong word. But resilience has limits.
She gave herself a moment to appreciate the tightknit, symmetrical form of the three-dimensional representation of her multi-dimensional algorithm. It hovered, complex and colorful, forming itself in the corner of her office.
It stopped.
Victoria jumped up, her sore shoulders and sweaty clothes forgotten. She queried Arachne, expecting to be told No, be patient, it just looks finished, it's still working, inside where you can't see.
Arachne presented her with the algorithm's solutions.
Starfarer was about to set out for 61 Cygni.
Victoria whistled softly. 61 Cygni was a long, long way away: completely on the other side of Earth from Tau Ceti. And yet the transition duration had a lower maximum than the range from Tau Ceti to Sirius.
"Curiouser and curiouser," she said softly.
She checked the spectral signature. 61 Cygni A was a K5 star on the main sequence, not too different from the sun. She hoped that would reassure Infinity; she hoped the change toward terrestrial conditions would stabilize Starfarer's environment. She put a message into Arachne for everyone to see.
She hurried next door to JDA office and found her colleague curled up in the deep fabric-sculpture chair, writing in her notebook. The holographic image of Nerno's chamber hovered over her desk.
"J.D.! The algorithm's done!"
"It is? Victoria, that's wonderful!"
J.D. tried to jump up out of the chair, but it was so low and so soft that it made her struggle. She made a sound of disgust. J.D. hated her office furnishings. They were left over from her predecessor in the alien contact department, and she had had no opportunity to replace them. Victoria hugged J.D., joyful. J.D. embraced her gently, and let her go with regret.
Arachne presented a star map, and a copy of the algorithm.
"It's beautiful," J.D. said. "Beautiful results. It's different from the others."
"They're all different," Victoria said. "But . . . you're right. The other solutions had some visual similarities. This one's completely changed."
"61 Cygni," J.D. said softly. "Will we find our neighbors?"
"Could be."
They knew they had neighbors: Europa had referred to them. Unfortunately, she had not been willing to reveal anything about them, including where they lived or how to make contact with them.
J.D. sat on the edge of her desk and stared at the solution, the star chart, the time range.
"What is it?" Victoria asked.
"Nemo."
Victoria sat beside her. "There's still time. We don't hit transition till tomorrow afternoon. Nemo knows what we're doing. If he-she-T'
"I don't think our pronouns fit Nemo," J.D. said.
"One wouldn't have started metamorphosis and invited you back if one knew there wasn't going to be time."
"I hope not. Only what if Nemo didn't have any choice about when it began? We pretend we know all about our own physiology. But we still can't predict exactly when somebody will be born . . . or die."
"Nerno will follow us through transition. We can meet on the other side." "If Nerno's still alive." J.D. gestured to the time range. "Using Civilization's algorithm, the trip will take a lot longer."
Victoria hesitated. "Do you want me to give
"I . . ." J.D. leaned back, gripping the edge of the desk. "You have to make that decision."
They sat together in silence. The algorithm was an example of natural beauty, like a waterfall, a mountain view.
Victoria laid her hand over J.D.'s.
"Yesterday was fun," she said softly.
Yes.
J.D. brought Victoria's hand to her lips. She kissed her palm, her fingertips.
"Come stay overnight with me and Zev," she said. "Would you?"
"I'd like that," Victoria said. "Satoshi and Stephen Thomas and I have some things to work out, first. But soon."
"Is everything okay?"
Victoria shrugged, and smiled as well as she could manage. "Changing into a diver is more disorienting than Stephen Thomas expected. Not just for him."
Stephen Thomas started dinner. He was a lousy cook, but he needed to pretend everything was normal. He boiled water and stirred in the rice.
At that point, both his imagination and the household's supplies failed him.
He could go over to the central cafeteria and get bento boxes . . . except if he did, he would have to face Florrie Brown.
Outside, Victoria and Satoshi crossed the garden, laughing. Stephen Thomas opened the door.
"Stephen Thomas! The algorithm's finished!"
Victoria fairly glowed with the success of her work. She showed off the algorithm's new pattern.
Stephen Thomas was glad to see her happy, after so much stress and despair, after this morning's fiasco in the ocean. Satoshi acted more content, too, though Stephen Thomas felt an inexplicable distance separating him from his partner.
Inexplicable? he thought. How would you like it, if Satoshi's skin started peeling off?
He could not answer the question. He wanted to think he would take the changes in stride, if they were happening to Satoshi, or if something comparable were happening to Victoria. But he distressed himself, with his battered toes, his raw penis, the swollen flesh redesigning itself to hold his genitals within his body. At the moment he did not want anyone to look at him, much
less touch him. How could he be sure he would accept it any better if it were happening to one of his partners?
Victoria came up behind him, slid her hands around his waist, and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. His body balanced on a narrow line between pleasure and pain. One step farther would take Stephen Thomas wholly into one or the other, but he could not tell which. He wanted to fling himself around and take her in his arms and never let go. But he was afraid. Afraid of the pain, afraid of losing someone else he loved.
He put his hands over hers, stilled her.
"I talked to Zev," he said. "When the changes are done . . ." He felt awkward, discussing what had happened. He had never felt awkward discussing sex. He had never hurt anyone during sex, either. Not until today. "I won't hurt you again," he said.
"It didn't exactly hurt, " Victoria said.
He laughed, harsh and skeptical.
"A little," she admitted. "I was more surprised-"
"It won't happen again," he said, with more intensity than he intended.
He pushed her hands away. She stepped back.
"People weren't built to screw in the ocean," Satoshi said.
"Human people," Stephen Thomas said, his voice sharp. "It'll work after-" "Maybe for you. Where does that leave me?"
Victoria glanced uncomfortably from Stephen Thomas to Satoshi.
"I didn't intend to make a big deal out of this, eh?" she said. "I thought it would be fun."
"Yeah," Stephen Thomas said. "I know."
He and Satoshi gazed at each other. Stephen Thomas looked away.
"I'd better drop by the lab. Don't worry if you don't see me till late." "It's already late," Victoria said.
"Are you coming back?" Satoshi asked.
"What?"
"Are you coming back?" Satoshi repeated himself, emphasizing each word. "What kind of a question is that?" Victoria cried.
Satoshi did not answer her. He glanced down, then stared at Stephen Thomas, into his eyes. Stephen Thomas wondered if he could get out the door before Satoshi said anything else.
Satoshi kept his expression neutral.
"Are you going to tell us . . ."
He stopped. The careful, neutral tone caught in his throat. When he spoke again,
his voice shook.
"Are you leaving us? If you are, do you plan to tell us?"
Hurt by Satoshi's unfairness, shocked into anger, Stephen Thomas replied without thinking.
"I don't know."
He fled.
STEPHEN THOMAS PLUNGED DOWN THE dark curved stripe of path, through the pale glow of flowers and the carnationspiced air. He stopped at the garden gate, his breathing hard and shaky.
He had nowhere to go. He did not want to spend the night in the lab. He was too tired to get any work done. He was damned if he would sleep on the couch in the student lounge, in public; he had no idea how his body would betray him next. His makeshift office was too small to sleep in.
He should turn around, go back inside, and tell Victoria and Satoshi he wanted to go to bed and go to sleep
alone. But nothing would be that easy, not after what he and Satoshi had said to each other. Satoshi's question had struck painfully at what Stephen Thomas feared might be the truth.
Is he right? Stephen Thomas wondered. He leaned against the steep bank that formed the garden wall. It was cool and damp. Ivy crinkled against his hands.
What would it be like to live apart from Victoria and Satoshi? A couple of weeks ago the idea would have been unimaginable. Now, strain showed between them all. Stephen Thomas had said things to Victoria that he regretted; and he had felt so disconnected from Satoshi since the changes began that he hardly felt like they were living together at all.
He glanced back at the house. In the main room, Victoria and Satoshi held each other. Stephen Thomas felt excluded and exhausted, unable to face talking to his partners, or anyone else, tonight.
Lots of people on campus would give him a place to sleep. Some of them would not even ask why he needed somewhere to stay. But Starfarer had many of the attributes, positive and negative, of a small town. Including the gossip.
What about the guest house? Stephen Thomas thought.
It was where Feral had been planning to stay, till Stephen Thomas invited him to use Merry's room. As far as Stephen Thomas knew, no one was staying there at all. A solitary retreat where he could get his bearings was exactly what he needed.
A vile smell rolled out of Kolya's oven. Not the odor of tobacco smoke, but the poisonous scent of crushed nightshade leaves: Nicotine, nicotinic acid, tobacco boiled and abused into a useless mush.
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