Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  Viola con­si­de­red. “The­odo­re.”

  “Theodore Be­ar?”

  “Exactly. When will I get to see him?”

  “He’ll be de­li­ve­red to yo­ur ca­bin just as so­on as he’s fi­nis­hed,” Bel­lat­rix pro­mi­sed. “I’m ma­king him lo­ok just a to­uch old-fas­hi­oned, okay? You stri­ke me as a con­ser­va­ti­ve sort of per­son, a bit old-fas­hi­oned yo­ur­self.”

  “I am,” Vi­ola sa­id, and knew it for the truth.

  ****

  “Four Fo­ur-thirty,” she sa­id to her­self, as she left the Cap­ta­in’s Club, “and the ship’s rol­ling a lit­tle. I ho­pe I’m not too se­asick for din­ner.” It se­emed odd that she had not no­ti­ced the roll whi­le she was tal­king be­ars, but she left that un­sa­id.

  A dif­fe­rent and so­mew­hat mo­re Spar­tan ele­va­tor car­ri­ed her from Deck Ni­ne to Deck Fi­ve, whe­re-even­tu­al­ly- she fo­und her ca­bin. A lar­ge pink teddy be­ar in a black vest lay upon her bed, prop­ped by two small pil­lows.

  “Well, hel­lo!” It did not se­em pos­sib­le. “Hel­lo, The­odo­re!” Sit­ting on the bed, she pic­ked up the pink be­ar. His ex­p­res­si­on, she de­ci­ded, was in­de­cip­he­rab­le. From one an­g­le he lo­oked se­ve­re, from anot­her he ap­pe­ared to ple­ad, from a third he smi­led warmly; he was a be­ar of many mo­ods.

  His paws felt soft-yet hard at the ends. Lo­oking mo­re clo­sely she fo­und li­fe­li­ke claws, not sharp but long and cur­ved. Pla­ying with his fa­ce did lit­tle to al­ter his ex­p­res­si­ons, but led to the dis­co­ve­ring of ac­tu­al be­ar­li­ke te­eth be­hind his furry lips. “I’m ta­king you to din­ner, The­odo­re. I want to show you to who­ever I’m se­ated with to­day.”

  Her qu­es­ting fin­gers fo­und a ring on the pink be­ar’s back. She pul­led it, but not too hard.

  “I’d li­ke that,” the be­ar sa­id dis­tinctly; his vo­ice was de­epish with a squ­e­aky “I,” and gruff ove­rall.

  “Very ap­ro­pos.” Vi­ola pat­ted the be­ar’s furry back be­low the ring. “Now then… You will ha­ve ob­ser­ved, The­odo­re my be­ar, that our ca­bin bo­asts a small porch, bal­cony, or out­do­or vi­ewing area, cal­led by cap­ta­in and crew a ve­ran­da. Be­si­des a lit­tle tab­le and a gre­at big fo­ot­s­to­ol, it in­c­lu­des two wic­ker cha­irs. The first is lar­ge, with a spla­yed back. Rat­her a pe­acock-ta­il back, ac­tu­al­ly. It’s cle­arly in­ten­ded for the gen­t­le­man. That’s you.”

  The pink be­ar ap­pe­ared to smi­le.

  “You, that is to say, when you are not on my lap-I fe­ar yo­ur fur may qu­ickly pro­ve over-warm in the sa­lub­ri­o­us air pre­va­iling on our ve­ran­da. I shall oc­cupy the ot­her cha­ir, a les­ser se­at of the wing-back per­su­asi­on. At ti­mes you may oc­cupy it with me-not that I’ve a gre­at de­al of lap to of­fer. May I ha­ve yo­ur opi­ni­on of the ar­ran­ge­ment I sug­gest?”

  She pul­led the string as be­fo­re, and the be­ar sa­id, “I’d li­ke that.”

  Only one phra­se. She felt a lit­tle di­sap­po­in­ted. “Is that all you can say?”

  “Two,” the be­ar ad­ded equ­al­ly dis­tinctly. Or per­haps “too” or “to.”

  Violet sig­hed. “I ho­pe that ex­t­ra no­ise do­esn’t me­an you’re bro­ken al­re­ady.”

  The be­ar did not reply; and so, not kno­wing what el­se to do, she pic­ked him up and car­ri­ed him on­to the ve­ran­da, plum­ping him down in the wi­de wic­ker cha­ir be­fo­re se­ating her­self in the smal­ler wing-bac­ked one.

  Beyond the Ple­xig­las-fa­ced ra­iling, a sea im­pos­sibly blue spre­ad small swells to the ho­ri­zon. Over it ar­c­hed a sky equ­al­ly blue. So­me­one had told Vi­ola on­ce that the sky was blue only be­ca­use it was ref­lec­ting the blue of all the world’s oce­ans. Lo­oking at that sea and that sky, she felt that it might al­most be true. “Ci­ti­es,” she tho­ught, “ha­ve scra­ped away the sky with the­ir skyscra­pers. I won­der why they wan­ted to?”

  Five o’clock. The di­ning ro­om wo­uld not open for din­ner un­til six. She le­aned back, and when her eyes cho­se to clo­se them­sel­ves she let them.

  ****

  She was awa­ke­ned by a tic­k­ling no­se. Dis­pat­c­hed to wi­pe the tic­k­le away, her hand en­co­un­te­red so­met­hing lar­ge and soft.

  Her eyes ope­ned. “The­odo­re my be­ar, ple­ase mind yo­ur fur…”

  It to­ok three mo­ments and two blinks to bring the pink be­ar in­to fo­cus. “Did I put you in my lap? Ne­ver mind.” She glan­ced at her wat­ch-six thirty. Din­ner wo­uld be in full swing. “What abo­ut it?” she as­ked. “I am go­ing to get so­met­hing to eat, The­odo­re. You may re­ma­in he­re if you pre­fer, or-”

  He might blow away.

  “Inside on my bed, I me­an. Or you may es­cort me. Which will it be?”

  She pul­led the string.

  “I’d li­ke that,” the pink be­ar sa­id dis­tinctly.

  “I tho­ught you wo­uld. Din­ner it is.”

  The Grand Di­ning Sa­lon (as the ship cal­led it) was at the stern on Deck Two. It was, as its na­me im­p­li­ed, very grand in­de­ed. Wi­de glass do­ors in a glass wall ope­ned on a spe­ci­o­us spa­ci­o­us cham­ber re­sem­b­ling an am­p­hit­he­ater, whe­re­in whi­te-co­ated gla­di­ators wres­t­led va­li­antly with la­den trays. Spot­less whi­te tab­lec­loths we­re em­b­ra­ced by mas­si­ve cha­irs of wo­od well-car­ved-cha­irs that sho­uld, as Vi­ola ref­lec­ted at each me­al, ma­ke ex­cel­lent li­fe pre­ser­vers.

  Five per­sons we­re al­re­ady se­ated at the tab­le to which she was bro­ught to fill the last cha­ir. She glan­ced at the fa­ces of the three men as she to­ok her se­at, ex­pec­ting signs of di­sap­po­in­t­ment. The­re we­re no­ne, and she smi­led.

  A blon­de smi­led in re­turn and of­fe­red her hand, “Le­no­re Do­ucet­te.”

  Viola ac­cep­ted it and in­t­ro­du­ced her­self.

  “I lo­ve mu­si­cal na­mes,” the ot­her wo­man sa­id. She was me­ager and al­most swarthy, with the hard, sec­re­ti­ve eyes of a pro­fes­si­onal gam­b­ler. “I ha­ve one, too. I’m Ra­ga.”

  “Bone and a hank of ha­ir,” Vi­ola tho­ught. Alo­ud she mur­mu­red, “Ple­ased to me­et you, Ra­ga.”

  Lenore was lo­oking at the pink be­ar. “Do you al­ways carry that with you?” Her so­mew­hat at­trac­ti­ve fa­ce had the tig­ht-skin­ned lo­ok that bes­pe­aks plas­tic sur­gery.

  “Only on the ship. The­odo­re’s my bod­y­gu­ard.”

  “Since the men will not in­t­ro­du­ce them­sel­ves-”

  “Perhaps he’ll let me do it.” Vi­ola smi­led aga­in, mo­re re­la­xed than she had be­en at any of her pre­vi­o­us me­als. “What abo­ut it, The­odo­re? May I in­t­ro­du­ce you?” She pul­led the string.

  “I am Vi­ola’s be­ar,” the pink be­ar sa­id dis­tinctly. “You may call me The­odo­re.”

  “You’ve mo­re vo­ca­bu­lary than I tho­ught,” Vi­ola mut­te­red from be­hind her me­nu.

  The ro­und-he­aded, ro­und-sho­ul­de­red man se­ated on the far­t­her si­de of Le­no­re sa­id, “Don Par­t­lo­we,” as if he we­re a lit­tle as­ha­med of it, to which the big, he­avily han­d­so­me man on his left ad­ded, “Bla­ke Mor­ri­son.”

  The wa­iter ar­ri­ved, and Vi­ola told him, “Fi­ve oh fi­ve fo­ur, and I’ll ha­ve the split pea and the ro­ast be­ef.”

  The man to Vi­ola’s im­me­di­ate right co­ug­hed. “T-Tim Tuc­ker, Miss Ne­udorf.” He was small and lo­oked (Vi­ola tho­ught) li­ke a spi­ke buck ca­ught in the he­ad­lights.

  “You ha­ve to call her Vi­ola,” Le­no­re in­s­t­ruc­ted him. “Ru­les of the ship.”

  Raga smir­ked. “Anot­her ru­le of the ship is that no mo­re than six may eat at one tab­le. I’m af­ra­id that me­ans
you’re out of luck, Vi­ola. What wo­uld yo­ur be­ar li­ke?”

  “Honey,” Vi­ola told her firmly. “As in mind yo­ur man­ners, ho­ney.”

  There was a bri­ef, pa­ined si­len­ce be­fo­re Don sa­id, “That’s not on the me­nu, Vi­ola. I’m af­ra­id you’ll ha­ve to eat for him.”

  The big man, Bla­ke, le­aned to­ward her. “Can he say ho­ney?”

  “He do­esn’t ha­ve to. I know his tas­tes.”

  Lenore tap­ped her wi­neg­lass. “I be­li­eve the sco­re is Vi­ola three and Tab­le not­hing. Wo­uld an­y­body el­se li­ke to try?”

  “I wo­uld,” Tim whis­pe­red. The whis­per was so soft, and his lips we­re so ne­ar Vi­ola’s ear, that no one el­se co­uld pos­sibly ha­ve he­ard it.

  When din­ner was over and she re­tur­ned to her ca­bin, Vi­ola drop­ped the be­ar on the bed and kic­ked the do­or shut be­hind her. “I’m fed up,” she told him, “and do you know who I’m fed up with?”

  An ac­cu­sa­tory fo­re­fin­ger stab­bed at her con­si­de­rab­le chest. “Me, that’s who. “Ba­ked Alas­ka! I or­de­red ba­ked Alas­ka, and I ate it, too. When I had fi­nis­hed mi­ne, I ate half of po­or Tim’s.”

  With a vi­olen­ce that thre­ate­ned to te­ar it, she pul­led her blo­use over her he­ad. “I sho­uld go to the show to­night and watch for Bel­lat­rix, and what am I go­ing to do in­s­te­ad? I’m go­ing to sit right he­re, by myself, and ha­te myself.”

  A step to­ok her to the mir­ror. “Lo­ok at that tummy! What’s the use of pa­ying a tho­usand dol­lars for a sin­g­les cru­ise with a tummy li­ke that?” She was sit­ting on her bed trying to wi­pe away the te­ars when she felt a small, soft em­b­ra­ce. For the next two hun­d­red rol­lings of the ship, she hug­ged her be­ar and, oc­ca­si­onal­ly, snif­fled.

  When the hug­ging and snif­fling we­re over, she sat the be­ar on her lap and ad­dres­sed him in the to­ne tho­se ne­ar to te­ars ge­ne­ral­ly use. “I lo­ve you, The­odo­re. I do. You’re a-a much ni­cer toy than an­y­body has a right to ex­pect. I… Well, I didn’t even know… You’re the-the most won­der­ful be­ar in the who­le dar­ned world, and I cer­ta­inly don’t de­ser­ve you.”

  Quite dis­tinctly, the pink be­ar’s he­ad mo­ved from si­de to si­de.

  “I don’t! I-I want pe­op­le to li­ke me.”

  Soft pink paws to­uc­hed the pink be­ar’s own well ro­un­ded mid­dle.

  “Yes, you do. I know that. You’ve pro­ved it. Can-will you tell me what I can do to ma­ke ot­her pe­op­le li­ke me, too?”

  Kindly, dark eyes ope­ned, clo­sed, and ope­ned aga­in, and the be­ar’s lar­ge, pink he­ad nod­ded.

  “You can?” Vi­ola pul­led the string.

  Distinctly, the be­ar sa­id, “Smi­le.”

  “I do! I did! I was smi­ling all thro­ugh din­ner and no­body li­ked me.”

  Again the be­ar’s he­ad swung from si­de to si­de.

  “All right, Tim did, and I im­po­sed on him. No­body el­se.”

  No sig­ned the be­ar, and Vi­ola pul­led the string aga­in.

  “Lenore li­kes you.”

  “I don’t be­li­eve it.” Anot­her pull of the string.

  “Don li­ked you, too,” the be­ar sa­id dis­tinctly. “She did not li­ke that.”

  “He did not!” Vi­ola in­sis­ted.

  There was a knock at her do­or.

  “Wait a mi­nu­te!” Her ro­be was pink, too. As she knot­ted the sash she won­de­red va­gu­ely whet­her the be­ar wo­uld ap­pro­ve.

  “Miss… Vi­ola?”

  It was Tim. She nod­ded, gro­ped her mind fran­ti­cal­ly for so­met­hing to say, and set­tled for “Hi.”

  “I… You’re-uh-get­ting re­ady for bed? I, um, the­re’s a ni­ce lit­tle-uh-coc­k­ta­il lo­un­ge. The Se­as­tar. It’s-uh… ”

  “On this deck.” Vi­ola felt the ne­ed to spe­ed things up.

  “And I- uh-thought per­haps… But you’re-”

  She ga­ve the smi­le her best try. “Why I’d lo­ve to ha­ve you buy me a drink, Tim. Co­uld I me­et you the­re in ten mi­nu­tes or so?”

  Tim gul­ped audibly.

  “I won’t bring The­odo­re. That’s a pro­mi­se.”

  “Oh, no!” Tim’s eyes had flown wi­de. “I didn’t me­an that at all. Bring him, ple­ase. I-uh-I-uh… ”

  Smile aga­in, Vi­ola told her­self firmly. Re­mem­ber what The­odo­re sa­id. “Then we’ll both me­et you the­re in ten or twel­ve mi­nu­tes.”

  Tim’s words rus­hed upon her li­ke ter­ri­fi­ed birds. “It’s-not-him-I’m-sca­red-of-it’s-you.” And Tim fled.

  “Toward the bar,” Vi­ola, ref­lec­ted. “I won­der how many he’ll ha­ve be­fo­re I get the­re.”

  It se­emed wi­se to hurry and she did, re­su­ming the blo­use she had dis­car­ded and spen­ding no mo­re than fi­ve mi­nu­tes to­uc­hing up her ha­ir and ma­ke­up.

  Tim was at a tab­le ne­ar the all-glass wall. He sto­od and wa­ved the mo­ment she ca­me in, then pul­led the tab­le out for her. It was a very small tab­le, ba­re sa­ve for an as­h­t­ray and an al­most-empty glass that had pro­bably held a Tom Col­lins. Smi­ling, she ac­cep­ted the of­fe­red cha­ir, ar­ran­ged the pink be­ar on the cha­ir next to her own, and smi­led so­me mo­re.

  “You’re such a ni­ce per­son,” Tim sa­id wit­ho­ut a sin­g­le uh. “I wan­ted to tell you that, and at din­ner I co­uldn’t.”

  A soft paw tap­ped her thigh; and she nod­ded, al­t­ho­ugh only very slightly. “I know how you fe­el,” she told Tim. “It’s hard say things li­ke that to-to an­y­body. Har­dest of all when you’ve just met the per­son. At din­ner I had to try very hard to lo­ok at the ot­hers, and not just at you all the ti­me.”

  What re­ma­ined of the Tom Col­lins va­nis­hed in a sin­g­le swal­low that bro­ught a bo­wing, fo­re­ign-lo­oking wa­iter. Vi­ola or­de­red Dry Sack up, whi­le Tim han­ded over his glass and sa­id (in a vo­ice that squ­e­aked a trif­le), “Do it aga­in.”

  He tur­ned to Vi­ola. “That was one thing I wan­ted to tell you. This is the ot­her. I ha­ted this cru­ise for the first two days. Ha­ted it right up till din­ner to­night. All the­se wo­men shop­ping for men as if they we­re at a whi­te sa­le. All the­se men ho­ping to get la­id by a wo­man they can for­get abo­ut as so­on as the cru­ise is over. “I… I-uh-I ca­me… I ca­me lo­oking for-uh…”

  She whis­pe­red it. “Lo­ve.”

  “Yes. I knew you’d know. You-you’re-you’re not mar­ri­ed?”

  “No. Of co­ur­se not.” Vi­ola held out her left hand.

  Tim al­most to­ok it. “Ne­it­her am I. A lot of the­se men are. Did you know that?”

  “Are they?” It was a new tho­ught. “I tho­ught they we­re di­vor­ced.”

  “There’s a lot of that, too. A lot mo­re, ac­tu­al­ly. And ne­arly all the wo­men are di­vor­ced.”

  The qu­es­ti­on hung in the air un­til Vi­ola sa­id, “I’m not. I’ve ne­ver be­en mar­ri­ed. On­ce I tho­ug­ht-but it didn’t work out.”

  “I ha­ven’t be­en eit­her.” Tim’s smi­le was small and bra­ve. (Li­ke Tim, Vi­ola told her­self.) “I wri­te sof­t­wa­re, Vi­ola, and I’m go­od at it-re­al­ly, I am. I’m not go­od with pe­op­le.” He drew a de­ep bre­ath. “Even if this do­esn’t work, I’ll al­ways, re­mem­ber you the way you are right now with the pur­p­le sea be­hind you and stars in yo­ur ha­ir and the mo­on bu­il­ding a ro­ad ac­ross the wa­ter to you that only an­gels can fol­low.”

  As the­ir drinks ar­ri­ved, Vi­ola mur­mu­red, “You’re go­od with me.”

  On the­ir way back to her ca­bin, the pink be­ar had to nud­ge her twi­ce and po­int to ke­ep her from get­ting lost. “I’m high, The­odo­re,” she told him as she slip­ped her key card in­to the lock. “One lit­tle glass of wi­ne, an
d I’m hig­her than-than any an­gel.”

  Her ca­bin was in the sa­me, rat­her con­fu­sed, sta­te she had left it, her pink ro­be flung on the bed and ma­ke­up scat­te­red ac­ross the top of the tiny dres­ser. She drop­ped the pink be­ar on the bed, too, sat the­re her­self in ut­ter dis­re­gard of her ro­be, and po­si­ti­oned him on one crow­ded knee. “He’s ne­ver be­en mar­ri­ed, The­odo­re, he’s not da­ting an­y­body, and he has his own lit­tle sof­t­wa­re com­pany. Did you see the way he lo­oked when I told him I was a systems analyst? Did you?”

  Distinctly, the pick be­ar nod­ded.

  “We go to­get­her li­ke ham and eggs, milk and co­oki­es, ro­ast pork and ap­ple sa­uce.” Vi­ola pa­used to con­si­der the fi­nal pa­iring. “I’m the pork, but I don’t ca­re.”

  There was a so­und be­hind her, which she ig­no­red. “I’m go­ing to qu­it my job and mo­ve to New Or­le­ans, The­odo­re. I didn’t tell Tim that, but I am. This is not go­ing to slip away. I won’t let it. I’m-”

  “Going to get hurt if you scre­am.” The vo­ice was de­ep and soft, car­ri­ed on a gust of warm sea air. Half the lights in the ca­bin ca­me on as the ve­ran­dah do­or clo­sed.

  For a se­cond she fa­iled to re­cog­ni­ze the big man in the alo­ha shirt, per­haps be­ca­use so much of her at­ten­ti­on was fo­cu­sed on the blue ste­el auto­ma­tic he held.

  “You’re ke­eping qu­i­et,” Bla­ke Mor­ri­son sa­id. “That’s go­od. That’s smart. Now just re­lax and let me tell you how it’s go­ing to be bet­we­en you and me.”

  Viola held up both hands. “If you think I’ve got a lot of jewelry, you’re wrong. You can ta­ke what I’ve got. I’ll tell you whe­re ever­y­t­hing is.”

  If the big man with the blue ste­el auto­ma­tic had he­ard her, he ga­ve no sign of it. “You’re go­ing to ta­ke off yo­ur clot­hes. All of them. You’re go­ing to do ever­y­t­hing I tell you-and I me­an ever­y­t­hing-and you’re go­ing to act li­ke you enj­oy it. You’re go­ing to beg for mo­re. Ha­ve you got that?”