Sound

by Alexandra Duncan

  “Nice.” His eyes flick over my sari and then home in on my breasts. Charming. “Where’re you headed so dressed up?”

  I stiffen. “First officers’ dining room.”

  “No way.” He jostles my shoulder in a far too friendly manner and grins. “Me, too.”

  “You?” For the first time, I notice he’s dressed in his blues as well.

  My face must offer up a clear diagram of my feelings on the subject, because Rubio laughs. “Yes, me. My squadron helped chase off those dakait.” He arches an eyebrow. “What’d you do to get invited?”

  “Nothing,” I mutter, and stare past him at the dark window. Unless you count bathing a half-feral cat, which would be the most embarrassing reason to be invited to dinner ever. So it can’t be that.

  “Come on, memsahib, you can tell me,” he says. “It must have been something pretty good to get you invited down there.” He nods to the floor below us, the first officers’ tier at the heart of the ship.

  “Really. It was nothing.”

  “You’re on the first response team, right?” His eyes go wide. “Did you rescue one of those Rovers? Did you, like, bring them back from the brink of death or something?”

  I almost laugh, but he looks so earnest. “Hardly.”

  “Tell me, Guiteau.” He’s reached the point of begging, which would be immensely satisfying if I were really holding a tidbit of information out of his reach.

  But I’m not. And for once, he’s dropped his stupid nickname for me.

  “Honestly, I don’t have any clue why they invited me. I got stuck behind some wreckage and was almost last on the scene. All I did was . . . um . . .” I trail off.

  “What?” He smiles, a flicker of mischief reigniting in his eyes.

  Let one of the dakait get away. Fail at everything I was supposed to do.

  “Tie up some loose ends,” I finish.

  “Hmph.” He shoots me an unsatisfied look but doesn’t say anything else.

  The lift drops back into the open air above the middle recreation level, and the glass brightens again to let in the artificial sunlight streaming down from the rafters. The gardens are eerily empty, though. Usually, someone has a pickup game of cricket going on the pitch, or off-duty couples are lounging on the grass. Everyone must be on extra duty or too shaken up to go out. A slimy finger of guilt creeps back into my stomach. I should be with them, not clean and pressed and going to a dinner.

  The lift slows to a stop with a soft bong.

  “That’s us.” Rubio inspects his hair in the metal doors. “You ready for this, memsahib?”

  I sigh. Rubio can’t fight his true nature forever. Or even for a handful of minutes, apparently. The moment the doors slide open, I speed out of the lift and stalk down the rolling walkway at brisk clip, trying to get away from myself as much as him.

  I arrive at the officers’ quarters first, Rubio jogging up behind me. The doors whisk open on a spacious sitting room, with white synthetic-leather couches and false windows flooded with ultraviolet light perfectly simulating late afternoon on the subcontinent. The ceiling plays an image of a hanging garden, hibiscus swaying gently in the breeze. On the far side of the parlor, an old-fashioned set of hinged doors opens onto the dining room.

  “Name?”

  I jump. A clerk at an antique wooden desk with claw feet sits immediately inside the door. She stands and rounds the desk, tablet at the ready.

  “Um . . .” I’d heard the first officers liked their pomp and ceremony, but this was more than I’d expected. The ship’s security system could do the same job and spare the clerk’s labor for something more useful.

  She smiles and taps her stylus against the screen, waiting.

  “Science Specialist Miyole Guiteau?” I cringe. Ugh. It’s not a question.

  “Here you are. Have a pleasant evening, miss.” She waves me ahead and turns to Rubio. “And you? Name?”

  A burst of laughter spills out of the dining quarters. I hang back in the sitting room, watching. A long table laid with linen napkins, china, and crystal fills most of the inner room. Near the back, a group of officers in dress blues cluster around the bar, sipping some kind of cherry-red spirit from glass tumblers. I spot Dr. Osmani, wrapped in white raw silk from neck to toe. She smiles, more with her mouth than with her eyes, as the officer beside her says something.

  At least I’m not the only one overdressed.

  One of the officers, a handsome older man with a smooth brown face and white hair combed up into a subtle pompadour, spots me. “Ah, our guests have arrived.” He waves me closer. “Come in, come in. Can I offer you a drink? Wine? Sherry?”

  “Um . . .” Soraya never drinks, though she keeps wine and beer in the house in case she has guests to dinner. I’ve mostly fallen in with her, not out of any religious feeling like hers, but because the few times I tried it, the alcohol muffled up my head and blunted my thoughts. I didn’t like the screen it lowered between me and the world.

  “I don’t—” I begin.

  “We’d both love a sherry.” Rubio sidles up beside me. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good lad.” The old man winks at Rubio and turns away.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss. “I don’t want a drink.”

  “You do when the head of telemetry offers.” He keeps his eyes on the old man splashing red liquid into two more tumblers.

  “But I—”

  “You don’t have to drink it. You just have to let him fix it for you.” Rubio rolls his eyes. “Honestly, memsahib, an upper cruster like you, I’d have thought you’ve been to your share of these things.”

  “I keep telling you, I’m not—” But the telemetry officer and his pompadour return with our drinks.

  “Thank you.” Rubio smiles and raises his glass to take a sip.

  “Thanks,” I mumble after him.

  “What a lovely sari.” The officer smiles as he hands over my drink. “Miss . . . ?”

  “Guiteau,” I say. “Science Specialist.”

  “Guiteau.” His smile spreads like butter. He gestures at my sari. “My colleagues and I are honored by your knowledge of our homeland. You must have gone to quite a lot of effort to procure such a fine piece.”

  His words hit me before I have a chance to brace myself. I stare at him, fighting to keep my face blank. Senior officers make the lab assignments. I’ve come to expect this sort of thing from Rubio, but the senior officers? Even the ones from my own country? Surely they can see I’m one of them, not an outsider trying to weasel my way into their good graces.

  I shift from one foot to the other. “Not really.” The sari came from a big, airy shop across the street from the one in South Mumbai where Soraya bought my school uniforms. It was only a twenty-minute lev train ride from our house. “Not much trouble at all.”

  “Guiteau’s from India herself.” Rubio volunteers. “Chennai, yeah?”

  I scowl down into my sherry. “Mumbai.”

  “Ah, yes?” The officer blinks and looks me over more closely. “I would never have imagined.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him, the words lashing out before I can stop them. “What does that mean?”

  An awkward silence follows. Stupid, stupid, Guiteau. I should have kept my tongue, taken a drink, anything other than biting the head off one of the officers. I grip the slick sides of my glass.

  “Nothing.” The head of telemetry gives me a tight little smile. “Nothing at all. If you’ll excuse me . . .” He backs away with a little bow and melts into the crowd.

  “Smooth,” Rubio mutters.

  “I didn’t ask for your help,” I snap back. I don’t know why everything is coming out angry when all I feel is hurt, those million little scratches adding up to a deeper wound.

  “Heaven forbid anyone should try to help the great Memsahib Guiteau.” He swirls what’s left of his sherry around in the bottom of his glass and throws it back in one gulp.

  “I told you.” I grit my teeth. “Stop calling me—”
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  Suddenly the officers’ laughter fizzles out behind us, and silence slices through the room. Something acrid curdles the air. Rubio’s mouth opens, his gaze fixed on something behind me. I turn. Cassia stands on the threshold, stinking of smoke and dressed in the same soot-stained clothes she wore when she carried Milah from the smoldering ship. I hadn’t taken much notice of them before, in all the chaos. She wears a dark gray quilted jacket and a kilt with knife-sharp pleats over black trousers and boots. Her hair fans out in wild curls, her freckles have almost disappeared in the dangerous red flush creeping up from her neck, and the look in her eyes says that if she could, she would burn this whole room, this whole ship, and everyone in it, to cinders.

  Chapter 5

  A man with Cassia’s same honey hair—the lanky one who was first out of their burning vessel—waits behind her, in clean blue scrubs from the medical ward.

  “Mr. Kaldero.” Commander Dhar emerges from the knot of officers near the bar. She smiles in welcome “Ms. Kaldero. We’re so glad you’ve accepted our invitation.”

  “Thank you.” The man takes her proffered hand. “Please, call me Ezar.”

  “It’s captain.” Cassia corrects him with a harsh look. “Captain Kaldero. Not Ezar.”

  “For now.” Ezar offers an apologetic smile. “Only until our father’s well again.”

  “Of course,” our commander agrees without missing a beat.

  All the other officers and guests exchange the same pitying look. Captain of what?

  “Won’t you please have a seat?” Commander Dhar gestures to the dining table. “Now we’re all here, we can begin.”

  Cassia drops into the nearest chair and scowls down the table while the rest of us find our seats. The officer to her left shifts his chair ever so slightly away from her. There’s no escaping the odor that follows her, even on my side of the table, but apparently we’re all going to follow the commander’s lead and ignore it. Cassia stares at each of us in turn, as if daring us to comment on the state of her clothes. Her brows lift slightly when she comes to me—suddenly more hurt than angry—and then batten down again.

  I swallow down the knot in my throat. How must this scene look to her, all of us laughing and drinking while the dakait fly her brother farther and farther into the Deep? She frowns down at the porcelain plate in front of her. My insides churn. Here I am moping around, feeling sorry for myself about the head of telemetry mistaking me for a foreigner, when she’s the one who’s truly lost something.

  Look at me, I think. Please, look at me. If she would only look my way, she could at least see the apology in my eyes. I’m not part of this. I didn’t ask to be here. But she doesn’t.

  The food comes in waves, served by the officers’ stewards. Crispy paratha bread stuffed with spiced potatoes. Chickpea-encrusted pakoras, sweet, minty yogurt raita, green chutneys, mango chutneys, and platters of saffron-scented rice. Fried paneer cheese, for the vegetarians among us, and lamb vindaloo for the rest. Then stewed tamarinds and cardamom-laced kulfi, sweet and cold. The rest of our shipmates are eating plain chickpea chole or lentil stew with naan in the mess halls tonight, but part of me wishes I was there instead. I can hardly bring myself to raise a fork to my mouth.

  I lean over to Rubio, seated beside me. “Do they eat like this every day?”

  He shrugs. “What do you care? Just make the most of it.” He forks a tender bit of lamb into his mouth and closes his eyes. “Augh. Heaven.”

  “Specialist Guiteau.” Commander Dhar pushes aside her near-empty plate and leans forward, apparently still intent on maintaining the illusion that everything is normal. “I heard you went out of your way to help welcome our guests today.”

  I glance down the table at Cassia. Our eyes lock for a brief second.

  “I didn’t do much, ma’am.” I lower my fork, suddenly queasy. Is that really why I’m here, after everything that happened? The chirkut cat? “I’m sure Mr. Rubio’s contribution was much more important.”

  “Never.” Rubio leans forward on his elbows, eyes glinting, and aims one of his charming smiles at the commander. “We pilots get more than our fair share of glory.”

  Commander Dhar smiles, pleased. “Specialist Guiteau was instrumental in apprehending one of the more wayward members of Captain Kaldero’s crew.” Her voice lifts with humor.

  A laugh makes the rounds among the senior officers. I look up, mortified. Never mind how Rubio is going to find out about my cat-wrangling skills; I doubt Cassia and her family are going to find any part of today’s ordeal funny. What is the commander thinking? Now would be an excellent time for a minor hull breach or a ventilation systems failure. Something small, but enough to send everyone scurrying to security stations.

  “Really?” Rubio turns to me, one eyebrow quirked. “Who?”

  “Tibbet,” I mutter, sinking down in my chair.

  “Who?” he frowns.

  “Tibbet.” I clear my throat. “The . . . um . . . the ship’s cat.”

  “The cat?” Rubio looks like someone has handed him a million rupaye and a medal for Interstellar Gossip Hunter Laureate.

  My face goes hot as a Mumbai sidewalk. If he and the commander weren’t both staring at me, I would crawl under the table and die.

  “Do tell us about it, Specialist.” Commander Dhar smiles. “I’m sure everyone could use a little levity after today’s drama.”

  “I . . . um . . .” I shoot a miserable look at Cassia. This wasn’t my idea. Behind her, Dr. Osmani titters as the head of telemetry whispers something in her ear.

  Cassia slams her fork down on the table and pushes back her chair. “Commander Dhar. We didn’t come here for levity. We came to figure out what we’re going to do about my brother.” She plants her hands on the table and leans forward. “Are you going to help us, or are you going to drink yourself into a stupor, like everyone else here?”

  A shocked silence runs down the table. Dr. Osmani presses a napkin to her lips and raises an eyebrow. I know that look. Uncouth, she’s thinking. My discomfort vaporizes into hot, white anger. Suddenly, I don’t give a damn about what that woman thinks anymore, world-renowned bioengineer or no. Why did I ever care about pleasing her in the first place?

  Captain Ezar clears his throat and steps into the silence. “What my sister means is, while we appreciate your hospitality, Commander, we have problems a meal won’t solve.”

  “Yes, of course.” Commander Dhar sobers. “Forgive me. We’ll be approaching Ceres Station in a few days. We can spare a shuttle to take you there and help you book passage to your home station.”

  Cassia’s eyes go wide, as if she’s choked on a chicken bone. I cringe. I don’t know much about Rovers, but the one thing I do know is that they skip from planet to station, picking up small jobs as they go. Surely someone should have briefed the commander about that.

  Ezar shakes his head. “Thank you, but our ship was our home.”

  “Then you’re welcome to stay aboard with us and try to repair it,” the commander says without blinking. “You’ll have whatever help we can give. Techs, engineers, equipment—”

  “But what about our brother?” Cassia cuts in again.

  The commander’s face softens. “We’re truly sorry for your loss. We can hold a memorial service once your father has recovered, of course, or sooner, if you prefer. If there was anything more we could do—”

  “He’s not lost.” Cassia’s clutches the edge of the table. “He was taken. And there is something you could do.”

  Commander Dhar stiffens. “Changing this ship’s course isn’t as small a matter as you seem to think, Ms. Kaldero.” Her careful diplomacy is slipping.

  “I’m not asking that,” Cassia says. “But you have fighters. Couldn’t you spare some of them to track the dakait down and bring him back?”

  The senior security chief at the opposite end of the table clears his throat. “I wouldn’t advise that, Commander. Without a full complement of fighters, you leave the ship vulnerable to
attack. That’s twelve thousand lives at stake, for the sake of one boy.”

  Rubio nods in agreement.

  Cassia glowers at them. “He’s not just one boy, he’s my brother. He’s Milah’s father.” Her voice breaks on the last word.

  “Cassia,” Ezar says, low and warning. He reaches for her wrist.

  “No.” She pulls away from him. “I won’t stand by and let them take him. I’m not a coward, like some people. I’ll find a way.” She rakes her eyes over each of us, stopping half a second on me, and then whirls on her heel and storms from the room.

  A moment of stunned silence follows.

  Finally Ezar clears his throat and glances apologetically at Commander Dhar. “Forgive us, Commander. My sister, she’s young. Nethanel wasn’t just her brother; he was her best friend. This whole experience has . . .” He pauses, searching for the right word. “It’s shaken her.”

  “No apologies, Captain, please.” Commander Dhar waves his concern away, and with that, the room lets out its breath. Dr. Osmani takes a thin sip of her sherry, and the murmur of conversation begins to grow around the room’s edges.

  “We’ve all been that young,” the commander says. “I can have one of the ship’s mental health counselors look in on her, if you like.”

  Captain Ezar blanches, as if she’s offered him a rotten fish. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

  I look from him, to the commander, to the door. No one else is going to say it. “What if . . . ,” I begin in a small voice, and then stop.

  Everyone turns their heads to me. Chaila.

  I clear my throat. I don’t want to be the one do this, but I can’t stay silent, not when I’m as much to blame as anyone for the dakait getting away.

  “What if we gave her one of the shuttles?” I say. “If we can spare it long enough to drop her at Ceres Station, couldn’t she take it and go looking for her brother herself?”

  Rubio shakes his head. “Those shuttles aren’t outfitted for long-range travel.”

  “But they could be,” I insist, the idea clicking together in my head as I speak. “We could modify one. . . .”