Peter peered about for one colleague in particular, Manuel Carreras. He had seen the astronomer briefly in the conference room and wanted to talk to him about anomalous spectrum readings he had made of Saturn's rings, particularly the E-ring. Manny had to be within ten meters of him, yet all he could see was a mass of (mostly anonymous) bobbing heads.
“You are Frondelli,” said an alto voice behind him. There was a trace of an accent he could not identify. “The youngest member of the expedition. I am Part.”
She said it as if he should know the name. Peter racked his brain as he slowly turned, trying not to throw an elbow in the stomach of the man on his left, apologizing for stepping on the toes of the woman on his right.
She was part of the medical staff, not the exploration team, he remembered. But she wasn't a medical doctor either. She was a sociologist, studying the effects of long-term confinement under extreme conditions. And there was something else, something about a controversial book or series of articles published about twenty years ago. At title popped into his consciousness: Against the Repression. Was this the woman who had given the current age one of its names? He dimly remembered other titles that had been notorious for a time: Moral Tyranny, Sexual Immortality.
He completed his turn and found himself pressed up against a woman only a few inches shorter than he was. A woman who could not possibly be the person he had been thinking of, since the author of Against the Repression had to be at least fifty, perhaps sixty, years old. Yet this woman, with her dark eyes and glossy black hair, looked hardly twenty.
And that was the explanation, of course. No one on this expedition was that young. Even for the brightest, it took longer than that to get the necessary credentials and training to be chosen for this expedition. Therefore, he was looking on an example of the horrendously expensive rejuvenation treatments that had been pioneered in Shanghai. And this was indeed Andrea Part, social critic and revolutionary.
“All of them,” Part said, speaking softly into his ear, “kept inside their laboratories for years at a time, the color bleached out of their skin by fluorescent lights—”
There was a pressure on his thigh.
“—until their flesh was as white as their hair, what was left of it.”
On the inside of his thigh.
“But we are not like that, are we? Our lives are not preserved in formaldehyde. Hot, red blood pulses through our veins. For us, no pallid passions fueled by grant applications or papers read to dozing colleagues.”
Moving up the inside of his thigh, higher and higher. Part's breath was hot against his cheek.
The siren sounded again, this time in a set of descending tones.
“And there we are,” Novak said, “even better than promised. The all-clear. Everyone's safe now.”
* * * *
iv.
From NYghtLife Online, August 21, 2058
“She stands alone in the spotlight. “All.” The word is spoken, almost as if it were the beginning of a Shakespearean soliloquy. “Or nothing at all.” The bass comes in behind her, almost inaudible yet crucial as a heartbeat. Her voice rises and falls as, one by one, the other members of the quartet join in. Yet even now, there is the sense that this is not so much a performance as a tormented declaration. It is a love song, not so much for a person, as it is an assertion of what love must be if it is to have any worthwhile validity.
“It is an assertion which requires sacrifice and you can hear the pain in her voice. There is a reason for that. The reason is—”
* * * *
“Goldie!" Angee's tracy interpreted her exclamation as a command and placed the call.
“Mornin', kid. You got some great reviews. When they weren't jumping and jiving last night, you had them in tears.”
“Goldie, did you tell the NYghtLife about my hibernation schedule?”
There was an incriminating pause. “No! Well, not exactly. I mean, people want to know where you've been. They're asking about why you're not accepting bookings for the next three months. I didn't want to offend anyone—”
“NYghtLife has spread my private life all over their review!”
“It isn't really so bad,” Goldie said defensively. “There's a lot of interest in your situation. And sympathy too. It's very romantic.”
“You make it sound like this whole thing is a publicity stunt.” Angee's voice was getting higher and starting to quaver. “I am doing this for one person and one person only.”
“Right. Right, kid. Your heart is pure. I know that. But remember what I said about the difficulty of getting you dates. We were lucky this time.”
That was the simple truth. Goldie had booked an extended stay at Holiday's and even assembled a trio, bass, drums, and reeds, which became a quartet when Angee accompanied herself on piano. It worked out better than she could have hoped. None of it might be available during her next period of wakefulness.
“And talk about luck, I have you set up with a twenty-minute slot on DoriAnne's afternoon show on the thirteenth. Her fans worship her. If only one in ten were to download your live album, it would send you to the top of the charts.”
“Goldie, I'm going back under on the seventh.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
* * * *
Peter had written his response to Angee's message while his emotions waged a civil war within him. Then he waited. He did not at first realize what he was doing. He thought he was getting acquainted with the other members of the planetary team, finding his way around the Roc, or working out on the treadmill. But one day, while checking the most recent technical journal downloads, he realized that he had been waiting for a response from Angee and becoming ever more concerned as the days went by and no message appeared.
Did I get her so angry that she has written me off? Or: Have I hurt her so badly she can't bring herself to write?
One question, though, was far worse than the others. He was convinced that he was the aggrieved party. Would anything he wrote seem like begging? Was Angee so important to him that he had to risk that sort of blow to his pride?
The answer presented itself as soon as he allowed himself to ask the question. Yes, she was unquestionably that important. He could be angry with her without wanting to forever live in the desolation he had felt when she seemed to have walked out of his life forever.
Peter blanked the screen, called up Angee's e-mail address, and began to write.
DEAR ANGEE,
I'M SORRY—no, make that I AM VERY SORRY IF MY LAST MESSAGE SOUNDED what? Terse? Angry? Hurtful? I AM VERY SORRY IF THE WORDS OF MY LAST MESSAGE HURT YOU. I WAS ANGRY. Well, obviously. I WANTED TO MAKE A SACRIFICE FOR BOTH OF US. IT HURT TO HAVE THAT SACRIFICE REJECTED, EVEN WHEN I LEARNED THAT IT WAS DONE OUT OF LOVE. I REALLY, REALLY HATE BEING MANIPULATED, EVEN FOR MY OWN GOOD.
THE QUESTION IS: DO I HATE IT SO MUCH THAT I AM GOING TO THROW AWAY THE BEST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME? NOT IF I CAN HELP IT. I HAVE CALMED DOWN ENOUGH TO REALIZE THAT YOU ARE MAKING SACRIFICES AS WELL, BOTH PERSONALLY AND PROFESSIONALLY.
PLEASE ANSWER THIS. THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN BEING AWAY FROM YOU FOR FIVE YEARS IS THINKING THAT YOU WILL NOT BE WAITING FOR ME WHEN I RETURN.
Peter read it over, considered several changes, and hit the send button. It was unsatisfactory and the best he could do.
That done, he felt a curious sense of relief. He had done everything he could. Either Angee would respond in kind—or she would not.
Nearly fifty minutes later, his screen buzzed at him and a flashing icon informed him that he had a message from Angelina Lamont. Peter frowned in confusion. His message had barely had time to reach Earth. The speed of light made it impossible for him to have a reply so soon.
DEAR PETER,
EVER SINCE GETTING YOUR LAST MESSAGE, I HAVE BEEN WONDERING WHAT I COULD SAY THAT WOULD MAKE YOU FORGIVE ME. I WAS AFRAID TO WRITE, FEARING WHATEVER I SAID WOULD JUST MAKE THINGS WORSE. NOW I HAVE DECIDED THAT IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO MAKE THINGS WORSE.
IT WOUL
D BE SO MUCH BETTER IF YOU WERE HERE AND WE COULD JUST HAVE EVERYTHING OUT. (YES, I DON'T NEED TO BE REMINDED THAT IT IS MY FAULT THAT YOU AREN'T.) ALL MY FRIENDS TELL ME THAT THE WORST THING TO DO AFTER AN ARGUMENT WITH A BOYFRIEND OR HUSBAND IS TO OFFER UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER. THEY CAN HAVE THEIR LAUGH.
SO. I WAS WRONG. FROM NOW ON, NO DOING THINGS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD. WE TELL EACH OTHER EVERYTHING AND MAKE ALL DECISIONS TOGETHER.
THAT SHOULD BE IT. LET ME KNOW IF I'M MISSING ANYTHING.
Manny heard the eruption of noise down the hall and stuck his head in. “Are you choking to death,” he inquired, “or is that supposed to be laughter?”
“I'll tell you later,” Peter said. “I have a message to write first.”
OK! I ACCEPT YOUR SURRENDER ON THE CONDITION THAT YOU ACCEPT MINE. FROM NOW ON IT'S US AGAINST THE WORLD.
* * * *
Transcript: THE DORIANNE SHOW
January 15, 2059
DORIANNE: “And now, a warm welcome please, for my very special guest, the sleeping beauty, Angee Lamont.”
Audience applause. Lamont enters stage right, frowning at her introduction for an instant. She crosses the stage as the band does the usual five bars of guest intro music and takes her seat across from DoriAnne.
DORIANNE: “It's delightful to finally have you on the show. Right now you must be the most famous woman in the country, if not the world. You and Peter Frondelli are being compared to Romeo and Juliet, Abel and [slight pause while checking her right eye monitor] uh, Lois, and all the famous lovers of myth and history. And of course with Prince Charming and the Sleeping Beauty.
“I think the most remarkable part of your story is the length of time the two of you must wait. Five years! I wouldn't think anyone could keep a relationship going under those circumstances.”
ANGEE: “I wasn't sure myself, at first. Then I found that what I was doing was not really that uncommon. In the 1800s, the families of whaling ship crews would be separated for four years at a time. During the last century, soldiers in the world wars served up to five years or more without seeing their wives.
DORIANNE: “But it must be so hard!”
ANGEE: “It is, but hard is not impossible. It's just hard. And there is another thing that Peter and I have come to realize. As difficult as this is, the idea of giving up on each other was just too painful to be considered. So you must not think that we—or at least that I am showing great discipline or virtue. Once I realized that I could not live without Peter, I just took the line of least resistance.”
DORIANNE: “Peter Frondelli sounds like he must be an extraordinary man. Can you share any of his love secrets with us?”
ANGEE: “No.”
DORIANNE (shocked): “What?”
ANGEE (smiling sweetly): “Peter is a very private man. One of the things I value most about him is that he pulls me out of the spotlight. When I am with him, I am protected in place of calm and quiet.
“Beyond that, there are some things I share with no one else. Every woman, and most men, should understand that.”
* * * *
v.
March 15,2059
It was odd, but after being nearly smothered by his colleagues in the storm cellar, Peter woke from each successive hibernation phase to a ship that seemed almost deserted. The reason was obvious. At any give time, half of the complement was asleep in the dens. As a result, there was an unprecedented amount of space and privacy for everyone who was conscious. Sometimes, going down the silent corridor to his cabin, he came close to feeling that the ship was haunted. Right now, though, after a twelve-hour stint with Manny trying to make sense of E-ring spectrographs, he was too tired to be anything other than grateful for the quiet.
He was also too tired to realize that his cabin light would not come on until the door sealed shut behind him and he was in total darkness. There was a half-familiar scent and for one brain-fogged moment he almost believed that Angee was right next to him.
“Your secrets are safe from idiot box audiences,” a low voice said, with an accent he still could not place. “But not from me. Awake sleeper.”
Lips moved up the side of his neck and fastened on his mouth. A warm body pressed him against the wall of the cabin while hands deftly worked his coverall fastenings.
“I don't think you—” Peter began, or tried to. With an invading tongue wedged between his teeth it came out more like “I doan fink oo.” In fact, it was becoming unpleasantly difficult to breath.
He raised his arms to push his assailant away, found his hands clasping warm breasts, nipples hard against his fingers. For a moment, curiosity nearly overcame caution. But then he continued resisting, impelled by the simple need to avoid asphyxiation.
The hands that had been working his coveralls ripped open the clasps and plunged in. Warm hands grasped him eagerly and then paused.
“You're ... not...” The alto voice was puzzled, almost hurt.
Peter tried unsuccessfully to stifle a sudden laugh. “No, I'm not.”
“But you appear healthy in every way. Surely you're not—”
“The Treatment,” Peter explained soberly. “I had the procedure performed when I came on board.”
“Why would you maim yourself?” Andrea Part asked. “Surely not to keep yourself faithful to that immature Earthside chanteuse. Sex is the zenith of existence, the whole point of life.”
“Actually,” Peter said, “it's a pain in the ass a lot of the time. Though I suppose that's an unfortunate choice of words.”
“It can be reversed,” Part said urgently. “It would only take a matter of hours down in sickbay.”
Peter allowed himself to consider it for a moment. “No,” he said. “I think not.”
Part's voice hardened. “Then you are nothing but a pervert. I should waste no more time on you.”
There was a rustling of cloth. The door opened, and a shadowed form in deck pants and open blouse, fled angrily into the corridor.
Peter found the rheostat and turned it up. The room looked surprisingly normal after all the commotion. He himself was a bit worse for wear. His head throbbed with each heartbeat; his lips were bleeding where they had been bitten. There were scratches on his head and face. Various other parts of his body felt bruised.
He staggered over to his medicine cabinet, feeling oddly guilty that he had not cooperated in a more satisfactory manner with his own rape.
* * * *
“You are so damn lucky, it's sickening,” Goldie said.
Angee looked up from the glowing mat that had been unrolled on the table. A three-month calendar spread across the surface. The square of each day displayed the venue in which she was performing and the group that was providing backup. Floating above the beginning of each gig was a rectangle representing the contract. By placing her finger on the rectangle, Angee could bring the contract in front of her and flip it open. The clever thing about this particular program was that the calendar appeared the same to both of them, though seated on opposite sides of the table, and by placing their fingers on the document at the same time, both could bring a copy of the contract in front of them.
“—and I don't think I go well with a big band, even though Marty Watanabe is one of the best. You know I do best in more intimate—what? Did you say something?”
“I said you were sinfully lucky.” Goldie's voice was sour. “I tell you that taking three month vacations is going to kill your career. Instead, it makes you a rare commodity and bids up your price. I tell you to be nice to DoriAnne and after you stand her up on her first invitation, you come on her show and tell her to screw herself.”
“I never said anything—”
“And what happens? Instead of your career being ruined, you spark an I Hate DoriAnne campaign that forces her to apologize to you. Who knew that so many people were so tired of her causes and video picks? We should change jobs and you become the agent, except that my voice makes chalk on blackboard sound like Nat King Cole.”
Angee reached ac
ross to her friend. “Don't talk that way. You are the only reason I am not starving. You have been setting up my dates, lining up musicians, and keeping the media away from me.
“And those are the less important things. You are the only one I can really talk to. I wake up and you orient me to what's happened in the world while I was hibernating. You reassure my folks while I'm asleep. You keep me sane while I'm waiting—”
Her voice broke. Goldie took her hand and squeezed. “I'm sorry, kid. I know it's been tough. I'm just saying that for all that, things have been working out so well for you that I can almost believe in miracles.”
“I'd throw it all away if it would get Peter back,” Angee said simply.
“I know you would. And people ought to just let you alone to wait for him. But they won't. They'll pry and say and write whatever they think will attract an audience. If you don't give them enough to fill their columns, they'll make it up.
“I don't pay any attention to that.”
“You may have to,” Goldie said unhappily. “The gossips are carrying a story that seems to have originated somewhere on the Roc. They are saying that Peter has just been using you for cover, that his real interest is in young boys.”
She watched Angee apprehensively for her reaction. For an instant, Angee's face was completely blank. Then she burst out laughing so strongly that she nearly fell off her chair. It took nearly five minutes for her to calm down sufficiently to speak again.
* * * *
vi.
December 20, 2059
None of the pictures relayed to Earth did justice to Saturn. It had a subtle beauty, made impressionistic by upper atmospheric haze, nothing like the flamboyantly bruised visage of Jupiter. The rings stretched out to either side of the half-lit face, thin as a Euclidean line segment, dotted by moons. Only the curved shadows thrown on the northern hemisphere gave any hint of their real structure. Titan, which the Roc was orbiting, was on the other side of the spacecraft, but its absence was not much of a loss, since all that could be seen in wavelengths visible to the human eye was a dull, orange haze.
“I heard the news,” Carerras said, clapping Peter on the shoulder. “Tough luck. How did Novak explain not making his number one assistant part of the Titan landing team?”
Analog SFF, May 2009 Page 17
