Afra mulled over that incident for several days before he asked Hasardar about barque cats.
“Them? Well, for one thing, they’re not allowed planetside. Those spacers keep them pretty much to themselves. Oh, they trade them between ships, to avoid inbreeding . . .”
“Inbreeding?”
“Too close a blood tie—weakens the strain, they say.”
Afra didn’t have a chance to ask more questions. He knew without asking that his parents would not permit him to have any kind of an animal. Not in the Tower enclosure. But that didn’t keep him from checking with all the bigger ships to see if they had barque cats. Spacemen were only too happy to brag about their beasts, and if Afra couldn’t touch, he could admire, and ’path them. Mostly they responded, which tickled him and actually improved his relations with all ships’ crews. “That yellow-eyed greenie that the barquies talk to” became his informal designation in Capella Port. His fascination with the animals helped ease his loneliness and he studied pedigrees, and asked questions of any barque cat crew, until he probably knew the lineage and distribution of the animals as well as any spacefarer. His most precious treasure was a packet of holographs of various dignified barquies given him by their proud owners.
But, as Afra grew older and his Talent strengthened, he became less tolerant of the parochial attitudes of his parents despite his love for them. Reared as he had been to restrain his emotions, he mentally chafed against the loving bonds and the parental assumption that he would be delighted to take a place—more exalted than theirs as a T-4 which they did not resent—in Capella Tower.
By his fifteenth year, he had begun to find ways of sliding away from his family’s supervision—first mentally when he attended the Capella training sessions and met Talents from nearby systems. Then, physically, when he would clandestinely join his student friends in the few innocent and mild diversions available on his methodistic planet: diversions his peers regarded as kid stuff. Then, psychologically, when he had the chance to add more adult tapes and disks to those Damitcha had given him. He learned vicariously what “diversions” could be had on other planets. He began to appreciate just how unsophisticated Capella was, how narrow its moral code, how much more diverse and rich other life-styles were.
He knew, as all Talents did, that the Rowan had left Altair to become Prime on the new FT&T installation on Callisto, Jupiter’s moon. He heard, for he made certain that he did, of all the personal shifts and changes required to suit the Rowan. Older members of the Capella team criticized her for such vacillation.
“Much too young to be made a Prime. That needs a mature, stable, responsible personality. What is FT&T coming to?” was the consensus. No one mentioned what was so obvious to Afra: that there were far too few Prime Talents to wait until the Rowan was “old” enough—whenever that would be—to accede to a Prime’s duties.
Afra was also perversely excited by such reports of hiring and firing. That sort of thing never happened on Capella. Once drafted to the Tower, that’s where a Talent stayed—until he or she retired after a suitable length of service.
Young Afra, now an apprentice in Capella’s Tower, was in a position to learn that the Rowan had a powerful thrust, never dumped capsules into cradles, hadn’t damaged cargo or passengers, and expedited both in- and out-system traffic despite the handicap of great Jupiter occluding Callisto at irregular intervals.
Of all the Talents surrounding the young Afra, only Hasardar seemed to appreciate his restless disquiet. Yet Afra could not bring himself to apply even to him for advice on how to break out of the stultifying future that had been arranged for him.
When he gained manly status at sixteen, he felt it was time to remind Goswina about the Rowan’s promise.
“Oh, Afra dear, you are only sixteen,” and though Afra could not doubt that she still loved him, he felt that she regarded him as little more than a child. Certainly he was no longer as important a love for her. But a mother should favor her sons above a brother. Which, sadly, he had to accept, knowing more of human relationships than he had ten years before.
“Callisto’s one of the most important Stations in the Federation,” Goswina went on, her thought backing up a tone that said she didn’t feel he should complain about his obvious future. “Besides, now that the Rowan has her own Tower, they don’t give the courses at Altair anymore.”
“But you’ve heard how often staff gets changed at Callisto. And you said that I’d complement her. You must remember that, Goswina! Maybe it’s me she’s looking for?”
Goswina gently smiled at her brother’s fervor. “Now, dear, I hear that Ementish will retire in two years. You’d do very well in that posting. In the meantime, I’ll see if you can’t work at one of the southern subsidiary links. You’d be young to be on your own in some of those isolated waystations, but you’d be getting such good practice at catching and sending.”
“Sending drones?” Afra was contemptuous. He’d been catching drones at Hasardar’s bequest for two years. The novelty had long since worn off. For his dear Goswina to recommend such a posting was a blow to his self-esteem. He was a T-4, ’path and ’port. He could do better than that for himself.
“You did rather let the family down, you know, Affie,” she went on, sweetly chiding. “Father expected you to get highest honors, not just a mere First . . .”
“Mere First?” Afra was appalled, for he had worked very hard to achieve that standard. No student in his year had been given a highest honors degree, and he had been one of only three Firsts. But, once again, he sensed that her deeper thoughts were distracted by what scholastic achievements her young sons were likely to make. “Thanks,” Afra said, trying not to sound bitter and, before she could ask him to mind his nephews, excused himself from her neatly kept house.
So he began to look at the other job opportunities for T-4’s. As all his training, all his background, had been to prepare him for the Tower, he was woefully short of the requirements for other sorts of assignments and would have to go through an apprentice year to refocus his Talent. Besides which, he wanted to get off Capella.
He toyed with the idea of asking Capella’s help: she was always pleasant to him when he encountered her in the Complex gardens or in the leisure facilities. But Capella might think him ungrateful, wanting to leave his native planet, and his request would most certainly embarrass his family.
His chance came when he heard that the Rowan had fired yet another T-4 from Callisto Station. It took every bit of credit he had in the meager personal account he had started with Damitcha’s coin to courier his profile to Callisto in the mailbag. He had spent almost a full day composing the accompanying note, and several hours before he was satisfied with the slanting lines of his calligraphy, much influenced by Damitcha’s book. The note was brief enough, mentioning only that his sister Goswina remembered the Rowan most fondly from the course at Altair and would the Rowan consider his application to Callisto Tower.
He endured suspense greater than when he had awaited his test results, and he’d thought that period had been nearly insupportable. He figured that he couldn’t expect an answer for several days, despite the speed with which FT&T mail packets were flipped about the galaxy.
Therefore, he was totally surprised when Hasardar called him on the vid.
“You’ve lucked out, lad,” Hasardar said, waving a red transport chit, the kind that meant priority handling. “Soon’s you can throw some things together, you’re to find a capsule to fit your long bones.”
“A capsule? Where’m I being sent?”
“Callisto, you lucky dog. The Rowan’s looking for a T-4 and you’re to get a trial.”
Afra stared at Hasardar, momentarily paralyzed by news he had candidly never thought to receive.
“You’re to go to Callisto, Afra?” his mother demanded in a feeble tone, as stunned as he was.
Having had no inkling as to the nature of the stationmaster’s call, Afra had not activated a privacy setting, so his parents ha
d heard every word.
“Yes, indeed, Cheswina,” Hasardar repeated, rather surprised by the Lyon family’s muted reaction to their son’s great good fortune, “Afra’s been ordered to Callisto.”
“But how would Callisto have known of Afra?” Gos asked, staring at his son as if the young man had changed shape.
Afra affected a shrug, keeping a very tight control on his thoughts, even though he knew his father couldn’t, as well as wouldn’t, stoop to probing.
“Maybe the Rowan Prime remembered her promise to Goswina,” Afra said, delighted that his voice didn’t crack with excitement. “Which is very good of her, you must admit. A promise made a decade ago. Who’d expect a Prime to remember?” He knew he was babbling as much from jubilation as a sudden fright that, in surprise, his parents might deny him the right to go.
“A Prime is exactly the person who would remember,” his father told him reproachfully. “Our family is indeed honored. But didn’t I hear that you were to be assigned to a substation? I know you’re being considered as a replacement for Ementish in our Tower.” There was a wistful emphasis on the possessive pronoun.
“Father, I can hardly refuse to go to Callisto, can I?” Afra said, pretending a reluctant obedience to a Prime directive, but he could scarcely shout out his inner joy when his parents were so distressed at his news. “I must gather travel necessities.”
“Come when you’re ready, Afra. You can be dispatched any time in the next hour,” Hasardar said. “It is only an interview,” he added tactfully and disconnected.
Cheswina was trying hard to control her dismay at the prospect of her youngest child’s abrupt departure. She did not feel that Afra was ready to meet the world on his own, though she had started looking for a suitable wife for him. There were plenty of girls who’d look favorably on her tall, thin son because he was T-4.
Gos Lyon rose from the breakfast table. “I am deeply concerned, Afra, about your being sent to such an unstable Tower situation.”
“It is just an interview,” Afra said, reinforcing his aura of dutiful compliance.
“I have heard,” Gos Lyon continued, both expression and mind radiating an anxiety that even a T-10 would have sensed, “that the Rowan is a very difficult Prime to work with. Her station personnel are constantly being changed. You would be foolish to risk . . .”
“Humiliation?” and Afra hooked the unspoken word out of Gos Lyon’s mind. “Father, there would be no shame, or blame, if the Rowan did not find me acceptable.” Afra felt every fiber of his being denying his words, every ounce of his strength shielding his true thoughts from his distraught parents. “There would, however, I feel, be an implied insult if I didn’t at least appear for this interview. I will pack a few things . . .” Indeed there was little in his room that he could not leave behind—with the exception of his holos of barque cats, his origami flock, his supply of paper, and Damitcha’s book. “. . . and report as requested to the Rowan on Callisto. It is so generous of her to remember her promise to Goswina.”
Before his control on his real feelings weakened, Afra strode from the room. As he tossed a change of clothing, Tower shoes, holos, origamis, and the book into a carisak, he probed deftly at his parents. His father was clearly stunned and most perturbed, uncomplimentarily concerned that his youngest could handle the courtesies involved. His mother’s mind was running about in circles: would Afra present himself properly, would he be restrained and mannerly, would this Rowan person appreciate that he came from a good family and had been raised to the high standards demanded of Tower personnel, would he . . .
Afra closed the sak and returned to say farewell to his parents. This moment was far harder for him than he realized—especially when he wished so fervently that he would not be back in the few days his parents felt he’d be gone.
“I shall bring honor on the family name,” he said to his father, lightly touching Gos Lyon’s chest over his heart. “Mother, I shall be extremely well-behaved,” and he caressed her cheek softly.
His throat suddenly closed and he felt an unexpected burning behind his eyes. He hadn’t anticipated such a reaction when he had wanted so desperately for so long to leave home. Much too abruptly for courtesy, he flung himself out of the house and strode as fast as his long legs would take him to the personnel launch cradles of the Station.
He’d seen the procedure often enough to know exactly what to do. The personnel carrier was comfortable enough; certainly, no different from any of the drills or the few short distances he’d been teleported. A T-10 he knew checked him, grinned as he closed and locked the cover, slapped it in casual farewell, and only then did Afra remember that he hadn’t contacted Goswina.
Gossie . . .
Afra! You have a genius for picking the most awkward moments . . .
Gossie, I’m going to Callisto . . .
Afra, Capella’s firm mental voice interrupted him then, on the count of three . . . I wish you good luck, Afra.
The next moment he knew he was being ’ported across the incredible spatial distance to Callisto. That didn’t take as long as he had somehow assumed it would. He was aware of the ’portation, the sensation of disorientation that he knew he was expected to feel. Small wonder Primes, being so sensitive, had problems even on passenger liners. He was certainly aware when the changeover was made, when Capella released his capsule into the Rowan’s control.
Afra? Did you tell your sister that the Rowan kept her promise?
The Rowan’s mental tone, so different from Capella’s, from anyone else’s he had ever encountered in his lifetime, chimed silverly in his mind. The contact had a brilliance, a vivacity, and a resonance which immediately enthralled him.
I told her I was coming to Callisto.
Well, you’re here. Come to the Tower. You are welcome, Afra. A silvery laugh shivered in his mind. You know, I think Goswina was right. We’ll see.
The cover was unlocked and a rather anxious-looking man, wearing Stationmaster’s tabs on his collar, extended a hand.
“Afra? Brian Ackerman.” The man’s anxiety began to fade as they clasped hands. “Capella grows ’em long, doesn’t it?” he said, grinning as Afra got to his feet, standing centimeters taller than the stockier stationmaster. “The Rowan can play games, but don’t let ’em get to you, huh?” he added in the tight, low tones that suggested to Afra that Brian had his mental shields in place to deliver that brief advice.
Afra nodded soberly and followed the stationmaster to the Tower. It was only then that he noticed, and swallowed against his surprise, that Callisto Tower was a domed facility. In fact, a combination of domes plus the big ship launch area with cradles that ranged from the single he’d been landed in to the immense complex metal affairs that accommodated large passenger liners or naval vessels. Above them loomed Jupiter. Afra controlled the instinct to hunch away from the giant planet. No doubt he would get accustomed to its dominating presence.
He also found himself breathing shallowly, and controlled that reaction as well: there was plenty of air on this moon.
“You get used to it,” Brian Ackerman said with a grin.
“Is it that obvious?” Afra asked.
Brian grinned. “Everyone feels the old man and, sometimes, the whole alien feel”—he made a sweep of his arm to include the domes—“can really get to the planet-bred.”
They had reached the facility by then, a Tower more by grace than fact, for there was only the one raised section that could be termed a tower. The administrative building was compact, three-storied, the only windows the clear Plexiglas that wrapped around the tower portion, giving the Prime three hundred sixty degrees of visibility. Lights under the fascia boards of the roof beamed down on the plantings, counterfeiting sunlight enough to encourage growth. Luminous Jupiter’s light did not suffice earth vegetation. To Afra’s surprise, he saw a small copse of trees at the back of the terrain-hugging residence off to the right of the Tower complex.
“The Rowan’s,” Brian said, noticing h
is glance, and then palmed the door open. “She lives here. Primes don’t travel much, you know, but she’s good about sending us downside on leave.”
Inside the main room, consoles and work tables were placed along the walls, neat enough now as personnel were apparently closing down operations. There was a buzz of friendly chat and considerable interest in Ackerman’s companion.
Afra caught mental buzz that identified him as the Capellan T-4. No longer a pint-sized greenie, Afra thought very quietly and grinned. If he suited the Rowan, he might even be able to see old Damitcha, who had retired downside to Kyoto.
Vague reassurances were aimed in his direction, some of them wistful, some of them pessimistic about his chances, but there were smiles enough to make him feel welcome.
“You were the last shipment in today,” Brian said. “Coffee?”
“Coffee?” Afra was surprised. That was a caffeinated substance which was, of course, unavailable on Capella. Something to do with the expense of it. “I wouldn’t mind a cup.” He fished that phrase out of Brian’s mind.
“D’you like it black, white, sweetened?”
“How do you like it?”
“Never had any?”
“No,” and Afra smiled ruefully.
“Well, try it black and see if you like it. Then we can add milk and sweetener to your taste.”
Afra was trying not to probe around for the Prime. There were so many people milling about, some of them flustered with the day’s tasks, some hoping to leave for home pretty soon, that he wondered if she were down here. No one matched the vivid mental picture Goswina had given him so long ago. Then he realized that the Rowan would be ten years older and more mature than that mischievous girl.
Just as Brian handed him a mug with an opaque black liquid, he knew the Rowan was in the room. He turned slightly to his left, toward the beverage dispenser that Brian had just left. Three people, a man and two women, were serving themselves. Afra’s attention fell on the slenderer female figure, a mane of unexpectedly silver hair falling to her shoulders although her face was young, and oddly attractive, though not in a classic style of beauty. He felt the first spurt—and ruthlessly suppressed that sense—of strong affinity.
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