Damia

by Anne McCaffrey

  Although the girl wasn’t very tall and had a pale rather than slightly greenish skin tone, she had the lean look of a Capellan. But there was no doubt in his mind that she was the Rowan.

  Full marks to you, Goswina’s brother Afra, she said and, audibly excusing herself from her companions, she jerked her head toward the steps to the Tower level. If you’ll join me?

  Her very casual manner was quite a change from Capella’s formality.

  I had my craw full of protocol and elaborate convention on Altair, Afra. I run a Tower, not a tea party. I also don’t usually ’path conversations. For Goswina’s brother I’ll make an exception today.

  He followed her up the winding metal steps, a bit surprised that she didn’t have a ramp as Capella did.

  “You’ll find I’m not at all like Capella, or Siglen, or any of the other Primes you might have met.”

  “Capella’s the only one I’ve ever met.”

  They were in the Tower room now, with her conformable couch, the various monitors and consoles that were standard furniture for a Prime’s domain. Great Jupiter was visible, and the stark moonscape beyond the FT&T domes. The Rowan gestured for him to take the seat by the auxiliary console. Then she leaned back against the outer wall and cocked her head. He felt no contact from her mind, but, unless he was completely mistaken, there was a bond growing between them. He hoped so, for he had never met anyone like her before—so radiant, so vital, so vivid. Strength was an almost visible aura about her. And his father had always maintained that Primes contained themselves?

  “I’d take you for Goswina’s brother. You’ve the look of her. Sort of.” She smiled, an expression that only increased his attraction for her. “What did they say when you got my message?”

  “They were surprised. Then my father said that a Prime would remember a promise.”

  “Ah!” Her grin was mischievous. “So your family didn’t know you had applied to me directly?”

  Afra shook his head, unable, however, to break eye contact. So he gave a rueful shrug and attempted a self-deprecating smile.

  “Aren’t you supposed to take up a position at Capella Tower?”

  “When Ementish retires.”

  Her gray eyes danced. “And that fills you with so much elation that you had to give me first refusal?”

  “Capella is a good planet . . .”

  “Goody good, I’d’ve said . . .”

  Afra cocked an eyebrow at her qualification. “When we took the Tower course, I met Talents from other systems.” He shrugged again, not willing to belittle his home world.

  “And you wanted to see more of the galaxy?”

  “One doesn’t see much of the galaxy as a T-4 in a Tower, but I thought that it might be . . . challenging to spend some time elsewhere.”

  She gave him a curious look. “What are those odd shapes in your carisak?”

  It was the last question he expected of her, but he also realized that the Rowan would be unpredictable.

  “Origami. The ancient art of paper folding.” Not at all certain he should act brashly, he ’ported his favorite swan—in a silvery white paper—into his hand and offered it to her.

  With a wondering smile on her face, she took it from him, turning the bird this way and that, delicately opening its wings.

  “How charming! And you just fold paper into that shape.”

  “What’s your favorite color?” he asked.

  “Red. Crimson red!”

  He extracted a red sheet from his supply and, when he had it in his hands, he rapidly folded a flower, which he offered her with a little bow.

  “Well, that’s not a mental exercise at all, is it?” she said, examining the flower. “Flip, flop and you’ve got a small masterpiece. Is that what people do on Capella for entertainment?”

  Afra shook his head. “A freighter chief named Damitcha taught me—while Goswina was on Altair. I missed her, you see. Origami helped.”

  The Rowan’s expression altered to one of compassionate apology—and he felt the lightest mental touch, reinforcing it.

  “She missed you, too, Afra. I heard all about you.”

  “And you remembered your promise.”

  “Not quite, Afra,” she said, propelling herself toward her chair and whirling around to seat herself. “Because there’s no course on Altair anymore and you’re already trained. So let’s see if Goswina was right, that our minds will complement each other in the running of this Tower!”

  She let him hear what she then said. Reidinger, I’ve found me another T-4. Afra of Capella. He folds paper! Which is at least original. And he keeps holos of barque cats.

  So she’d seen those, too, in her mental sorting of his belongings.

  ROWAN!

  Afra winced as the bellow singed his mind edges. The Rowan grinned mischievously at him and signaled that he wasn’t to mind the noisiness.

  Well, he can’t be any worse than the one who was certain that Jupiter would fall on her. Or that absolute dork from Betelgeuse who couldn’t take the least bit of teasing. Much less that martinet you thought was just the sort to steady me while I was learning my job! No, this time, Reidinger, I get to pick one. And that’s that!

  Then she winked at Afra. “I had an illegal barque cat once. I named him Rascal and he was, but the ungrateful feline deserted me on the liner that brought me here.” She gave a little shrug and a wry grin. “Not that I blamed him, the way I carried on.”

  “They hear us, you know,” Afra said, thinking that a safe enough remark.

  She looked surprised. “I suspected Rascal did. We enjoyed a friendly empathy, but has one spoken to you?”

  “Hmmmmm-rowwww!”

  The Rowan threw back her head and laughed with delight.

  “You’re one up on me then, Afra.”

  “Not for long, I think,” he replied, pure relief at surviving these initial moments jolting the uncharacteristic retort from mind to mouth.

  She laughed again, idly swinging the chair from side to side. “Shall we keep score?”

  “How much can I lose before you fire me out of here?” He didn’t believe it was himself answering a Prime like this.

  “Well, I just don’t know, Afra. The problem hasn’t come up before,” she said, winking. “The others have been such blockheads, they couldn’t have capped a phrase if I’d handed them the hat! And,” she waggled a finger at him, “if you hold your own against Reidinger when he vets you, you’ll do yourself a favor there, too. Enough of this! I’ll show you your quarters.” She slid gracefully to her feet and beckoned him to follow. “We’re off for the next six hours, you know, so there’s time for you to settle in before the Station’s operational again. Then we’ll just see how good Goswina’s little brother Afra is!”

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  CALLISTO personnel had better quarters than Afra expected for a moon installation. He was frequently told that Callisto had been state-of-the-art when it was constructed eight years ago. Every new safeguard device since then was immediately incorporated into Callisto’s dome. FT&T was not risking its Callisto Prime, and her station crew benefited.

  Married personnel had quarters with their own garden and recreations area under their secondary dome. Single staff had two-room apartments plus a large dining and recreational lounge. A well-fitted gymnasium center used by everyone occupied another secondary dome, reached by a short tunnel, though the locks on both ends were standing open. The Tower facility, small capsule cradles plus the generators, fuel tanks, and main water storage, was mainly underground with access in a third small dome: the passenger and naval vessel size cradles under a fourth with airlocks and auxiliary tunnels to the main facilities. The Rowan’s private residence with its small copse and garden, off to one side of the main complex, was under a fifth, while the main dome offered primary shielding to all. Emergency upright shelters were strategically situated in case of a major strike penetrating the first and second domes, and each living unit automatically sealed and
had emergency oxygen supplies for twenty-four hours: the maximum time estimated for help to arrive from other stations in the system.

  Afra found his apartment more than adequate, even to an imitation fire on a hearth in the lounge room, flanked by two conformable chairs and a rather battered low table. To one side of the mantel was a complicated orological device that displayed Earth time and Callisto’s time in terms of revolutions about its primary, and a second orery depicting Callisto’s orbit around immense Jupiter as well as the erratic orbits of the other moons. If he read it correctly, he had another five hours and fifteen minutes before he should report back to the Tower.

  Although there were cupboards, shelving for tape, vids, gamescreens, and far more closets than he needed for his one pitiful carisak, there was plenty of space for other furniture, suggesting he could make his own choices of additional pieces.

  The ubiquitous communications desk was exceedingly well appointed with a patently brand-new console and auxiliaries. When he turned it on, an introductory message filled the screen, inviting him to initiate personal codes and install any programs. He was informed that he had a monthly limit of free calls to his home system, that he could order necessities from Earth on the weekly supply drones at no cost or immediately at a special rate for FT&T employees. Facetiously keying a query on his credit balance, he gasped in surprise at the amount of draw he was permitted for an out-of-system transfer, the allowance provided for redecorating and furnishing his quarters, and how to obtain downside authorization and credit facilities for FT&T personnel.

  “Another matter no one ever explained to me,” he murmured. “Or maybe the parents expected to manage my credit for me, too.”

  He placed the barque cat holos on one shelf above the console and his flock of origamis on the next, fussing over their placement. He leaned the calligraphy book against the side of the third shelf and snorted. Well, he suspected that he’d find plenty to fill out those shelves.

  He investigated the bathroom, noticing the warning of daily personal water allotment, peeked into the tiny refreshment cabinet, which included many exotic choices for a Capellan methody lad, and went on into the sleeping room. The bed was as firm as he liked it and big enough for several bodies the size of his. That opened up another vista for him, heretofore scrupulously unmentioned, even if his parents had been considering the stabilizing influence of a nice girl for him. He grinned. Earth was not that far away and Brian Ackerman had mentioned that downside trips were possible. Tempting!

  Then he noticed the second orological display.

  “They don’t risk your forgetting the time around here, do they?” Even in this privacy, he felt a trifle silly talking to himself. “I need some music.”

  If you will name your preferences, these can be supplied on a select or random basis, said a velvet alto, which could be either male or female.

  Delighted to have a voice address in-room system, Afra rattled off a list of his favorites and the soft string instrumental opus began the moment he paused to decide what else he’d like to have on tap.

  “Thank you.”

  Courtesy is not required.

  “It was where I was reared,” Afra replied bluntly.

  Is a response required?

  “It would be appreciated. I promised my parents to remember my manners.” Then he covered his mouth against a laugh. All those drills on courtesy and he had a v.a. system to use them on? Even Goswina wouldn’t be amused by the irony.

  Thank you, the alto voice responded.

  “You’re welcome,” Afra said.

  Then he noticed the time he’d been wasting. He dumped the remainder of the carisak’s contents on the bed and, taking his kit, clean clothes, and station shoes, went to the bathroom for a quick shower before his first experience of duty on Callisto.

  Fortunately for his performance that day, Afra could handle all Tower procedures with routine efficiency, almost without thinking about the intricacies required, but he had never worked at even half the pace required of Callisto personnel.

  We are the main forwarding facility, the Rowan sent him halfway through the hectic period. We handle more traffic than any other Tower. You’re doing fine. Don’t fret. I don’t think we’ll wear you down today.

  Huh! Afra restricted comment to that one challenging monosyllable and kept right on working. It was exhilarating, to say the least, for his duties as the Rowan’s second were to be sure of the orderly flow of destination placements, weights of cargo whether animate or inanimate, and special instructions from the tertiary rank.

  Cargo-handlers (7’s and 8’s of kinetic Talent) who took travel documents from cargo pods of all sizes, single and double personal capsules, and the various larger transit vessels, “lifted” them into the Tower for sorting according to priority. 10’s scurried about the landing field making certain all relays arrived in good condition, and always checking animate cargoes. Inside the Tower, 6’s and 5’s assigned priorities and found destination coordinates. Brian Ackerman made sure there were no delays in those duties and established that everything Afra, in turn, passed up to the Rowan was in order, and kept the flow smooth to the Prime.

  On a busy day, and Callisto was always busy, Afra, as the T-4, was also required to reduce the burden on the Prime by expediting any inanimate cargo to reserve her capability for heavier, delicate and animate transfers. Afra could gestalt with the generations, albeit without the same range and strength as the Rowan. He had always secretly felt that he had more range than he’d ever been permitted to use on Capella—if only because he felt he could. Afra was also too well disciplined a Talent to be foolishly overconfident. But, working with the Rowan, he became aware of a sense of extended resources and deeper strengths, which he had never experienced working with any other Talent. It was as if the Rowan added a new dimension to his Talent.

  And that, my dear Afra, is exactly how it should feel between Prime and her backup, the Rowan said before shifting a heavy freighter. If it isn’t there to begin with, it won’t come, not for all the wishing in the world.

  That was enough to give Afra a second wind, for the pace was beginning to get to him. Inhaling deeply, he carried on.

  When the last drone had been spun out to its destination and the generator gauges on his board dropped down to zero, Afra was too expended momentarily to move. The muscles along his back ached and he had a mild throbbing at his temples. Then he grinned to himself. He’d survived. He hadn’t made a single error—that he could think of. He felt someone standing beside him and, craning his head to the right, saw the Rowan grinning at him. Lightly she touched his shoulder, just enough for him to sense a mental flavor of deep green and mintiness from her.

  “We did good work today.” Then one of her arched black eyebrows lifted sardonically. “That is, if you can keep up this sort of pace.”

  “Try me,” Afra said, taking up the challenge. “Just try me.”

  “You just bet I will,” but her grin got broader and eyes twinkled. “C’mon, I owe you a cup of coffee. Anyone want to go downside? We’re in occlusion.”

  A chorus of “I do’s” and waving hands answered that offer.

  “Grab what you need and find a capsule,” the Rowan said. “I won’t send you down yet, Afra. But plan on next full occlusion. Reidinger wants to interview you. Oh,” when she felt him tense, “don’t worry about him. I,” and she jerked her thumb at her chest, “say who works in my Tower.”

  Lightly she climbed back up into the Tower and although the generator gauges did not so much as flicker, Afra could see the capsules arrowing away from Callisto in Earth’s direction.

  You’ve seven to catch down there, Reidinger, she said.

  THEY’RE NOT SCHEDULED, was the roar from the Earth Prime.

  Let your apprentices catch. My crew need the downside time.

  So, how did that Capellan manage? Reidinger added, and his words echoed in Afra’s mind, confusing the Capellan until he realized that the Rowan was backfiring the conversa
tion. Capella would never have done that, Afra thought, astonished, and held his breath for her reply.

  He held up well today. I’ll give him a three-month trial.

  Not before I’ve seen him, you won’t!

  Sure thing, and the Rowan’s tone was not only saucy but very confident.

  Most of the Tower personnel disappeared when the Rowan made her transportation offer. Only Brian Ackerman remained, discussing a few matters quietly with Joe Toglia. Afra continued to sit where he was. He felt drained and even the few steps to the beverage dispenser seemed too far, but he could certainly use a caffeine boost.

  Then he saw one cup move under the spout, the dark liquid splash in and move aside for a second cup to be filled with sugar and milk added. As the cups made their way to his station, the Rowan came down the stairs again.

  “Thanks,” he said with a wry grin of appreciation as she approached. She caught the back of a chair and, hauling it behind her, sat down beside him. He lifted his cup and she touched hers to it in the traditional fashion. “Thanks a lot, Rowan.”

  She gave him a sideways glance. “Couple of things we got to straighten between us right away, Afra. Just let me know when you need a boost and tell me when you’ve foozled. I prefer to correct as soon as possible. Understand that and we could make a good team.”

  Afra nodded his agreement, mentally too tired to project after all the exercise he’d had the past six hours. She continued to sit and sip at her coffee, the silence between them comfortable. In fact, Afra did not remember being so comfortable with anyone else before—except with Goswina when he was a boy. And before, he added deep in his mind, Goswina went to Altair. By the time they had finished their drinks, he felt somewhat restored. The Rowan recognized it, too, her gray eyes sympathetic.