Forge of Heaven

by C. J. Cherryh

  A little bow, not a word of answer, no love lost.

  But there existed now, for mutual reasons, a cooperative agreement.

  3

  A decent tip to the waitress, including the price of the gratis dessert, and so help him, if Ardath ever projected her pricey presence onto La Lune and ruined this place in some misguided sense of charity toward her brother's favorite restaurant, Procyon swore he'd go into mourning.

  Not that the staff would be sorry for a rise in tips. Maybe crashing dishes and no music in restaurants would be the new fashion statement. Maybe there'd be a new chic, for the slightly distressed environment.

  But Procyon doubted it. Any new ownership would fire the staff for breaking the crockery, and they'd install that damned Rhythmique apparatus, grim thought, to pound rhythm into the floor. Then they'd triple the prices of the food, advertise up and down the street, and it just wouldn't be La Lune anymore.

  Damn, damn, and damn. He should call Ardath and absolutely threaten her life if.

  "Staff alert."

  "We have an Earth ship inbound for docking. You may have noticed."

  That was loud. Impossible to ignore, blasting through the tap. He'd stopped dead on the walk, as if he'd been hit with a stun, and recovered, trying not to be conspicuous.

  Brazis himself. The voice always sounded different coming over a tap, the way people didn't naturally know what their own voices sounded like outside their heads; but it was Brazis, from the inside,

  Brazis, talking to the whole staff, no matter where they were, and Procyon looked stupidly toward the ceiling of the corridor and its bright lights. He hadn't known there were secure tap relays all the way to the bag end of Grozny.

  But of course there would be, now that he thought of it. Brazis had his agents working in all sorts of places where trouble might hang out. They had to have some way to report in, off the common tap. There might even be secure relays on other levels of the station, for all he knew, wherever Brazis might have interests.

  "Be discreet. Stay out of questionable places."

  Did La Lune fit that description? Intrigue wasn't his forte.

  "Best if you could all stay in your residences the next few days. Take this very seriously."

  The old man seemed actually worried. An Earth ship was coming into dock, and they were supposed to go home, pull the lid on, and stay there.

  All right. That was a clear and sobering order. He started walking. Home it was. No show. Eating in and living in for a few days, he could do that. He could stop by the store and pick up a few items, and he'd be fine. He certainly didn't want any trouble with admin or the old man, and reality had just jolted into his path, with an advisement that had to include police and everybody associated with the Project, a regular take-cover, as if there were something going on that threatened all of them.

  But insatiable curiosity was his profession. He wondered what unprecedented thing was going on, involving this ship from Earth, that produced this kind of order.

  He dipped into the common tap for the moment, wondering if there was any sort of news bulletin he hadn't picked up. But all he heard was talk about a garden show, and a new music shop opening on second tier. He shut it down and cast an eye to the running newsboards as he walked Grozny toward home.

  The Earth ship was coming into dock in the slow way ships did. Whatever it was, it would be here by morning.

  The rich dessert wasn't resting quite as easily on his stomach. His world was running so very well. Change wasn't good. Any change at all in things as they were wasn't good. He didn't want any Earth ship bringing emergencies and take-covers without any rumor what was going on.

  Cheese. He was out of cheese and pasta makings, his standard recipe for domestic survival, in a fancy kitchen synthesizer woefully basic in patterns, since he'd never really used it for more than caff and breakfast.

  Maybe he'd stop by the store and get one of those frozen cakes the store sold, from its own kitchen. That would fortify his spirits in his hours locked away. And it wasn't as if he wouldn't hear things: he'd gotten news the rest of the station hadn't. The Project would keep him informed. He'd hear something more, surely, when he went back on duty tomorrow morning.

  But he was in confinement, otherwise. If there was a parental potluck, he was assuredly going to miss it. That was a plus.

  He shouldn't answer any calls. And his mother would, of course, call, and then worry that she couldn't get to him.

  He should send her a note-his religious mother not, of course, having a tap-he should send something casual, like a card, to forestall her questions. He could send a courier note from the grocery.

  Short and sweet: Dear Mum and Dad, extra work at the office. I'm on mandatory overtime, a computer blowup.

  So they wouldn't possibly connect it with the inbound ship.

  Wish I could be there. Congrats. Love, Jeremy.

  Damned good thing he'd sent the crystal egg.

  Home. Thank God, Reaux thought, home past the cameras and the media hounds with a well-rehearsed statement-we have an ambassadorial visitor, and expect a brief visit and consultation-then safely, solitarily, home. The smell of Judy's grilled fish permeated the rooms as he hung his day coat in the closet. He hoped for scalloped potatoes. He hadn't had potatoes in forever.

  And a glass of white wine. Maybe two glasses. It had been a day. It had been, he remembered, two days. And he was home. Safe.

  The ship was on approach now, for docking at about 440h. It had become tomorrow's problem. Tonight his wife had decided to cook, and thanks to that decision and a small crisis with a beautician, he had the privacy and comfort of his own well-secured walls around him, instead of a restaurant where the media might insert a lens in the table bouquet. It damned sure beat takeout and a nap in the office for a second night. Whatever Judy's personal reasons, whatever fuss she was having with their teenaged daughter, it was a very good night for her to have resurrected her culinary skills.

  He found her in the kitchen, in an apron, pushing buttons on the grill and looking domestic and frustrated, her meticulous coiffure a little frayed. He came up behind her, having gotten half a surly glance, put his arms around her-still no yielding-and kissed her cheek.

  "You can pour the wine," Judy said.

  He saw the wineglasses-two-on the white tile counter. He pressed keys on the fridge: it delivered the chilled wine, and he slipped the bottle under the opener. Hiss and pop, as the wine began to breathe.

  Wonderful sound.

  "Pour it," Judy said. "Pour me one."

  Not good. Not celebratory, that was sure. He poured two full glasses and handed her one.

  "Our daughter," she began.

  "Dye didn't solve it?"

  Mistake. Judy took a deep, angry breath. And took a large gulp of the expensive wine before she set the glass down on the counter. Thump, face averted, both hands flat on the counter. "Setha. Setha, your daughter-her friends-her friends, Denny Ord and Mark Andrews."

  "I know them."

  "Clearly you don't know them well enough! They've been arrested. Swept up in a Freethinkers' dive down on Blunt!"

  A moment of panic. "Kathy wasn't involved."

  "Kathy was with me."

  "Good." Deep breath. "Good sense of her."

  "Do you understand me? Our daughter has friends in jail."

  "They're both from good families. I'm sure they were doing what all young people do at one time or another, slipping down to the Trend. She wasn't involved in it, and their parents will get them out of their mess. It'll all pass."

  "I want some support, Setha! I want some backing here!"

  "I'm sure I'll back whatever you think needs backing, but I'm operating on short information, at the moment, Judy. She wasn't with them, and I'm sure the boys haven't done anything but be in the wrong place. It will all work out."

  "You don't understand!"

  "I know I don't understand, Judy. I'm asking for information."

  "Her friends, this
Denny and Mark. I'm forbidding her to associate with these people. Forbidding her even to speak to them, ever again! I want your backing in this. I want her school sessions changed! I want her to transfer to St. Agnes!"

  "That's a little extreme, isn't it? If you haven't seen the news, Judy, a lot of people are getting swept up on Blunt at the moment. Nine-tenths of the people hauled in may be innocent, maybe even just passing on the street, and nobody's even going to notice if two teenagers got into the sweep. There's a security watch on. They're pulling in everyone who's anomalous down there, no proof these boys are actually guilty of anything at all but bad timing. I certainly don't think there's any need to pull Kathy out of a school where she's happy."

  "She's running with the wrong people, Setha! She bleaches her hair, her friends get arrested-three guesses, Setha, where she was supposed to be today, when she didn't get arrested! With them! I'll bet, with them!"

  "Judy, proportion. Proportion."

  "She's cut sessions before now to go down there! Did you know that? She's cut three sessions this month, and the school didn't report it, because they didn't think it was significant, and I just happened to see her attendance record when I excused her out today to get her hair done! That's what's going on, Setha! I can't quit my job! I refuse to quit my job because I can't trust my own daughter to be at sessions without checking up on her every minute! If I can't trust her to go to sessions or to be home when she's supposed to be home, what can I do?"

  He took a deep swallow of wine himself. "We can certainly have a talk with the school administrators about their reporting policies."

  "I stayed home from work today. I had Renee come here, and I made it abundantly clear I didn't want this bleach job talked about in the shop."

  "Did it work? The dye?"

  "It's at least better. And then when Renee left-Have you seen Kathy's closet?"

  "I-no."

  "Things that don't fit decently, low cut blouses-she's asked me for clothes money three times in the last month, and what she buys is a disgrace, an absolute disgrace, Setha! Sweaters down to here." A measurement low on Judy's own elegantly bloused bosom. Which generated a grease stain on the mauve silk to which Judy at the moment seemed oblivious. "Pants that show everything! Shoes you can't walk in! Tees with crude language and shorts that wouldn't make decent underwear! I took her shopping after Renee finished."

  "That sounds like a good thing."

  "I took her to lunch. We had a perfectly nice lunch. Then I took her down on Lebeau, to Marie Trent's."

  Judy's favorite shopping venue, where the establishment brought outfits out one at a time, modeled on live mannequins, and served tea while the systems constructed your purchase to fit your own physique and your own coloring.

  "What did we spend on this venture?"

  "Plenty! Her hair styled, a manicure, and Jeanne Lorenz jewelry. And then she didn't want the clothes once they made them. Marie Trent herself tried to explain to her that she does have too much bust and she could stand a little sculpting, and meanwhile she should deemphasize that feature with a perfectly beautiful look for her. Kathy said to Ms. Trent's face that she could do with bigger breasts and her shirts all looked like sacks. At that point, Ms. Trent said I could take her out of the shop, and I tried to, but Kathy threw a fit, a screaming fit, Setha! I was so embarrassed. I've never been so embarrassed in my life. And Kathy wouldn't leave the shop. Kathy kept saying, quote, no bitch could throw her out, and nobody could talk to her that way, and that she was your daughter."

  "God."

  "Oh, yes, your name got into this. Now, are you worried? Kathy said she knew grotesques on Blunt with more taste, this, when another customer had come into the shop! Ms. Trent threatened to call the police." Judy was shaking. She picked up the glass and almost slopped the wine over the rim getting another sip. "I can never go back there, Setha. I can never go back there. I don't think I ever want to leave the apartment again in my life!"

  "Judy." He did feel sorry for her. Glass and all, he put his arms around her. "You have to go back there. Tomorrow. I'd advise an apology to Ms. Trent and a very large purchase. Break the budget."

  "I don't know why Kathy's acting like this, Setha, I don't understand it!"

  "I'll talk to her." At the moment he had Judy in his arms and a wineglass precariously crushed against her bosom. He disengaged carefully. "Are you all right?"

  "I need you to be home and deal with this!"

  He was suddenly aware of a burnt smell. "I think the fish is done."

  "Damn!" Judy burst into tears and grabbed the oven door.

  "I'll talk to Kathy." It was an escape. Judy was about at the screaming stage herself, and it didn't do to push her to communicate. As Judy should learn about Kathy someday, except they were too much alike. Two queens couldn't possibly sit on the same throne.

  Cutting school sessions and sneaking out into the real nether-side of Blunt, however, was a serious matter. A screaming fit in Marie Trent's was serious on another level, an exposure to gossip that did his wife and daughter no good, and him no political good at all under present circumstances, with the media on the hunt and frustrated. He'd better call Marie Trent's himself, apologize profusely, and buy something extremely expensive for Judy, trusting Marie Trent had Judy's sizes in the computer.

  He could do all these things after he'd dealt with Mr. Andreas Gide, tomorrow morning, assuming the ambassador's ship arrived on schedule.

  God, Judy and Kathy could time things amazingly. One night he spent at the office, and they were immediately at each other's throats.

  He took the lift up to Kathy's hallway, walked to Kathy's door. Hesitated. Knocked.

  "Kathy. It's your father."

  "Go away!"

  "Kathy, I've got a ship from Earth on my doorstep and your mother's burning supper downstairs. We need to talk."

  "No!"

  "I heard about Marie Trent. I sympathize with your position and I'm not sure her clothes are your style, but can we possibly avoid stationwide media coverage?"

  A heavy thump. Something hit the wall. Little thumps then as bare footsteps marched to the door.

  It opened. Kathy stood there flatfooted, a beautiful teenaged girl in a gray, too-old-for-her skirt, a chic white silk blouse half-unbuttoned and hanging its tail out to the left, and her hair an unKathy-like and shocking red-brown, with her olive complexion. Behind her, the closet was a disaster area, clothes, mostly black and gray and white, flung over the bed and onto the floor, along with a confetti of fabric bits on the floor. His daughter's chest was heaving. She had a scissors in her hand.

  "She threw out all my clothes and put her damned castoffs in my closet!"

  He heaved a sigh. "We'll find your old clothes. Put down the scissors."

  "She says she put them in the disposer! Those were my favorites!. She hates me! Everybody hates me!"

  "Damn. Look, Kathy." He put a hand on her shoulder. Kathy flung it off, a hazard with the scissors. He took the implement out of her hand, reached in his pocket and extracted his wallet, and now that he had her slight attention, drew from that mesmerizing object a credit card, holding it up between them. "Kathy, I'll give you five hundred on my card. Just go buy something on your own tomorrow, without your mother. I'll excuse you out of sessions."

  Five hundred had secured his daughter's solid interest. She wiped her eyes and took the card.

  "I just don't know why she can't leave me alone."

  "I'm on your side, right down to the point you cut your sessions, which is in the school records. On that score, I have an objection. Cutting up your clothes. I can almost sympathize with that. They don't suit you."

  "I hate them!"

  "The clothes? That's evident."

  "The school. The damned school! I hate them, too!"

  "Don't use that language, please. What's the trouble?"

  "They're a bore, and they're always finding fault, no matter what I do."

  "Ippoleta Nazrani?"

  "Is a s
kinny-ass whore."

  "Language. Language, Kathy."

  "Mignette."

  "Pardon?"

  "I want to change my name. I want to change schools."

  "Why?"

  "I'm bored. I'm bored, bored, bored, bored with those fools."

  "Boredom rather well damns your own imagination, doesn't it?"

  "I don't care. I don't like always having to watch what I do, watch what I say, all because Ippoleta is so good and so sweet. She's a lump. She's just a lump. She'd wear these things! I won't!"