“But when am I—” He stopped when he heard the water start to run in the bathroom again. Evidently, he was not meant to do any talking.
“If you have questions,” the voice said, “you may choose them from the menu when they appear.” As if that captain would know what questions he wanted to ask. But after another paragraph of careful explanation of his faults, he found a list of questions. He chose the one about the canisters, because he really couldn’t understand why repainting them had been so bad. They were just disaster-drill fakes anyway. What did it matter if one of them turned out to have red smoke, blue smoke, or a bad smell?
His comunit chimed. Ronnie leaped for it. This time the voice that came out was the captain’s.
“You asked about the canisters,” she said. “Do you know the chemical compounds in each?”
“You—no.” He had caught his first angry response in mid-leap.
“Then you are not aware that some of the compounds are toxic, and some are flammable?”
“They are?” He could not have concealed his surprise if he’d tried. They were for drills—the label said so—and things used in drills were harmless, weren’t they?
She had a human chuckle, which he didn’t want to admit was pleasant. “Tell you what—I’ll put the contents up on your screen in detail. Did you have any system in mind when you repainted those canisters, or did you do it at random?”
“Well . . .” Ronnie tried to remember. “Mostly I did them the color of the ones in the next box. That way I always knew which ones I’d done. There were a few, though, that were loose, and I just made ’em all orange with a brown stripe. Most of those were blue and . . . and two green stripes, but one was white and gray.”
“Then you switched the box labels?”
“Yeah . . . how’d you know I’d repainted them?” He had been so careful; he could not believe she’d noticed.
“How do you think I knew which storage bay you were in with George?” she asked. He had no idea. He’d assumed she’d messed with all the storage bays. “Think about it,” she said. The com went dead. He didn’t even bother to try calling out again.
The screen had changed; now it was full of chemical formulas and reaction characteristics. Ronnie fought his way through it. He was actually supposed to know most of this; he remembered having seen it in class. But he had never had a good reason to put it together. He caught himself muttering aloud, and gave the bathroom a nervous look, but the toilet didn’t burp. “ . . . oxidizes the metallic powder and . . . gosh!” The stuff would really burn. Really burn. “I could have built a damn bomb!” he said, almost gleeful for a moment. Silence mocked him. He didn’t need a warning roar from the plumbing or a smart remark from the computer to point out that setting off a bomb on a spaceship in deep space was not an intelligent thing to do, and setting one off without even knowing it was, if possible, stupider.
He felt cold, almost as cold as he’d felt when he realized he’d intruded on the bridge during jump transition. If the captain had picked another canister—the gray and white one he’d painted orange and red, rather than the blue and gray he’d painted black and green—it could have been a real emergency. A real disaster. A real—another look at the screen to confirm it—end of the whole trip. For everyone.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the silent cabin. “I didn’t mean to cause any real trouble.”
Instead of an answer, the screen changed yet again, to show a transcript of what he’d said to George, every word. It looked worse, far worse, in glowing script on the screen. It looked as if he had indeed wanted to cause trouble—to harrass and humiliate the captain, to frighten and divide the crew. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, but he knew he had meant it that way, back when he thought it was safe to mean it that way.
The food, when it came, was bland and boring.
* * *
Heris climbed off the simulator after a vigorous ride across country on a large black hunter; every time she took the helmet off, the simulator startled her with its metal and plastic parts. Cecelia nodded at her.
“Very good indeed. You’ll certainly qualify for one of the mid-level hunts. Depending on who’s here, you might even be with me for a run or two.”
“Are you sure you want to drag me along?” Heris asked. “I know it’s not—”
“It’s not common, but it’s not unheard of, and anyway I do as I like. It’s one of the perks. Bunny won’t mind, as long as you can ride decently and don’t cause trouble, which you won’t. I’ll enjoy having you to talk with—there are few enough single women, and I’m past the point where the men want to talk to me.”
Heris was not sure she liked the assumption that she herself was also past that point . . . but it was true, she wasn’t on the prowl. She wasn’t over losing her other ship yet—though she could now think of it as “the other ship” and not the only one—and she would have to get her crew—and certain members of it—out of her mind before she could respond to advances. If anyone made them.
“What’s the matter?” Cecelia asked. “Don’t you want to go? Would you rather hang around Hospitality Bay with the other captains?”
“No!” She said it more forcefully than she meant to. “I’m sorry—the thought of those other captains has haunted me all along. I hate that. And yes, I would love to see what an estate set up for fox hunting looks like. It’s just—I didn’t want you to think you had to do it, because you said it in front of Ronnie.”
“Nonsense. I said it because I wanted to; Ronnie’s opinion is unimportant.” Cecelia looked hard at her captain. “And by the way, how is that young man?”
“Perfectly healthy.” That was true, if incomplete. He wasn’t even that bored, because she had him doing the work he should have done in his basic classes. Math, chemistry, biochemistry, ship systems, military history, tactics. . . . When he kept his mind on it, all his plumbing worked and his food arrived regularly, and the lights worked. When he threw a tantrum—and he hadn’t thrown one in the last several days, was he learning?—he found himself dealing with other problems, and the work still to do afterwards. “He may be rejoining you shortly, if you’ve no objection.”
“What have you done, chained him in the ’ponics to dig potatoes?” Then she held up her hands. “No, don’t tell me—I don’t want to know. But I shall be fascinated to see what happens.”
“So shall I,” said Heris. She had found him more interesting than she’d expected, in the rare moments she tutored him over the com herself. He had a supple, energetic intelligence that would have rewarded good initial training. It was a shame that no one had ever made him work before. He could have been good enough for the Regular Space Service.
* * *
Ronnie reappeared at breakfast one morning, smiling pleasantly. Cecelia, at Heris’s suggestion, had begun breakfasting with the young people some days before. This way, Heris had said, the collusion would be marginally less evident. She noticed that Ronnie was clean, dressed neatly, and showed no visible bruises—of which she approved—and the sulky expression she disliked no longer marred his face.
“Well?” George said. “Tell all.”
“All of what?” Ronnie looked over the toast rack and chose whole wheat with raisins.
“You said you were up to something.” George looked at the others for support, but they weren’t playing up. “You said you were—”
Ronnie looked at him, a bland good-humored look. “I’ve said many things, George, which aren’t breakfast conversation. And I’m hungry.” He smiled at Cecelia. “Excuse me, Aunt Cecelia—could I have some of that curry?”
Cecelia smiled back. Whatever had happened, she wasn’t going to interfere with it. “Certainly. I hope you haven’t been ill. . . .”
“Not at all.” He engaged himself with the curry, and the variety of other edibles that Cecelia considered appropriate to breakfast with company. George opened and shut his mouth twice, then shrugged and went on eating omelet. Buttons, never very forthcomin
g in the morning, finished nibbling toast, excused himself, and went away; the three young women, after glancing several times from Ronnie to his aunt and back, also left. Cecelia ate her usual large breakfast, trying to ignore all the signals they were trying to pass so obviously. Finally only George and Ronnie were left, Ronnie eating steadily, as if to make up for many lost meals, and George in spurts, eyeing Ronnie. Cecelia struggled not to laugh. It was, after all, ridiculous. There was George, trying to protect Ronnie (too little and too late) from whatever horrors an elderly aunt could inflict on him. Finally she decided to intervene, before Ronnie hurt himself overeating, or George had a stroke.
“I am not planning to harm him, you know,” she said to George. George turned bright red and nearly choked on a muffin.
“She’s quite right,” Ronnie said, in the same pleasant tone he’d used so far. “It’s safe to leave us alone.”
“But—but you said—”
“It’s all right,” Ronnie said. “Really it is. I can tell you’re not hungry—why not go play something with the others? I’ll be along shortly.”
George, still red and coughing, managed to say that he hadn’t meant to interfere and Ronnie would know where to find him. Then, with a nod to Cecelia, he got out of the room as gracelessly as Cecelia had ever seen him move.
“You are all right. . . .” Cecelia said. Ronnie’s clear hazel eyes gazed into hers, a look that combined all the charm and mischief she had seen in him since birth.
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Well . . .” Cecelia pleated her napkin, a gesture that she knew conveyed feminine indecision to the men in her family. “You were fairly cross about my new captain, and when I wasn’t sure your message to me was . . . was quite true, about studying for exams, and I pressured George—”
Ronnie flushed, but managed a smile. “Did he break down and tell you I had planned some mischief? I’m sure he did. Well—so I had, but I—I changed my mind. And I did study for exams, but if I tell George that—”
“Ah. I see.” Into Cecelia’s mind came the faint glimmer of what Heris must have done. How she had done it still remained a mystery. But she understood this much of the psychology of the younger set. “You don’t want George to know you changed your mind, or that you studied—you must have been awfully bored, Ronnie, to decide to study.” She hoped her voice didn’t tremble with repressed laughter on that . . . or would he think it was a senile tremor?
“It was the only thing I could do in that room without—without letting George know—” That was undoubtedly the truth, Cecelia thought. What a jewel of a captain. What a marvel. She felt like grabbing Heris and dancing her along the passages . . . and at the imagined look on Heris’s face she could hardly contain her laughter. Ronnie, she saw, was looking at her with some suspicion.
“My dear, please, I’m just glad you’re not sick, and that you didn’t do something awful that Captain Serrano would have had to complain to me about, and that you thought better of it and made good use of your time. I have to admit I find the need to placate George amusing . . . but then I’m old, and no longer worry about the opinions of friends. When I was your age, their opinions mattered much more.”
“Even you? I thought you never cared about anyone.” The tone was more respectful than the words.
“I didn’t care about some members of the family—and I’m not bragging about it. But I had friends—others who shared the same interests—and it mattered a great deal to me what they thought. So I will conceal from George your careful study of whatever it was you studied, and pretend to know nothing—which is in fact just what I do know.”
“Thank you, Aunt Cecelia,” he said. Something in his eyes made her think he was not entirely chastened, but overly polite was easier to live with than whining complaint. “I suppose,” he went on, “I should ask you to let me try your simulator.” His tone, again, was almost too bland, but she chose not to notice.
“Of course. Some of your friends—Bunny’s children, and Raffaele—have been using it; I made up a schedule so that we don’t interfere with each other.”
“And the captain,” he went on. She noticed the tension in his jaw which he probably thought he’d concealed. “Is she coming along well?”
“Oh, yes,” Cecelia said. “It’s too bad she didn’t start earlier; she’d have been competitive in the open circuit. As it is, she’ll be a reasonable member of the field once she’s had some real experience.” She smiled at the look on his face, mingled of mistrust and envy. “You’d be good too, I’m sure, if you spent the time on it she has. You’re the right build.”
“But I’m not horse-struck,” Ronnie said. “Just as well; Mother would say you’d contaminated me.”
“Well, make a try at it. You might like it better than you think. The family brought you up to think it was ridiculous, and all because my parents wanted me to marry someone for a commercial alliance, and I wanted to ride professionally. Whether I was right or wrong doesn’t affect the nature of the sport.”
“All right.” He held up his hands, as if in defense, and Cecelia realized her voice had risen. That old quarrel with her parents and her uncles could still make her angry. If they had not been so ridiculously prejudiced, she would not have been that defiant: she would have quit in another year or so, certainly after losing Buccinator, and married someone. If not Pierce-Konstantin, someone reasonable. But they had tried to have her barred from competition, when she was leading for a yearly award; she had rebelled completely.
It occurred to her that she had more in common with Ronnie than she’d imagined.
* * *
Most major space stations followed one of three basic, utilitarian designs: the wheel, the cylinder, and the zeez-angle for situations requiring specific rotational effects. When Heris called up the specs for Sirialis, which all her passengers called “Bunny’s planet,” she felt she’d taken another giant step into irrationality. A blunt-ended castle tumbling slowly in zero-gravity? This time she didn’t ponder it alone; she called her employer, and sent along a visual of the Station where Cecelia had said they would dock.
“Is there an explanation, or do I just assume civilian-aristocratic insanity?” she asked.
“Insanity isn’t a bad guess,” Cecelia admitted. From the tone, she was neither surprised nor insulted by Heris’s reaction. “There’s been a certain—oh—eccentricity—in that family for some generations. Some of us think that’s why they got so rich so fast; they’ve got monetary instincts where the rest of us keep our common sense. This Station, though—let me see if I can explain it.”
“No one,” Heris said, watching on her own screen the display of crenellations, towers, stairs, arches, and cloisters, rotating but somehow not making sense, “no one could explain this.” Her eye tried to follow the progression of one staircase up to a square tower, which was suddenly not where it should have been. . . . The staircase had to be going down. Someone, she thought, must have made an error in the display.
“It began with Bunny’s great-great-uncle Pirdich,” Cecelia went on, ignoring the comment. “They’d just managed to recover the worst the original colonists had done, and the lords of the Grande Caravan had been teasing them about how impossible it was. He wanted to make a statement.”
“That Station is a statement?”
“Of sorts, yes. He decided that having overcome what everyone said was an impossible problem in reclamation, he would celebrate it by building an impossible space station. Bunny’s family’s been overfond of the early modern period of Old Earth all along; this Station is built to look like a design by an artist of that period. I don’t know the name; visual arts is not my thing. It is strange, isn’t it? And if you think it’s impossible, wait until you see the internal configuration and the fountain in the central plaza. Everything in it is taken from the work of the same person, and it’s all delightfully skewed.”
Delightfully was not the word Heris would have picked. In her ex
perience, design problems in space stations caused everyone grief, especially captains of ships docking there. Creativity should be subordinate to efficiency. “Are all three stations like this one?” she asked. If not, maybe she could talk Cecelia into docking somewhere other than the prestigious but clearly impractical Home Station.
“Of course not. Once they had one unique impossible station, they wanted each one different. Here—” From Cecelia’s desktop to Heris’s the new visuals flashed: one like a stylized pinecone, in silver and scarlet, and one that looked like a worse mistake than the others, as if someone had dropped a pile of construction material onto a plate with a glob of sticky in the middle. “I think that’s the worst,” Cecelia said. “It’s a Dzanian design, very neo-neo-neo, and the fault of Bunny’s aunt Zirip, who married a Dzanian, and insisted that her family’s fondness for Old Earth was pathological. You can’t take anything very big into it, because the parts that stick out are nonfunctional; the docking bays are all nestled among them. There’s only one berth for a decent-sized ship, and that’s where they do cargo transfer. Zirip thought it was cute, she told me once, because it made for intimate spaces. But Zirip is also the one who converted the closet in her room into her bed and study, and used the room itself for a dance studio. Up until then, I’d thought the oddness in that family rode the Y chromosome.”
Heris pitied the captains of cargo vessels loading and unloading there, but supposed they got used to it. “And the . . . er . . . pinecone?”
“Symbolic. So they told me. I’ve been there once, on a family shuttle; the docking facilities are lovely, but I got very tired of green and brown and the same aromatics all the time. It has the most capacity, and most guest yachts will dock there.” At the end, that had the smug tone of someone who knew she was docking at a more prestigious slot; Heris sighed. She knew what that meant—no hope of talking Cecelia into using another station.
Instead, she looked again at the information for inbound ships. It might look like a peculiar sort of castle in the air, but it had modern, well-designed docking bays. The guidance beacons, the communications and computer links, the lists of standard and on-request equipment and connectors: all perfectly normal, exactly what they’d had at Takomin Roads. She wondered who in the family had had the sense to design the practical part.
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