Chapter 11
**
"That finishes that!" I yell, and toss the file folder onto my "out" stack. Sasha, my personal assistant, laughs and hands me a new folder. This one’s edged in red and has a data seal on it; her hands shake a tiny amount as she hands it over.
"Sera Erin, this just came in… from PrimeLine, too. Level Four reading… so, no, I didn’t peak. I value my eyesight too much for that!" She sighs in relief as I place my thumbprint on the data seal, effectively signing for it. "Glad to get that one off my desk, for true now!"
"Sasha, Sasha, Sasha," I intone in my best Cary Grant fashion. "Probably just another accountant asking why we haven’t sent so many of this or that, or the Personnel Department telling us that folks routed here for us have somehow ended up in the Orion star system…"
She laughs once again, a deep, throaty chuckle, raspy from years of cigarette smoking, and waltzes back to her desk, plugging herself back into the network via transducer. She’s some woman, I think; survived the economic crashes of Russia and Eastern Europe by becoming a major bootlegger, and then when things got rather too hot, she ended up here, in the U.S., with a forged passport. Somehow, her talents caught the eye of our personnel director, Lawrence Timmons, and he hired her on the spot. Now she’s got English down almost perfectly, and she loves the job. Loves some of the side benefits, too, I think, watching her wink at a young office boy, delivering mail. He blushes, but winks back.
I place the tiny envelope on my desk, and open it. Tendrils of blue metal spring out, almost plant-like, and my hands move back in reflex. If it just didn’t look so… weird, I say to myself. It’s like out of a horror movie… ‘The Data Chip That Ate Manhattan!’…it moves to my desk compinset, and I close my eyes, concentrating for a moment on making the link with the data chip as it integrates itself with the unit.
Tamarindus flashes into being before my closed eyelids, and grins. "Greetings, Erin d’Ingolfsson, and Service to the State."
"I live to serve, uhmis Tamarindus," I reply automatically, making sure the inflections are right. This is a live link, so no editing afterwards to make any boo-boos go away. I smile back, mentally, as well as actually. The folks working in offices have gotten used to their coworkers closing their eyes, and then smiling, as well as whispering to themselves; a few years ago, anyone doing that would have been carted off to the Funny Farm.
"You’re curious, I know, as to what this is about. I wanted to interface directly with you over something, and your darling Muhmis isn’t to know. Don’t worry," she says, noticing my frown, "it’s not anything vital to the security of her Archonate or anything… this is something more fun, Erin."
"Yes, uhmis?" What in the world is this about, I wonder silently to myself.
Tamarindus stands and stretches, patting a young servus buck on the head as he hands her something to drink. She’s at RohmPlace, I can tell, from the color of the sky—a light pink and blue mixture, with blurry cirrus clouds in the Martian sky—and from the background that comes into the shot; her House. "Cut over your transducer circuit to security channel one, Erin, priority alpha decurion. Then we’ll have a little chat…"
Jeezie petes, she’s serious, I think, as serious as a heart attack. I follow her commands, wincing a bit inwardly… what if this is something I really, really don’t want to know about, or something… "Yes, uhmis. It’s done, as you ordered."
"Good. Now here’s the thing. Your Muhmis’ birthday is coming up, and I want to surprise her. That’s harder than hades, knowing her, and how she hates people to make a fuss about her age. But Race Spirit, the damn woman’s 485; we should at least celebrate tenacity, if nothing else." Tamar grins, even white teeth flashing in the pale yellow Martian sun. Her skin’s milk white; I can see everything, since she’s nude. Not that I mind, certainly…
"A birthday party?"
"Basically, but to a more Draka plan, darlin’… if you get my drift," the drakensis smiles, licking her lips expressively, suggestively.
"Oh. Um, how can I help, uhmis?"
"Basically, by doing the following, and not breathing a hint to anyone, I mean anyone, about this. If anyone asks, I was talking with you about your reports to the Archonal Council," Tamarindus says. "That I will, too, in a bit. But first, our plan’s like this…"
**
"Sasha, come here. I want to talk to you for a teensy bit of time…" I gesture for her to step outside the office, onto the tree-shaded patio, and when we’re both outdoors, I hand her a note.
"What’s this, Sera Erin…" she begins, opening the folded-over piece of paper. Inside, a check is waiting, and her eyes widen. "This is blank, but you’ve signed it…"
"Yepper. You got that right… now read the note, without subvocalizing, and then eat it."
"Eat it?"
I grin. "Yes. Eat the note, not the check, when you’ve finished reading it. There shouldn’t be any questions. Congrats on your mini-vacation, too." Her mouth drops open. "It’s in the note… go on, read!" I pat her on the back, and step back inside, hoping that Muhmis hasn’t chosen that exact moment to eavesdrop on me through my transducer.
A stifled shriek from the patio tells me Sasha’s finished the note. She comes in, calm and composed but chewing rapidly. She nods at me fractionally, and goes to talk with her workers, telling them she’s won a mini-vacation, two days, with Falco, the son of Henry, the House steward. Claps and grins all round, and then she’s busy assigning work to her folks, making sure things get done while she’s away. I leave her at it and wander outside, down to the barns and stables.
"Hey, y’all," I say as I push the huge red door smoothly aside on its greased rollers. A chorus of "Hey’s" meets me, and then everyone goes back to work, or whittling. About half and half, I think, looking around the cavernous interior. Glowlamps light the gloom, and I notice how clean the barn floor is. A couple of youngsters, a boy and a girl, are cleaning out a stall, a smelly, thankless job if ever there was one, I chuckle to myself, and wave. They wave back, animatedly, and then attack the smelly hay and horse debris again.
Bret’s fixing a saddle, his gnarled hands moving with an artist’s grace on the tooled leather. His work tools have the patina of long use and good care, like Papaw’s used to. They still do; I gave them to Bret one day a few years ago, and he’s kept them in great condition ever since. He insists that he’s just holding them for me, that one day I’ll want them back, but I don’t know about that.
"How’s it goin’, Erin?" He grins, past his pipe. Fragrant tobacco smoke curls from it, competing with the fresh hay smell, the leather, and the overall scent of horse and everything that goes with the critters that the barn has.
"Just fine, thank you. And you?" I climb up onto a section of stable corral next to him, hooking my feet under the wood after I get my balance. I smile at him, and the shy young woman who’s handing him his tools, or pieces of leather, as he asks for them.
"Oh, can’t complain. Fair to middlin’. No, not that piece, the smaller one. Why use a big ole honkin’ piece of leather like that, Keniesha, when you could use a smaller one?" The girl blushes and ducks her head, but hands him the correct size leather patch.
"How’s the apprenticeship comin’, Keniesha?" I grin over at her, and her smile answers me. She digs a toe into the barn floor, and doesn’t answer. Bret stops working for a moment, tamping some more tobacco into the pipe, and gives her a stern look.
"Now, what’d I tell you ‘bout answering folks when they ask you a question, girl?"
"I’m supposed to answer right off, Ser Bret." She twists a length of leather in her pretty hands, and doesn’t look up.
"So go ahead and answer Sera Erin, silly thing. She’s asked you a question, all nice-like, and you’re actin’ like she’s an Overlord or somethin’." He picks up a small hammer and begins tapping a brass rivet into the leather, rhythmically, smoothly.
"Um…it’s goin’ just fine, Sera Erin… I really like it… I get to work here, and go to school, and if I do real well, then I can go to a special school, down ‘round Tennessee somewheres…" The teenage girl looks at me, finally, and as usual, I’m startled slightly by her bright blue eyes, in her dark chocolate face. It makes her even prettier, I decide to myself, and smile back at her.
"Yeah, down ‘round where my grandparents were from… I think the school for the Appalachian Arts is in Crossville, still, isn’t it?"
"Yes, ma’am!"
"I know you’ll enjoy it, if you like this. You’ll learn so much you’ll have to come back here and set up your own school, kiddo!" She looks wide-eyed at that thought, and I can see her mind working away, considering things.
"Why don’t you run on and take a break, missy?" Bret finishes hammering with a tiny flourish of blows, and leans back to look over his work. He runs a hand over the saddle, and tugs here and there. Then he produces a rag and begins oiling the leatherwork down, carefully stroking it in a little at a time. The girl bobs her head and scampers off, outside.
"So, everything ready, fellow conspirator?"
He looks up at me sharply for a moment. "What’s that?"
"I meant, is everything ready? Not that we’re being spies or anything…" I lean forward, so justhe can hear me. "Got the fixin’s for the barbeque?"
"Yep. All ready. Got all the meat—you sure we gonna need that much?—it’s all stored in two freezers. The sauce is ready, too. Pork and chicken, hand-pulled, ready to go when you say the word, little missy. And you’re damn right, I ain’t no spy. Got no use for them folks."
"Oh, this is so cool. Great! Sasha’s due back tomorrow; make sure your work hands here meet her when she lands, so we can snarf the stuff down here, for keepin’, until the party."
"When is it, again?"
"Two days from now, on the second of May. Muhmis’ thirty-sixth birthday, or her four hundred eighty-fifth, whichever way you look at it."
"Jesus God! 485, did you say?" His hands stop working for a moment, and then start again.
"Yeah…" I shrug. "She doesn’t look a day past thirty, to me."
Bret sits back, looking over the saddle. "She sure is one fine-lookin’ woman, I’ll say that. They all are, y’know? Man or woman, them Draka is jest pretty."
He looks at me, his dark brown eyes direct. "Wish all of ‘em could act as pretty as they look, though." I nod, holding his eyes with mine.
"I know, Bret." I glance outside, where Keniesha and the two from the stable-cleaning detail are engaging in a water fight. Shrieks and giggles follow splashes, and a few of the horses in their roomy stalls whicker at the excitement.
"Yeah," he sighs, wiping his hands clean on another piece of cloth. "I reckon you do know, better than most of us down here. You do a lot of good up there, missy. I want you to know we know, if you can see what I mean. Not much of a man for talking, I am. But do you understand me?"
"Yes, Bret, I do. I’m trying to do the best for all of us, that I can. Thanks for telling me folks have noticed. That makes me feel good." My hands unconsciously stroke my stomach; it’s showing a four month pregnancy now. "I try…"
"How’s that coming along?" He nods at my tummy and grins.
"Jest fine. This time, no morning sickness, thank god. And I feel good, too. Part of that’s just carrying the baby, but part of it’s just that things are going well right now. No visits from the Archon for a spell, and the Council here is purring right along…"
"I hear your boy’s trying for some kind of pilot thing?"
"Patrick’s going for flight training, end of May, when Alexandra goes to Command and Staff College, back on PrimeLine, in Archona. He’ll be able to see her a lot, and the training facilities are better there than here. Been there longer, I guess. I’ll miss him, actually, since he’s gotten over being a schmuck."
"I’d call what he was somethin’ else entirely," the older man says, eyes narrowing. He still hasn’t forgiven Patrick for that night he got so drunk and made a disorder out of himself, I think, and gently pat the iron-hard arm that’s closest to me.
"Aw, Bret, he’s just a kid. They’re growing up with a whole new set of stresses on them, that we didn’t have to deal with…"
"All the same, he better respect his momma more. At least ‘round me. Or we’ll have a little session back of the barn, if you get my drift." He fiddles some more with his pipe, not wanting to meet my eyes. Suddenly, I know: this is his way of telling me how much he cares about me, and my throat tightens.
"He knows that, believe me. Between you and Alice, there wouldn’t be a shred left for a crow to squawk at, if he dissed me again the way he did. Alexandra would be mad that there wouldn’t be enough left for her to yell at…" I grin, and Bret chuckles, a deep, rumbling laugh that goes on for a good spell.
"Hey, I better be getting back to the office. Have meetings to prepare for, and all that crap. It was good talkin’ to you, Bret. I’ll let you know ASAP when Sasha gets in, ‘kay?"
"Yep. Be waitin’. And don’t be a stranger, hear? You get away from them meetings, you just come on down here an’ set a spell with us!" He gives me a quick squeeze on one shoulder, and I climb carefully down off the fence, and head back toward the House.
**
**
"Okay, okay, everybody, come on, we need some ideas here," I call out, and the chattering across the long, desert ironwood table comes to a stop. Tom, Alice, Jennifer, Shawonda, Diane… they all stop talking and look at me expectantly.
"We need to work on Project 4. You know?" A round of nods and grins meet me. "Okay. We need ideas, folks. This is going to be a big thing, but a private one. No news coverage, right, Diane?"
"Right. I’ve already prepared a few little blibbets to feed the networks, and I’ve got security checking out all the guests, the human ones, that is, to make sure we don’t have any snoopers. I’ve got that under control."
"Great. Now, the food situation is also under control; I’ve got Sasha, Falco and Henry working on that, and Bret and his boys are providing storage as well as snooper patrol." I grin. "It’s not just the press we have to worry about, it’s all the farm hands blabbing their wild tales of stuff in the barns…"
Tom speaks up when the laughter’s died down. "Is Schalk in on it, Erin?"
"Yeah, or we wouldn’t be having the meeting in his suite." Tom frowns a little—he’s been a bit grouchy for some reason, but I don’t know why—have to find out, though; I smile. "No, really, it’s okay. He’s in on it. So far, the only one who doesn’t know is Gwen herself. And that’s how I want to keep it. How’s the music coming?"
Jennifer looks over her hand-scribbled notes. "We’ve got the New York Philharmonic scheduled, and we’re housing them in the new horse stables…"
The whole group cracks up, and she waves a hand for quiet, blushing. "Yeah, yeah… I know. But it’s brand new, never been used, and there’s enough room for them all, and practice areas…"
"Take them flautists out for a trot, Billy-bob!" chortles Alice, and everyone loses it again. Jennifer blushes furiously, and grins.
"Okay, that’s the classical end of things" I fake a yawn, "but how about fun music?"
A dramatic sigh, and the Noo Yawk accent comes on strong. "Corn-pone… you want me to get Tanya Tucker or someone?"
"I’m surprised you knew even her name. Some of my good taste must be rubbing off on you, Jenny," I say, winking.
"With all the rubbing you were doing last night, something should have," Alice quips. Man, she’s just full of vim and vigor today, I think, my face turning as red as Jennifer’s. Must have had too much fun last night with us…
"Okay, okay… Alice, please. We only have a few minutes… Jenny, any bands that can play music written after 1700?"
"I’ve got the kids’ favorites, the Rotting Persimmons and some other of that ilk. I figure we can put them way, way, down at the other end of the party arena, and maybe we won’t be totally deafened. They are rather… uncouth." Murmurs of agreement go around the table; we’re turning into old coots, I think to myself, they’re not that bad!
"How about some of the folks I wrote down for you?"
"Well, I haven’t heard back yet from Kate Bush, but I think she’s a pretty probable yes, given the prestige and what-not for performing for the Planetary Archon. Sting has said he’ll come out of retirement, and do a set or two, and Mary Chapin Carpenter said yes."
"All right!!" I clap my hands. "This will be cool. I’m amazed Sting said yes. He’s over 70 now."
"Well, with all the new healthcare programs, people are surprisingly frisky at 70," Shawonda says drily. "Any one playing that I’ve heard of?"
"I’ve got the South African Choir scheduled, too… they’re still debating, though, so I’m not sure. I hope they can make it. I wanted Barbra, but she’s way too infirm now. So’s Bette. So they’re out, Draka medicine or no."
"Too bad the Rolling Stones aren’t all still alive," Tom says, grinning.
"Or that all the Beatles are finally gone…" I agree.
"Hell, I’d like to hear some Lena Horne, myself," says Shawonda. "Or Queen Latifah. Hey, have you tried her yet? She’s still singing…"
"Hey, let’s get Tina Turner—her legs are still fantastic!" Alice chimes in.
"I’d like LeeAnn Rimes, myself…"I say, winking at her.
"I bet you would, you vixen…" my wife fires back, winking back.
"So, do you want me to look up these people and try to schedule them? Oy, vey, gevalt, I’m a poor little financial analyst, not a professional booking agent…" Jennifer moans, holding her head. We all laugh, mostly gently… but it’s kinda fun to make Jenny lose it sometimes, I think to myself. Like last night.
"I’ll help out, Jenny. I’ve got some contacts," Diane says, reaching over and patting Jennifer on the back. "It’s okay…"
"How about if you look up the folks we mentioned, the live ones, that is, and see what they say?" I ask, and look down at my notes again. "Then we can move from there. But we’ve got some music, so we’re okay either way. Right?"
"I’d like to get the Rockettes here." Tom’s grin is wide but his voice is serious.
"The Rockettes? Okay… that’s unusual, but what the heck, right? I’ll get them!" Jennifer scribbles more notes to herself and groans again, theatrically. "Anyone else?"
"How about…" I start, and then duck as she tosses a balled-up piece of paper at me. "Hmm… natives getting restless, better get back to the fort, Bougwan!"
"I’ve got the pavilions all set to be put up, for sleeping and what-not," says Shawonda. "I had to repaint some of the canvas ones, since they used to be Marine Corps property, and I didn’t think camo was the happiest birthday pattern…"
"Great. Thanks, that’s a major job done. I hope folks don’t mind sleeping, or whatever, outside… not that they did last time, though. Alice, how about the Citizens coming in? How many, and how many servus, etc…"
Alice cracks her knuckles and sits back in the chair. "We’ve got forty Citizens, and about twice that number for servus and human servants. A few of those kawtuhs, too. I’m a little worried about them; what if they go cattywonkers on us? Maybe country music makes them go crazy or something?" The room of friends laughs again, and she goes on:
"I got uhmis Tamarindus to talk all the other Citizens into limiting themselves to two servants a piece, a considerable bonus for us, and easier to handle bedding and food. But that means we’ll have some tired little pups around here, after the party…" I decide to pointedly ignore the crack about country music. I don’t begrudge Alice her Midnight Oil music tapes, I think, as long as she doesn’t play them all day long in our office…
"Like after the Naming Ceremony, right?" I roll my eyes, and watch Diane, especially, blush deeply. "Barely got any work out of anyone for a week after that, didn’t we?"
"Lots of boo-boos at the clinic, too," laughs Shawonda. "Like people not caring where they were being ridden, and getting splinters in certain areas…"
"Hey!" Diane turns crimson, and then laughs harder than the rest of us. "I didn’t care, at the moment, to be honest…"
"To be horny, you mean…" cracks Alice.
"Yeah, well, I didn’t see you slowing down much, missy…"
"We all did pretty well those nights. Let’s try to be careful where we get plunked down this time, though, and avoid splinters. Or grass stains. Or carpet burns. Okay?" I try to get us to stay on task, but it’s a losing battle. Maybe we’re all a little nervous, and excited, I muse silently. I look over my notes again, and then up at the doctor across from me. "Shawonda, have you talked to the youngsters down in the village about this yet?"
"Yeah, and they’re all fired up and ready to party. The ones that were more nervous, I had assigned to back-room stuff, so they shouldn’t be pounced upon so quickly, if at all. There’re quite a few anxious and willing-to-please volunteers, from our village as well as the surrounding ones. I’ve given the standard lecture on my rounds, and everyone’s as ready as they can be. I don’t see any problems that way."
"Good! Hey, it sounds like it might all come together then. Man. What a job. I am so thankful, guys, really. You’ve all helped out so much, you made it work! Thanks, and I mean it." I fold my notes up and stick them in my pocket. "Party’s on in twenty-four hours. Set your watches! But now it’s time to get on with real business… Jennifer, I guess that means you get to drag my poor brain through world finance again, for an hour…"
The group breaks up, everyone busy but happy. Tom’s still got a little cloud over his head, figuratively speaking, and I wonder about it. He’s usually quite the straightforward kind of guy, telling you what he thinks or if he’s mad at you. I make a mental note to ask him for a few minutes, and then Jennifer’s got me by the arm, walking me down the hall to her office and the waiting global financial news lecture…
**
"Oh, man, am I tired," I sigh out loud as I sink onto the couch. The geneengineered cat we’ve got, Lucy, looks regal as she watches me from her perch on the mantle.
"Snack?" She asks, her voice high and raspy. Her orange, fluffy tail quirks into a hopeful question mark.
"You always want a snack, Lucy… if I gave you one every time you asked, you’d be as big as the Titanic," I protest. Somehow, though, I make my way to the kitchen and the cooling unit.
Lucy prances behind me, saying "Yum yum yum yum!" I grin and toss her some of the salmon snacks she loves so; they disappear rapidly.
I fix myself a glass of milk and grab some cookies, and head back toward the living room. I really should be getting to bed, I remind myself, but I’m hungry, and wired. God, only eight hours now until the birthday party. Somehow, we’ve managed to keep it a secret from the person for whom it’s being thrown. Gwen’s been busy negotiating and planning with the other Planetary Archons and others, and hasn’t been really "here" for the past couple of days. Of course, physically, she’s been here, but mentally, via transducer, she’s been on PrimeLine, in Archona, and elsewhere.
Lucy curls up, a red and orange ball in my lap, purring contentedly. Alice’s out; I think she’s partying with Diane. She has more energy that way than I do, that’s for sure, I think, leaning back into the couch. My wife… The pregnancy, Gwen and Schalk’s son, is showing; been four months and two weeks now. My breasts are changing, as they have before. I just hope they don’t end up dragging the floor, I grin, cupping them and looking down. More than a handful, just. Not bad for an old coot of 38. Lucy stirs, and murmurs, "Still!"
"Yeah, yeah, bossy old cat. Hush," I laugh, stroking her thick fur. I scratch around her ears, and then on top of her head, and she turns limp. I know the feeling; maybe I was a cat in a former lifetime. I love to have someone run their hand through my hair, or rub my head. I wish I had someone doing that right now, I muse somewhat mournfully. I like to sit at the foot of Gwen’s chair in her study, letting her run her long fingers through my hair as she reads or works, or as we talk. Many evenings start out that way, I grin. Not many stay right there.
There’s a muted chime as someone queries the door. I jump, a little, and wonder if Alice has forgotten something… no, then she’d just come in; the door would recognize her automatically. I wonder who it is? I gently put the sleepy Lucy on the couch, where I was sitting, and go to the door. "Who is it?"
"Tom, Erin. May I come in, or is it too late? I hope I didn’t wake you…"
I command the door to open, and it shushes into the wall. Tom’s standing there, hair disheveled, eyes red. My god, mister fashion plate doesn’t look quite himself, I think, and take his hand in mine. "No, I was just having some quiet time with Lucy Cat, and some milk and cookies. Come on in and set a spell, honey."
I lead him into the living room, and go over to the wall to turn the lights up a bit. He shakes his head: "Please, don’t. I know I look hideous as it is—with brighter light, I’ll look worse."
"Okay," I say. "Want a drink, Tom?"
"Yeah, that would be good. Maybe vodka and orange juice?"
"Sure, old boy. Have a seat, why don’t you. Never mind Lucy; she’s a harmless ball of fluff unless you sit on her tail." I watch Tom sink into the couch next to the sleepy cat, and fix him a stiff drink. Looks like he needs it, I think to myself. In vino veritas, perhaps?
"Thanks, Erin." He sips at the drink, then looks down at it, then at me. "Whew! A man’d think you were trying to get him drunk or something!"
"Just a little. Too strong? I’m not usually the barkeep." I grin at him, sitting down on the couch facing him, my feet curled up under me Indian-style.
"No… it’s okay. I’m sorry to bug you so late…"
"Honey, let’s just talk. Cut the preliminaries. I’m tired, you’re tired, and you’re upset. Talk to me, please. I’m worried about you, Tom."
"I haven’t been wandering around talking to myself or the walls or anything…" He shifts uncomfortably, sipping again at the drink.
I take a gulp of milk and lick my lips. "Want a cookie? No, I guess they wouldn’t go too well with vodka and orange juice. No, you’ve been acting upset, and you look upset. Please, tell me what’s wrong, darlin’…" I let my hand fall from the back of the couch to his broad shoulders, stroking gently.
He leans against my hand, partly unconsciously. "It’s just… it’s dumb. Stupid. I should just slap myself and get over it."
"This all seemed to start when the planning began for the negotiations with the Samos," I say neutrally.
"Yes." He looks down into his glass for a moment, then takes a deep breath. His blue eyes meet mine, and he sighs. "Yeah…"
"Okay…"
"Okay… here it is. I’ve been having some really bad dreams, and trouble sleeping, and I don’t know anyone besides you I really trust enough to talk about it. I wish we could use De Lange’s room again, Erin. You and I."
"Why?"
"Because I’m afraid…" his voice cracks; swallowing roughly, he continues: "I’m afraid, and some of what I have to say may not be very politically… safe. I guess."
"Hell, Tom, you’re scaring me!"
His shoulders tense, and he sits up. "You’re right. I can’t put you in this position. I’ll be fine, really. Thanks for the drink and the reality check, Erin." He starts to stand up and I shove him back onto the couch with both hands.
"Now listen, mister. Don’t mess with me. I’m pregnant, and I’m liable to just rip your head off and piss down your neck if you mess with me. Got it?" My voice cuts like a whip; an old technique I picked up from my first company commander, Petty Officer Harlin, years ago. The Navy’s version of drill instructor was hell on wheels, I remember. Tom’s jaw sags open a little and he sinks back against the cushions.
Lucy, her tail bottled, has disappeared into the bedroom, hissing, "mean mean hiss phthphthpttt." I’ll have to make up to her later, I think with a rueful internal smile. Thank all the gods for salmon treats.
I look back at Tom. "You listen, hear? I’m your friend. We’ve been through hell together; we’ve both lost the same person who made a tremendous difference in our lives. That’s a bond. I’m here to listen to you, and yeah, to give you a reality check. This is it. Wake up and smell the coffee, Tom. You’re upset about something, it’s showing… you don’t think you’ve hidden it from De Lange, do you? Really?"
"No."
"Okay. So tell me what’s up. No matter how dangerous you think it is. We’re Gwen’s saafn, and high-ranking ones at that, so we do have some leeway. Tell me what it is, and maybe, if we put our heads together, we can figure things out. That’s what friends are for."
"It’s…" He takes a gulp of the drink, and closes his eyes. "You’re absolutely right. It all started when the negotiation planning did. It must have triggered something. I don’t know, I’m no shrink. But the dreams are hideous, awful—I don’t even want to describe them. But they’re all the same. People stoning me, torturing me, calling me…"
"What?" Inside, I know.
"A traitor. Traitor to the human race." His hands shake. "I’m not! If we hadn’t gotten the Draka, we’d have nuked ourselves to death, or poisoned ourselves… we’re better off now, and so’s the world. But did I sacrifice my people for my planet? Does that make me a traitor, Erin?"
"I’ve been called that, too. All of us personal saafn of the Planetary Archon have been, at one point or another. People either idolize us like rock stars or demonize us like cousins of the antichrist. We’re neither, Tom. We’re just people caught up in something bigger than ourselves, trying to survive."
"But the Samos… didn’t you see their faces when they saw us, that time we all met on Titan, a couple of months ago, for the opening of the negotiation planning sessions? They literally want to tear us to pieces, Erin. They hate us so much," Tom whispers.
"They’re coming from a completely different viewpoint. They have to hate us. It justifies their forebearers running off and leaving everyone else in the U.S. to the victorious Draka army. In their time line, not ours, though. But how do you think that would make you feel? You’d have so much guilt, and guilt turns to rage. Rage is more easily directed at us now, Tom, since we’re less powerful than the Overlords. I don’t care what the Samos think about us, I really don’t."
"Not at all?"
"Hell, Tom, in some respects, they’re as inhuman now as the Draka. Think about it. They went the technology route, becoming cyberpeople. They’re all enhanced that way. Half machine, half human. We’re all human, except for this," I tap behind my right ear. "The Draka went the other road, biology. They’re not human anymore, and neither are the Samos. So that leaves us. Period. And we have a responsibility, Tom, for the human race. We’ve got to be stewards."
"Stewards? Sounds like we’ll be handing out peanuts and magazines…" He grins, weakly. Tears stand in his eyes, though.
"No, you know what I mean. Listen… you’re feeling guilty, and torturing yourself with these damn dreams. I know, I’ve been there. I did that for years, after the Nimitz. Part of me wanted to die there, with all my friends. Peter and I survived, though. And you will, too. You have to fight the dreams; it’s just part of your mind that’s rebelling, I guess. I read somewhere that we all have a private insanity, one we don’t ever show to others… maybe the dreams are it."
"Yeah, maybe…"
"Tom, it’s just that… you helped with the Project, and so did I, but it would have happened without us, you know? We’re not the people who enslaved the human race. The Draka are."
Tom’s eyes widen, and flick from side to side in an unconscious defense mechanism. I go on, firmly:
"It’s true. You know it, I know it, the Draka know it. We can do something, though, Tom, that not many people can. We can help modify, or mediate, the process. That’s what we’ve been doing for the past fifteen years. The Draka children raised by us are different than their parents. They see us differently. That’s a huge change, given how slowly the Draka culture changes. If at all. So that’s important. So’s the fact that we helped keep the Earth from being biobombed and what-not. That was an option, you know. Get rid of all the pesky humans, especially if they get rebellious."
"I know."
"Well then, how can you hate yourself for saving lives? For surviving yourself? To stay sane, you have to work this out. I know you started out with a dream, a renewed Earth. That’s been your focus for most of the time. Mine was more narrow, maybe more self-centered, or selfish. I wanted to survive. Once I figured out I could, then my focus turned to my own dream. We’ve just come at this from different ways, Tom, but we’re at the same place now."
"What’s your dream?"
I smile. "To be free, one day. To see the human race spread throughout the Universe, exploring, learning, growing. To see our children reach for the stars and not get burned by them. The freedom thing may take a long, long time, but one day I think it’ll happen. Maybe we won’t see it, or we’ll be hundreds of years old, but it’ll come. That’s what I think about. Right now, it’s enough to see that Gwen and some of the other Draka are realizing just how important humans can be to the Race. We need them to get to the stars, Tom, and they need us to survive, to adapt."
"Yeah, maybe…"
"It’s our creativity, our curiousity… they need that. They genengineered that out, by mistake. They may try to engineer it back in, but I don’t know. It’s easier, maybe, hopefully, to keep us around."
"You and Gwen have been having some long talks, and vacations alone. We all made jokes about that, when you went off to the mountains with her. Some folks said you were just going to fry her brain on moonshine, and then take advantage of her…" He grins, widely now. The old sparkle’s coming back into his eyes.
"Oh, yeah, we did that. I tied her up with some chains, after some of mah kin folk give her some a’ that there corn likker, and then, let me tell ya… that girl shore can yell…" I laugh. I run my hand through his hair affectionately. "As if."
"Can you imagine Gwen as a bottom?"
"Shit, no…" We both crack up. "Not even when she’s with another Draka."
"Really?"
I blush a little. "Yeah, really. Even with Tamarindus or Schalk… she’s in charge. Period. It’s natural for her. I certainly don’t mind, unless she gets in a tickly mood. Then she drives me up the wall."
"Oh, tell me about it, girl. Those very precise fingers of hers…" Tom rolls his eyes and shivers a bit. "Hey, Erin…"
"Hmmm?"
"Thanks," he says, quietly. "What you said… I’ll have to think about it some more, but I can see your point. We have to go on. And the Samos… they’re a whole ‘nother bag of apples, you know?"
"Granny Smith bitter ones!" I make a face, mugging it up. We both laugh again, and then he hugs me, strong and gentle. The scent of his after shave, the same Peter used to use, whiffs by me, and I wrap my arms around him and hug back with all my strength. "Thanks, Tom, for trusting me enough to talk about all this craziness. I need to do that, too. Sometimes just talking to yourself isn’t enough."
"Feel like sleeping alone tonight, oh Ferocious Pregnant Woman?"
"Um…" I blush and loosen my grip a little. "Well…"
"No, no, silly girl. I mean sleep! Really sleeping. I’m too damn tired for anything else, which I think you were wondering about, right?"
"Yeah… well, okay! If it’s sleep and snuggling you want, let’s go!" I kiss him on the forehead and he grins up at me.
"Which side do you like?"
"The one you won’t push me out of…" I joke, remembering a night, years ago, when Gwen had taken the two of us. She had gotten up after her four hours’ worth of sleep, but he and I had snored on. I ended up waking up as I tumbled out of the bed. Tom, in his sleep, had kept rolling over into me, and scooting me closer and closer to the edge…
He ducks his head and blushes. "I apologized for that, a long time ago!"
"Remember how Gwen laughed? It was kinda funny, even to me. Come on, let’s hit the sack. You pick the side you want, but be forewarned: I’ll defend my pillow with my life." I take his hands in mine and lead him into the bedroom, turning down the lights in the house as we pass their controls. His lean, muscular body isn’t the one I’m used to sleeping next to, but he’s warm, and gentle, and a friend indeed.
The night passes into morning, and the alarm reminds me… the first aircars will be arriving in an hour! The party’s almost here! I scramble out of bed, and roust Tom out as well. "Come on, come on. We’ve only got a few minutes to make sure everything and everyone’s ready…"
"Time for a hug, though." He catches me as I’m jumping into my semiformal black tunic with the gold and blue piping, and hugs me for a long, long moment. "I needed a good night’s rest, Erin. Thanks for being there for me."
I grin up at his tanned face. "Yeah, yeah… no, seriously, I needed that too. Thanks right back at you. Now can I finish getting dressed?"
"Okay…" He grins and starts pulling on his clothes from last night. "I guess I better go freshen up, myself."
"Fine. See you downstairs, right?"
"Yeah! In a few minutes. Thanks, honey." A peck on the cheek, and he’s gone. Lucy looks at me with bleary eyes.
"Treat?"
**