by Spider
“I promise if you want to come back, there won’t be an argument.”
The device didn’t fool either of them; he could see that in her eyes. But it brought the situation a little closer to tolerable. It would buy some time.
“How soon would we have to leave?”
“I’ll call Jay.”
3
Yawara
Queensland, Australia
2 December 2064
AT ABOUT THAT MOMENT, not too far from the opposite point on the planet’s surface, an old—no, ancient—woman switched off her ancient compact disc player, brushed the headphones out of her hair with a palsied hand, and decided it was time for sleep. Or at least for bed. Slowly and carefully she got up from her rocking chair, then used it to steady herself while she removed the denim shorts which were her only clothing. She walked with halting steps through the darkness to her bed, but when she reached it, she dropped easily and comfortably into a squat beside it. Reaching beneath it, she drew out her chamber pot and removed the lid. When she maneuvered it beneath her, its weight and a small sloshing sound reminded her that she had forgotten to empty it that morning. As she was about to put it to its accustomed use, she suddenly stopped, clamping her sphincter and flaring her nostrils. Her head turned from side to side, twice. Then she looked down between her legs, bent her head lower and sniffed. She took the chamber pot from beneath her and brought it to her nose and sniffed again.
She knew, then, but nonetheless she reached up and got matches from the bed table. In the sudden flaring light, her eyes confirmed what her nose had told her. Her chamber pot contained wine.
It delighted her. It had been a long time since anything had surprised her. This was a good one. She thought about it, savoring the puzzle. No one had approached her home closer than a hundred yards all day. She had not left it for a moment. She had not emptied the utensil after using it that morning, she was sure of that. She might be old—no, ancient—but her memory was still sharp as the long edge of a war boomerang. There was no logical explanation…so she went inside herself, to her special place.
And at once, contradictory things happened on her face. Her eyes brightened, and bitter tears spurted from them, and years—no, decades—melted from her visage, and her mouth smiled while her brows knotted in a fierce frown. She glanced across the room at her CD player, and ran a hand across her head to confirm that she had taken its headphones off. “Badunjari…?” she whispered, and cocked her head as if listening.
Whatever she heard caused her to smile even wider and weep even harder—but the frown relaxed. She sat back on her heels and began to rock slowly from side to side. After a time, she lifted the chamber pot to her lips and drank from it. The wine was excellent, delicious and immediately powerful. She took a deeper draught.
“Really?” she said in Yirlandji. “What is?”
If there was an answer, no microphone could have recorded it.
Her tears ceased; the smile remained, and became the mischievous grin of a little girl. “Okay,” she agreed, and drank again. “I will wait and see.”
She had not been this happy in forty-four years. Magic, real Dreamtime magic, was loose in the world again…
PART TWO
4
The Shimizu Hotel, High Orbit
2 December 2064
JAY SASAKI WAS IN THE STUDIO when his AI spoke up. “Phone, Jay: your brother, Rand, flatscreen only.” It waited patiently while he finished a movement phrase for the camera and toweled off sweat.
“Thanks, Diaghilev,” he said then. “Monochrome head-shot, minimum audio, accept.” It was the cheapest possible earth-to-orbit call, small black-and-white image and rotten sound, probably relayed on a satellite circuit so old its expiry date began with “19.” Rand would have been offended if Jay had tried to reverse the charges—and it was not yet settled whether his kid half-brother could afford to make fullscreen color calls to High Earth Orbit on his own dollar. Jay spoke before the AI finished producing an image, to let Rand know the circuit was completed. “Well, how did she take it?”
“She’s right here,” Rand said. “Ask her yourself.” He swiveled the carphone so that Rhea came into frame. She was smiling wryly.
“‘Oops,’ he said gracefully,” Jay said. “Hi, Rhea. Well, how did you take it?”
“Rectally,” she said sourly.
The joke cued him—first, that Rand would indeed be coming back up to work in the Barn…and second, that it would not be a good idea to sound too delighted just yet. Was Rhea coming up with him right away? Was Colly? “You’ll really like it up here, I promise you,” he said experimentally.
“I’d better.”
Good. Rand would arrive still married. “And Colly will love it. Space was made for kids.”
“It must be,” she said. “You like it.” But she was smiling.
He relaxed, trying not to let the extent of his relief show. The worst that could happen now was that his half-brother’s wife would make Rand’s life miserable to the end of his days. But he’ll be able to work with me again! It would take a lot of the sting out of Ethan not being around anymore…
“We’re going to give it a trial period,” Rand said. He swiveled the phone again so that he was back in frame. “Two months, so Rhea and Colly can check it out before they commit themselves.”
Jay managed to hold his poker face. Fortunately, in zero gravity one’s face does not pale as blood pressure drops. If Rhea left in two months, Rand would go with her. With the example of Jay’s own disaster with Ethan before him, Rand would not risk losing her in a long-distance marriage. Kate was going to have a blowout when she heard this. “That’ll be hard to sell to the Board. They want this settled. Face, you know.”
“I’ve got face too,” Rand said. “I require notice before uprooting my family. If the Board doesn’t like it, they can start running want ads in the trades.”
Briefly, Jay fantasized telling his brother the whole truth. The primary reason the Board had abandoned the audition process and chosen Rand as their shaper was that Jay—feeling reckless in the aftermath of his breakup with Ethan—had privately sent word through the hotel manager that he would quit if they did otherwise. He had just enough clout to pull that off…and no margin at all: if the hotel came out of this looking bad, he was out of a job. He was the most famous living human choreographer of free-fall dance—but if he left the Shimizu, where could he go? There were only two other dance companies in space, and neither was hiring. Jay had been a spacer, permanently adapted to zero gravity, for over a decade now: if he could not work in space, he could not work—even if he could have learned to think and choreograph in up-and-down terms all over again.
No—he couldn’t tell Rand any of this. If he did, Rand would think—would suspect in his heart forever, no matter what Jay said—that Jay had put his job on the line purely and simply because they shared a mother. Rand would never believe the truth: that he was truly the only one of the four candidates who was any damn good, the only one Jay could stand the idea of being locked into working with for the next umpty years. The hole in his self-confidence would founder him. And the realization that Jay’s job was on the line would make his problem with his wife even worse.
Well, it was up to Jay to see that Rhea didn’t opt out. His other choice was to slit his throat. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll make them see it that way. Shall I call you back with their answer?”
Rand shook his head. “We both know they’re going to say yes. I can afford to call you now. Full-band color.”
Jay let the grin escape at last. His brother was right. Kate would hate this—but she was committed. As committed as he was. “Damn right. Call me back at…what the hell time is it down there?”
“About ten in the morning.” The Shimizu was on Greenwich Time; it was nearly 3 PM for Jay.
“…at about suppertime. Listen, I don’t want to crowd you, but…how soon can you come up? The sooner you can make it, the less trouble I’ll have sel
ling this trial period.”
Rand acquired the harried look of someone who is trying to solve a tricky problem while long-distance charges are ticking away. He glanced sideways. “What do you think, hon?”
After a time, Rhea’s voice came from out of frame. “Three days, minimum. I’d like a month. I’d like a year, dammit.”
“I think I can get three days, no sweat,” Jay said cheerfully.
Rand tried for a diversion. “Anything we can bring up for you?”
“If I think of anything, I’ll tell you when you call back.” He gave the phone his best grin. “Listen, this is really great news. Really, Rhea—you’ll see! Kiss Blondie for me. Phone off.” As Rand’s smiling image dissolved, he went on, “Diaghilev, where’s Kate?”
“In her office, Jay. Do you wish an appointment to see her? She has an opening in her calendar tomorrow at—”
“No, I want her now. She’ll see me. ETA fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, Jay. You’re right: Ms. Boswell has accepted for her. Fifteen minutes from…mark.”
“Shower please, Diaghilev.”
“Yes, Jay.”
The studio shower accepted and cleansed him; ten minutes later he was dry, shaved, groomed and jaunting along the corridors of the Inner Sphere, heading inboard toward Katherine Tokugawa’s executive office in the Core.
Heads turned as he floated past, but only one of the hotel guests had the nerve to call out to him. “Hello, Jay. You look happy—good news?”
Jay made a long arm and grabbed a jaunt-loop, braked himself to a halt. His boss would have a fit if she ever heard that a mere guest had learned news of this importance before she did—but Eva Hoffman was more than just a guest: she had been a resident fixture in the Shimizu for sixteen years now. He glanced around mock-conspiratorially. “Are you sure those are your original eyes?”
Eva grinned. She was one hundred sixteen years old, and showed most of them—having, most unusually, given up controlling her appearance on her hundredth birthday. She drew stares everywhere she went in the Shimizu these days…the most horrified of them coming from those guests whose own odometers had rolled past zero. “Thirty years ago I’d have known exactly why you were looking happy, at twice the distance. So your brother’s coming back up to stay, eh? Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I’m excited.”
“Me too. You two do good work together. Pribhara was a waste of air.”
“She…had her own way of doing things.”
“Yeah. Wrong. Would you like me to take charge of his wife and daughter? What’s her name, Spaniel?” Eva, of course, knew perfectly well what Colly’s name was. “Help them get reoriented to free-fall, their first day, show ’em around the Mausoleum, and all that, so that you and Rand can get right down to work?”
He was touched by the offer. Eva was a Shimizu institution, and she did not offer her time lightly or often. She was one of very few guests who knew her way around the place as well as Jay, who did not need to follow some AI’s trail of blinking lights to get where she was going. “I think I’ve got that covered,” he said. “But if they do need more help, I’ll know where to come. Thanks, Eva.”
She looked dubious. “Who have you got in mind?” Eva had a low opinion of most of the Shimizu’s staff Orientators—which Jay shared.
“The new kid. Iowa.”
“Seen him a couple of times; don’t know him.”
“He’s a natural. Spaceborn.”
That interested her. “Is that good? Will he know what it is they don’t know?”
Jay nodded. “He’s been dealing with mudfeet all his life, one way or another. The ones here are just richer, that’s all. I think he and Colly are really going to hit it off.”
“I’ll have to meet him. I always wanted to get to know a spaceborn.”
Diaghilev cleared his virtual throat. “One minute, Jay.”
Jay was still in Deluxe country—the cheapest of the Shimizu’s accommodations, the inner-sphere suites with no windows onto space. It was time to jaunt. “I’ve got to go. Uh…look, keep this absolutely top secret for, oh, at least another fifteen minutes, okay?”
“Twelve, my final offer.”
“Okay, I’ll talk fast.” He kissed her wrinkled cheek and pushed off.
“Drop by for a chat before dinner, all right?” she called after him. “Something I want to ask you.”
He waved agreement without looking back.
He passed quickly through the rest of the Deluxe Tier to the inmost core, jaunted past his own suite without stopping, and reached the executive offices on time. Warned of his arrival by Diaghilev, Tokugawa’s own AI had materialized its Personal Executive Assistant persona for him, rather than the Front-Desk Clerk avatar it would have shown to a guest. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sasaki,” she said. Her voice was oddly flat and nasal, perhaps in an attempt to make her seem real.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Boswell.”
“Ms. Tokugawa will see you now.” The door to the inner sanctum dilated.
Jay jaunted through it, brushing the doorway with his fingertips to decelerate himself to a stop inside.
Katherine Tokugawa was sitting kûkanzen in the center of her spherical office, dressed in black ceremonial robes, her back to him. At the sound of the door hissing shut behind him, she unlaced her fingers, unfolded her legs from lotus, and flexed at the waist, rotating until she faced him. He politely spun until their local verticals matched, and they exchanged a bow. Then they each “took a seat,” in the free-fall sense of the term, giving a short puff with their thrusters so that they backed away from each other and velcroed their backs and buttocks to opposing surfaces, Jay maneuvering to avoid sitting on the door he had just come through; they sat more or less simultaneously.
“Well?” she said then, in the slow exhalation of one emerging from profound meditation.
It was all bullshit, of course, and Jay knew it. If she had really been meditating, she’d have velcroed herself to a wall or some other support. A person who sits kûkanzen in the center of a room in zero gee, unsecured, sooner or later ends up bumping against the air-exhaust…and shutting down the airflow only causes a ball of exhaled carbon dioxide to accumulate and smother the meditator. The Manager of the Shimizu was—as the job called for—one of those people who prize appearance over content, style over substance, and Rinzai Buddhism was merely part of her admittedly impressive act. To have actually practiced it would have been an inefficient use of time.
But Jay was not about to let his boss know he saw through her. Not when he was about to piss her off. He slowed his breathing, adjusting to her rhythm. “My brother said yes,” he told her.
She smiled wearily.
Tokugawa—he dared not let himself think of her as “Kate” while in her presence—was a hundred and sixty centimeters long, and massed forty-six kilos. In free-fall her small size had the effect of making her seem to be a little farther away than she actually was. Which made her seem just a little more crisply in focus than other people. She had stabilized her apparent age at forty standard years, with silver streaks in her hair that were in different places each time you met her. Jay had no idea what her real age might be. She was the granddaughter of Yoji Tokugawa, who had succeeded Bryce Carrington as Chairman of the Board of the original Skyfac consortium back before the turn of the millennium, and her family still controlled a large share of space industry today. She had their “look of eagles,” backed by a competence that few Tokugawas actually possessed anymore: she looked so much like the Manager of the finest hotel in human space that her genuine fitness for the job was almost a happy accident. Neither attribute particularly impressed Jay, but then, he had to work for her.
“Good,” she said quietly. “It was about time for something to go right.”
“Troubles, Ms. Tokugawa?” Jay asked, testing the waters to see just how bad a time this was to bring up the matter of the two-month escape clause Rand wanted.
She made a flicking-away gesture. “Not reall
y. Just an infinity of minor nuisances.”
“How minor? Is the house still pressurized?”
“For the moment,” she replied drily. “No, nothing serious. I’ve got a major economic summit coming up next month, with so much weight I’m going to have to double security, and—”
“Excuse me, I could have sworn you just said you were going to double security.”
“I did.”
Jay stared. “There is no such quantity. You can’t double infinity. God isn’t as secure as a Shimizu guest.”
She grimaced. “If He had security like those five are going to have, Satan would never have gotten off a speech, much less a coup attempt. Their combined resources are…” She paused, and Jay waited, curious to hear what word she would choose. “…impressive,” she finished, and he repressed an impulse to lift his eyebrows. Any personal fortune that impressed Katherine Tokugawa staggered Jay. “If they ask me to, I’ll have to taste-test their food myself—or anything else they want.”
“That does sound like a lot of pressure.”
“Special diets, special requirements, protocol headaches—the Muslim needs to know where Mecca is at all times, precisely, and the Chinese wants me to have that Soto Zen roshi flown in from Top Step to do dokusan with him, and as for the American—well, never mind what she’ll want—and of course each and every one of them must be honored and coddled and pampered precisely as much as the other four, to the tenth decimal, never mind that it’s apples and—” She caught herself, glanced down at her meditation robes, and took a long cleansing breath. “Never mind any of it. It’s par for the course these days. And not your pidgin. About your brother—any problems I should be aware of?”
Jay’s turn to take a deep breath. “One potential glitch…but I’ll make sure it doesn’t express. Don’t even give it a thought.”
“Fine. What am I not thinking of?”