Jenna Starborn

by Sharon Shinn

  Within hours after my arrival, Mrs. Farraday had offered to show me the grounds and I, quite curious about my new home, had accepted. I had only been able to form a guess as to the extent of Thorrastone Park, for Mrs. Farraday had mostly shown me the manor proper and its grounds; we had not investigated the mining area nor the buildings erected there. But they were visible from many vantages of the manor and its gardens, a dark cluster of small buildings and untidy phalanxes of scurrying workers.

  “Do the house generators supply power for the entire compound, or do the mine generators perform that function?” I asked.

  She had already explained to me how Thorrastone Park was governed by two sets of generators, and how, since the last tech had left, the mining supervisor had overseen the equipment at the manor. These house machines were the only ones I would have any responsibility for, unless some drastic disaster occurred on the mining fields; those generators had their own personnel.

  “Actually, the house equipment controls the major forcefield, though the mine equipment can be used as backup,” she said. “The failsafe has never had to be used, but it is a comfort to know it is in place.”

  “Indeed, yes,” I said. “And how often do the generators experience a breakdown?”

  Her amiable face showed a faint expression of worry. “We have never had a breakdown, you realize, but as I understand it, the equipment needs constant maintenance. But you would understand such a thing better than I, would you not, Miss—Miss Starborn?”

  I smiled involuntarily at the hesitation in her voice. It was clear the syllables sounded strange to her; she could not imagine what such a plain person was doing with such a fanciful name. “I did not mean to imply that you had completely lost power,” I assured her. “But some of the Arkady converters are known to be temperamental, especially the early models, and I wondered how often little—glitches—were known to occur. Don’t worry, I will consult the last tech’s records. They will tell me all I need to know.”

  Her face cleared, she smiled again. “Then, if you have no more questions about the compound—”

  I gestured in the direction of the mining buildings. “But should I not go over there and make myself known to the other techs? If we are going to provide backup support for each other—”

  “Oh, dear me, no,” Mrs. Farraday said hastily, accelerating the hovercraft so inexpertly that it jerked and shuddered violently enough to send us both clutching at the door frames. “No, no, you do not want to associate with the miners at all. You must not go there.”

  “But if I am to be useful to them—”

  She had gotten the craft steadied now, and she sent us with its inconsiderable speed back toward the main house. “They have a handful of techs—they can back each other up. It is only we, at the house, who need help from them. No, Miss—Starborn, you do not want to be trafficking with the miners.”

  Now that I was no longer in fear of being dumped out of the car, I began to be amused. “But, Mrs. Farraday, whatever could be wrong with them? I have been around rough, untutored men and women before.”

  “They are all of that,” she said with a certain grimness. “And some of them are worse.”

  “Are they cyborgs?” I asked.

  She seemed to jump as if scalded. “Cyborgs! What would make you ask such a thing? Mr. Ravenbeck would not have cyborgs on his premises!”

  “The more loss to Mr. Ravenbeck, then,” I said quietly. “But tell me what the problem is with the miners.”

  She seemed to stiffen her spine, as if girding herself to say a most unpleasant thing. “You yourself are a half-citizen, Miss—Starborn,” she said. There was no way she could avoid knowing this; it had to be included on my resume. “You know that to be taken seriously in this society, you must behave better than your own class. You must associate upward, not downward. And the miners, for you, would be a step downward. Your behavior must be above reproach for you to look for any advancement at all.”

  “I do not look for much advancement,” I said slowly, “but I do take your point. You are telling me that the workers are not even half-cits, then. Are they criminals? Have they given up all status?”

  She nodded unhappily. “Some of them. Not the mine supervisor or his assistant, of course. Now, promise me, Miss Starborn, you will not leave the manor grounds. Promise me you will not mingle where it is against your best interests to go.”

  I had never met anyone of no status before, and I must admit my curiosity burned far more brightly than my fear, but I had no particular reason to alarm this somewhat simple-minded lady who appeared to have only my well-being at heart. “Certainly I will not seek out trouble, Mrs. Farraday,” I said gently. “It is kind of you to warn me.”

  At that, she relaxed, and allowed the hovercar to drop back to a more reasonable speed. We were nearly at the house, in any case, and she must now begin maneuvering the vehicle through the narrow tunnel that led to the garage. She was not very adept at this task, and so I said very little during this passage so that she could concentrate more fully.

  Once we were safely parked and back inside the spacious foyer, Mrs. Farraday seemed to experience a revival of spirits, and asked me quite happily if I would care to join her in an afternoon snack. Soon we were seated in a tastefully decorated blue salon, where I had been told we would take all our informal meals, sipping hot tea and munching on some excellent cookies.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Farraday, just who exactly the owner of Thorrastone Park is,” I said somewhat boldly, for she was so genteel that I was not sure she could bring herself to gossip. “The name, Everett Ravenbeck, I know from the papers, but of the man I know almost nothing at all.”

  “He is a level-one citizen,” she said earnestly, as if that summed him up completely. In one sense, it did; it told me he had wealth, resources, the right to travel anywhere he chose, and, no doubt, a cosmopolitan outlook on life that I could never hope to understand. On the other hand, it told me nothing.

  “But what is he like?” I pressed. “Is he kind? Cruel? Indifferent? Patient? Peremptory? Does he like to laugh, or is he a silent man? What are his opinions and philosophies?”

  “He is kind—very kind,” she said somewhat randomly; clearly she had never before been asked to analyze her employer for his merits. “And—yes!—he is intelligent. I cannot follow half his conversation, but I listen and smile.”

  “I assume he has several estates?”

  “Oh, yes. Perhaps eight.”

  “How often is he at Thorrastone Park?”

  “Not more than three or four times a year. He does not stay long, of course, for he must oversee his other holdings as well. But when he is here, the house becomes quite lively, for he and the other property owners get together to discuss the progress of the mines and the political situation—all sorts of things that I never really bother my head with.”

  I smiled at that. Such conversation would fascinate me, for I so rarely had a chance to overhear anyone discussing anything of more importance than pressure on a fuel line or the risk inherent in some procedure. A political salon would be quite a welcome change of pace! But I did not say so. Instead, I asked, “And you, Mrs. Farraday? How did you come to be employed by Mr. Ravenbeck?”

  “It was quite a stroke of fortune,” she said seriously. “I was married to his second cousin, Richard Farraday—the most wonderful man, Miss Starborn, I miss him still. But Richard died, and we did not have enough cash for me to maintain—maintain our lifestyle. And at the same time, I heard that Mr. Ravenbeck was looking for a seneschal for Thorrastone Park. Inquiries were made, and I was installed here, with full family rank and title.”

  I listened carefully, for there were many gaps in this story. Farraday—yes, I remembered now, that was part of the family name that had appeared on the employment listing: Everett Livingston Farraday Ravenbeck, a man with many connections among the upper strata of Allegiance society. This Richard Farraday must have been some minor offshoot of some distantly related branch of th
e family, and the woman before me one with no connections herself, who had married for love. Richard’s death would have left her in a precarious position if she had no family willing to take her back and no money to support herself. She had, I realized, been in grave danger of sliding backward into half-citizenship, until Mr. Ravenbeck recognized her as a family member and gave her a place and position.

  I understood belatedly why she had been so concerned about me fraternizing with the miners; she herself had come so close to a degraded level of life that she wanted to protect anyone else from such horrors. And I could not help noting that, even though it had served him as well, Mr. Ravenbeck had done a kind thing by taking her in.

  “That was fortunate indeed,” I said gravely. “I imagine that running a household such as Thorrastone Park must be challenging.”

  “As to that, it is a small enough household until Mr. Ravenbeck is here—but I must be ready at a moment’s notice to accommodate him and any guests he might choose to bring,” she said with some complacency. “When he is not here, it is just me, and the few indoor servants, and the tech, and Ameletta and her tutor.”

  “Ameletta?” I repeated, for I had encountered no one by this name.

  “Mr. Ravenbeck’s ward. You have not met her yet because she is in town with her tutor attending an art show. They will be back tomorrow.”

  “I look forward to meeting them.” I wanted to ask how Mr. Ravenbeck had come to acquire a ward, but since the information was not volunteered, I did not like to be prying too deeply into what might very well be a private matter. “How often and how easily does one get ‘to town’ from here, Mrs. Farraday?”

  I thought it quaint the way she referred to the closest Fieldstar spaceport as “town,” but I supposed it did serve as a sort of metropolis to the outlying holdings and manors of the planet. After knowing the unending city streets of Lora for fourteen years, I found the spaceport’s few square blocks of commerce rather sparse. It would be a pleasant place to spend an afternoon, but it was no great cultural center.

  “Oh, it is a simple enough matter to get there, Miss Starborn,” she replied. “There is a public airbus that takes a route past our place three times a day, so that you can come and go at a time that suits you. And if you wished, you could borrow one of the aircars—that is, if you know how to operate an aeromobile, Miss Starborn?”

  I smiled. “Not I. I would have more luck repairing it if it malfunctioned than attempting to drive it myself.”

  She had leaned forward to secure herself another sweet, and she offered the platter to me. “Another cookie, Miss Starborn?”

  “No, thank you.”

  There was a slight pause as she set the plate down, and then she turned toward me with a look of great determination on her face. “Miss Starborn! I must ask. How is it that you come by such an unusual name? I was caught by it when I saw it on the application, but your credentials were so good that I did not hesitate. And yet now, seeing you, I cannot help but wonder—for you seem like a more retiring sort, if you will do not mind my plain speaking.”

  I smiled again. “No offense. In fact, I am a half-citizen because I was conceived without a name, in the gen tanks of Baldus.”

  Mrs. Farraday struggled to keep her expression neutral, but it was clear she had not often come across fabricated humans, and she was not sure how to react. “I was meant to be adopted by the woman who had commissioned me, but once she took me into her household, she chose not to complete the transaction,” I said steadily. It had been so long since I had thought of my aunt Rentley, so long since I had reviewed her ill treatment of me! I was surprised to learn the memories still stung. “So, essentially, when I left her house, I had no name.”

  “Poor child,” Mrs. Farraday murmured, sympathy winning out over repugnance. “But then, how came you to choose such a name? I would think a simple Smithfield or Johnson would have served you better.”

  “Many of the offspring of the gen tanks found themselves in peculiarly similar circumstances,” I said. “ ‘Starborn’ is a common name among those of us created in such a fashion. It gives us a community of sorts, a family name, if you will. It is whimsical, I do admit, but it tells us truly where we are from, since we most certainly were not born of man.”

  “Yes—I suppose—well, indeed, that makes a kind of sense,” she said uncertainly. “Still! A strange name to get used to.”

  “Call me Jenna, then,” I invited. I knew I was taking a risk, because she was clearly a very conventional woman, and our society was a very formal one; the lower-class citizens were required to address their betters by courtesy titles, and the upper-class citizens, as a mark of kindness, usually returned the favor when they spoke to their inferiors.

  To my relief, her face relaxed into a smile. “That’s what I shall do, then, Jenna, if you do not think it too familiar.”

  I smiled back. “After the life I have had, I would welcome a little familiarity,” I said.

  After our meal, I retired to my room for a few hours to unpack and rest. It was something of a trick to find my bedchamber again, for the house—larger even than my aunt’s mansion on Baldus—was filled with wandering corridors and unexpected turns. I could only suppose the builders had attempted to emulate the style of ancient estates, which, having been added to over the centuries, presented an erratic charm, though certainly Thorrastone Park had been conceived and constructed over a short, efficient period of time.

  The main story consisted of an entrance hall which immediately faced onto a grand stairway. Most of the entertaining would be done on this floor, for here could be found the well-stocked library, the formal dining room, a small sitting room, the kitchen, and the smaller breakfast room which adjoined the kitchen and where most members of the household took their meals. A level above was an assortment of rooms that I had not entirely identified—Mrs. Farraday, on our tour, had spoken briefly of Mr. Ravenbeck’s study, Ameletta’s schoolroom, her own office, and an informal sunroom.

  The third story contained all the bedrooms for residents and guests, though the space was divided into two wings that were accessible by different hallways, so that commingling would be prevented if that were for some reason desirable. The bedroom I had been given was situated in the wing near the rooms of Mrs. Farraday, Ameletta, and the tutor. The cook and two intermittent housemaids had rooms in another quarter of the house. I had been astonished when Mrs. Farraday first spoke of servants—for, with so few people even in residence, I could not imagine what servants could be expected to do to occupy themselves—but when I comprehended how large the house actually was, I realized that a whole battalion of workers would be necessary to keep everything looking reasonably clean and free of dust.

  My own room, though small by the mansion’s standards, seemed luxurious to me. Its many amenities included a private bathroom, a walk-in closet, a window overlooking the lawns, a computer terminal, and a large four-poster bed supporting an air-filled mattress. After the lumpy bed at Lora Tech—and the hard bunk I had slept in so recently on my voyage here—I found this bed the most comfortable place I had ever laid my body.

  I did take a short nap, then showered and changed into a clean pair of coveralls. Going in search of Mrs. Farraday, I found her in the second-story sunroom. We had not exchanged half a dozen sentences, when we heard voices on the stairs, and within minutes, Ameletta and her tutor burst into the room. Well, perhaps the tutor, with her sober face, did nothing so energetic, but little Ameletta skipped forward eagerly, a vision in blond curls and a frilly white frock, and at once turned the place into the vortex of a whirlwind.

  “But you must be the new Miss Starborn!” she exclaimed, nearly dancing around my chair in her excitement. I caught a glimpse of blue eyes and a ravishingly fair complexion. “I must say, you look nothing at all like I had pictured, for you are quite young and not in the least grand. Have you been all over Thorrastone Park? That is such a shame, for I meant to take you myself! It is a pretty place, is it not? For a mi
ning outpost, anyway. I have been to Hestell and Corbramb, and they are ever so much nicer—at least, I think they are, for I have seen pictures, but I was so young when I was there that I’m afraid I don’t really remember. I’m Ameletta, of course. I’m eight.”

  Both Mrs. Farraday and the tutor made some attempt to stem this tumbling tide of speech, but I was neither offended nor annoyed. Would that I had been such an open, happy child at the age of eight! “Hello, Ameletta,” I said solemnly. “And where have you been all day?”

  “Oh! At the most wonderful show! We saw paintings and holograms and the dearest little dog—not a real dog, of course, it was animated, but it looked real, and if it had come up to me on the street, I would have petted its head and called it ‘nice doggie,’ for I would not have been able to tell the difference. Oh, and Miss Ayerson, what was that piece you liked so much? The one that moved?”

  “It was called a ‘scenograph,’ and it depicted a landscape with living creatures in it,” her tutor replied in a composed voice. “Or at least, so that is how they appeared. Good evening, Miss Starborn. I am Ameletta’s tutor, Janet Ayerson.”

  I made a polite hello and a private assessment. Miss Ayerson was a severely dressed, plain-featured young woman a few years younger than myself, bearing all the unmistakable signs of poverty, hardship, and a determination to make her way nonetheless in a not entirely hospitable world. No question that she was a half-cit; this kind of work was not sought by anyone with a pedigree. Indeed, there were some who might have been able to see very little difference between us, our features and our stations in life. I could not decide if this should make me more sympathetic to her—or if it would make me strive, in every small way, to be as different from her as possible.

  We all talked generally for the next few minutes, while Ameletta chattered away as if everyone was listening to each of her sunny syllables. Then Mrs. Farraday rose to her feet, quickly smoothing down the front of her expensive pantsuit.