“In the old days, they tried downloads to solve the problem of mental contradictions, but despite that effort, implants over time inevitably became obsolete and had to be replaced with newer models. Invasive replacement on a regular basis puts stress on the physical structure of the brain, risking damage. So a situation evolved where people with implanted knowledge became ever more susceptible to injury, both physical and psychological. And since the brain, or more precisely the memory and knowledge held by the brain, is the only part of us that is irreplaceable, general knowledge implants are now so regulated as to be very nearly forbidden. Not that it matters, as most people are aware of the dangers and would not accept an implant in any case.
“Oh, really,” said a sardonic O’Keefe. “How come nobody told me this before you guys stuck this thing in my head?”
“Don’t fret, my sweet patient,” Pellotte said softly. She leaned in close to him and placed a light but lingering kiss on his temple. “Your brain is in much better hands now than it was where you came from. Dr. Beccassit is an exceptionally gifted physician, almost certainly the finest ship’s doctor in the known universe. He is only aboard for this one cruise; otherwise, he spends his time as a researcher at one of our most prestigious universities. You will be just fine, trust me.”
She moved back away from him a tiny bit and then without warning gently slapped her thighs in a girlish gesture of excitement. “I almost forgot,” she said, suddenly gleefully animated. “I spoke to the captain just before I left to collect you, and you have been invited to a dinner tomorrow evening. Willet Lindy—you remember the pilot I have spoken to you about, the one who brought you back to the ship? Well, he has been agitating for some time for the chance to meet you. His wife’s family is very upper crust and politically powerful, thus she is very influential, and apparently the captain could no longer refuse the two of them. So Lindy and his wife have invited us, Dr. Beccassit, Mr. Busht, and the captain to dine in their quarters tomorrow evening. You simply must come. An invitation to dinner with Cyanne Lindy is not easily obtained and not lightly declined.” She gazed at him wide-eyed, nodding slightly as if willing him to accept.
O’Keefe just shrugged. “Sure, why not? It’s not like my social calendar is loaded up with engagements,” he said, adding “I just wish your captain wasn’t going to be there.”
“Why do you speak ill of her at every opportunity?” Pellotte demanded to know.
“Because she’s a mean little witch,” O’Keefe answered as if that fact should have been abundantly clear to anyone.
“Shush,” Pellotte scolded him, “she is not. She has suffered a great loss. Her husband was chief cartographer on the Pathfinder, a survey vessel that disappeared without a trace some years ago. She knows not if he is alive or dead. The wound in her heart causes her to come across as harsh sometimes, but she is in truth a warm and compassionate person.”
“How do you know all this?” O’Keefe asked suspiciously.
“My fiancé was a med tech aboard the Restless, a police frigate. It was the first police vessel lost to the Vazileks.” Her eyes became glassy, staring vacantly ahead at nothing. “I assume that Suven is dead, but I, like Valessanna, cannot say with certainty. In any case, the ship’s psychiatric doctor knew of our similar bereavements. She thought it would be beneficial for the two of us to confide in each other. She was correct.”
O’Keefe exhaled as his chest tightened in response to what his clumsy curiosity had elicited. He suddenly felt extraordinarily small. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say.
“Don’t be. You’re not responsible.” Her tone indicated that her answer was a rehearsed response, a falsehood she used to ease the remorse of thoughtless people like himself. It made O’Keefe feel even worse.
“Come,” she said. “We must go. We can’t keep the rest of the crew from the Arboretum all day.” She rose, and O’Keefe followed her back to his quarters, still feeling like a fool and afraid to pry for any more information lest he again get more than he had bargained for.
The next evening O’Keefe was in his bedroom when the door chimed, and he heard the soft susurration of the entry hatch sliding aside. Despite his best efforts to ignore it, he found the whole process terribly annoying. Why did the damn fools bother to ring the chime if they were only going to walk right in anyway? But he forced himself to ignore the indignity of it all. He was looking forward to getting out of solitary confinement for the evening and did not wish to do or say anything that might jeopardize the limited amount of freedom being offered him.
He heard the voices of the doctor and Pellotte in the other room, calling out his name. Ambling slowly toward the sound in his pajamas and slippers, he put on his best face, trying not to appear ornery. He needn’t have bothered as what he saw when he made his way into the main room widened his eyes and slackened his jaw, putting any chance of pique to flight. The doctor was out of uniform; instead he wore a white silk shirt and black trousers, covered by a long black coat that did an admirable job of hiding the rotundity of his belly. Beneath his beard, O’Keefe could see a red cravat with a satin sheen tied fastidiously around his neck.
But it was Pellotte’s attire that had really grabbed O’Keefe’s attention. She wore a creamy, diaphanous jump suit that was halter topped and backless. The pants were pleated and baggy, the hems tied tightly just above the heeled sandals that she wore, revealing only the barest outline of her well-shaped legs. But above the waist, the fabric was tightly stretched over her bust, leaving little to the imagination, while beneath her jeweled choker the neckline plunged meretriciously down to a spot well below her navel.
“May I take it by your tactless ogling that you find my outfit attractive?” she asked, feigning offense.
“Yeah,” O’Keefe sputtered, still unable to pull his eyes away from her torso as Beccassit chuckled off to the side.
“Well, I expect my dinner date to dress in a similarly suitable fashion. You can’t go out with me looking like that,” she said, taking a fabric bag that the doctor had been carrying and tossing it lightly to O’Keefe. “I had some things made up for you. I hope you like them. Now go change. Quickly, or we will be late.”
He retreated back into the bedroom, his fingers struggling to release the knotted drawstring that kept the velvety sack Pellotte had thrown him from opening. When it was finally untied he stripped out of his clothing and emptied the contents of the bag onto his bed. He found and donned a pair of silky boxer shorts and black, calf-high socks. There was also a white shirt with a black jacket and pants, much like what the doctor wore. He slipped into the shirt and found it had a slick quality that left him feeling like a pimp readying himself for an evening out on the town. He picked up the pants, rubbing the material between a thumb and two fingers, testing it. It felt thick and substantial as he abraded it, yet it was, like the material of the shirt, as slick and pliable as satin to a casual touch. He quickly pulled on the pants and found that not only were they warm and cozy, but that the wrinkles they had incurred from being stuffed tightly into the small sack fell away completely before he was finished adjusting the waistband. Upon donning the jacket he found that it too was equally as comfortable and quickly became just as well pressed. Grabbing the pair of shiny black shoes that still lay on the bed, he pulled them on, and with no further action on his part, they tightened snugly around his feet. He took a few paces around the room. The footwear felt sumptuous over his metatarsals and spongy under his heels. It was if he was walking barefoot over foam rubber.
He crossed the room to the mirror and scanned a reflection he hardly recognized—that of a dandyish, long-haired boy wearing a silken monkey suit from hell. But at least it was a comfortable monkey suit, he reasoned.
He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back and away from his forehead before returning slowly and with a great deal of uncertainty to the main room. He felt extremely self-conscious as he entered, the gazes of the two attendant Akadeans sweeping over him like heat. But Pellotte
clapped her hands together delightedly at his appearance and made a show of buttoning his coat, adjusting it, and fussing over him in general. He protested her attentions without meaning it, as her assiduous approval of his new attire had the very real effect of making him feel a great deal better about the way he looked.
Once she was done doting on him she took his arm and they followed the doctor out into the passageway. As they exited O’Keefe noticed for the first time that the two guards, displaying behavior contrary to every previous arrival of visitors at his door, had not entered his quarters with them and were instead waiting outside. They appeared to be momentarily nonplussed at O’Keefe’s new appearance, but quickly regained their normal, blank expressions before settling into stride behind the three of them.
Beccassit led the party a short way down the passage and halted before an open hatchway. For the first time O’Keefe was to be allowed to use a lift, as all five of the party squeezed into a car slightly smaller than an average sized elevator. Pellotte pressed closely against his side in the confining space, and when the lift accelerated horizontally away, he was pleased to feel her clinging even more tightly to his arm for support. After only a very short ride, the lift quickly slowed and came to a halt, opening only a few paces from their destination, a door that had apparently been programmed to recognize them. It slid aside at their approach and the three of them entered the Lindy residence, leaving the guards out in the corridor.
The quarters were a near mirror image of O’Keefe’s; they were perhaps slightly smaller, but not by much. Judging by the second in command’s acidic comments concerning the accommodations that had been procured for him by Dr. Beccassit, O’Keefe was certain the size and opulence of the Lindys’ quarters was more a testament to the importance of Cyanne Lindy than to any perks her aviator husband was due.
But unlike O’Keefe’s quarters, which despite their luxury still clearly retained the air of a temporary abode, these rooms were lavishly decorated in the style of a permanent home. The walls were ivory and featured large, floor to ceiling faux windows with utterly realistic views that made the room appear to be nestled against a mountain’s snowcapped peak at sunset. He was to realize over the course of the evening that the view was synchronized to the time. As the counterfeit sun slowly sank in the sky, its dying rays were ultimately replaced by the semi-darkness of a night lit by several moons.
For reasons he could not have described succinctly, the windows had the effect of making O’Keefe somewhat ill at ease. He could not seem to keep his eyes from them. Perhaps it was the perfection of a thing that could only be an illusion. Or maybe it was just that he felt such ostentation to be out of place on a fighting ship such as he perceived Vigilant to be. But whatever the reasons, the windows caused a seed of anxiety to sprout beneath his ribs. Throughout the evening the windows would repeatedly draw his gaze in the same way that a wary child eyes a bully across the playground.
At the sides of the overly realistic windows were hung thick, ice blue draperies that perfectly matched the upholstery of the chairs and settees that populated the room. The floor, from eye level, appeared to be formed by rough, interlocking planks of bleached and knotted wood. But the expanse felt utterly and unnaturally smooth beneath the soles of O’Keefe’s shoes. The wooden floor, if that was its actual composition, was for the most part covered by deeply knapped rugs of a darker blue than the furniture and the drapery. All of them had intricate designs woven into their borders and seemed specifically designed to fit beneath the various groupings of upholstery, perhaps to keep the pieces from sliding about over the slickness of the floor.
Wood burned in an exquisitely crafted stone fireplace set into the wall to his left, between two of the faux windows. O’Keefe knew that it too could not be genuine, yet it produced heat and embers fell away from the flaming logs to form piles of glowing coals beneath the grate. And despite the welcome warmth it generated, it too left O’Keefe uneasy.
In the back of the room there was a large, wooden, rectangular table, finished in a lustrous chestnut brown. Seated around it in matching, austere chairs were First Officer Busht, the captain, and another couple that he did not recognize. As they entered, the unrecognized man rose from his chair and, smiling warmly, came forward from around the table to greet them. He was a smallish man, even by Akadean standards, with an angular face and a long thin nose framed by engaging blue eyes. Long, blonde locks grew from his scalp and were now tied back into a braided pony tail that fell nearly to the middle of his back. For clothing he wore a shining gold tunic over flimsy and flowing trousers of azure, the legs of which were embellished with geometric patterns in navy blue.
Padding lightly, he confidently crossed the room and embraced the doctor warmly. He repeated the procedure with Pellotte, kissing her lightly on the lips before he pulled away. When he turned to O’Keefe, Hill stuck out his hand as if to shake, and the man ignored it, embracing him as well, in a way O’Keefe thought to be too familiar a touch between two males. He awkwardly patted the man’s shoulder blade with the hand that had been outstretched while the Akadean hugged him, the top of his head only reaching to a point several inches below O’Keefe’s chin. “Welcome,” the man said earnestly, as he stepped back from O’Keefe; “Welcome to our home away from home.”
He proceeded to study O’Keefe from head to toe. The smile, less pronounced now but seemingly genuine, still played across his lips. “It seems you’ve made a fine recovery since last I saw you,” he finally pronounced.
“Yes, I suppose I have,” O’Keefe answered, “Thanks to your medical staff.” He inclined his head in the direction of Beccassit and Pellotte.
At that, the doctor cut in. “This, Hill, as I am sure you have already guessed, is Willet Lindy. He was the pilot of the craft that rescued you.”
“Thank you,” O’Keefe said. “I’m in your debt.”
“Nonsense,” Lindy retorted. “Any honorable person would have done the same.” He emphasized the word honorable, leaving O’Keefe to guess that the accentuation was meant to prick the conscience of someone else within earshot. “Come,” he said, gently pulling O’Keefe by his left arm. “Meet my wife.”
As he spoke, the other stranger stood and walked gracefully round the table. O’Keefe turned to take his first good look at her and found her to be radiantly beautiful. She was about the height of her husband, maybe even a bit taller, and her skin tone was the same rich brown that seemed to be the hallmark of all Akadeans. Her high-cheekboned face was more oval than round; with soft, wide eyes that shone with intelligence and full, voluptuous lips. Obsidian hair flowed down her back to below her waist like a silent waterfall of polished ebony. She wore a reflective, high-collared, silvery garment that looked vaguely Oriental to O’Keefe, and covered her from Adam’s apple to ankles.
She approached him regally and looked up at him as if searching for an answer in his face. After a moment, apparently satisfied at what she had found, she spoke. “I am Cyanne. My husband has spoken of you,” she said simply. “Welcome.” She then took him by his right arm and led him toward the table. “Please, take a seat and help yourself,” she said, gesturing to a salver filled with empty, elegant glassware and ewers containing varying amounts of colorful liquids.
Pellotte took the chair next to him, sliding it a little closer to his own chair as she did so. “Let me,” she said, reaching over the table for two glasses, and then for one of the pitchers. “This is emerdal. You should try this.” As she poured a small amount of the lavender liquid into the glasses, O’Keefe found that his language implant allowed him to know that emerdal was a sweet and potent alcoholic beverage, one that was often served as a before or after dinner drink.
He took the glass that Pellotte offered him, swirling the liquid it contained beneath his nose. The concoction possessed an aroma of fruit that seemed pleasant enough, he thought, that is if one wished for a drink that was more like dessert, at least from an olfactory standpoint. Hesitantly, he took a small sample of a
sip but was still unprepared for the intensity of the taste. Emerdal had the flavor of exceptionally concentrated raspberry sherbet in a satiny liquid form, combined with enough alcoholic heat to make O’Keefe estimate that it was something in the neighborhood of fifty proof. He took another sip, rolling the liquid around his tongue for several long, delicious moments before he swallowed. It was so exquisitely ambrosial that the inside of his cheeks nearly ached from the tangy sweetness. An unconscious, slow, and soft, “Oh, my” escaped his lips. Pellotte twittered softly beside him. He turned his head to her and, smiling, said “You’re right, this is very good. Now if I only had a…”
“Had a what?” she asked.
“Never mind,” he said, shaking his head in futility. There was no word in Akadean for cigarette.
O’Keefe set his drink on the rich wood of the table, partly because he could tell by its kick that consuming it too quickly would be a very bad idea and partly because he wished to take a moment to survey his present company. He sat facing the counter the separated the kitchen from the forward section of the room. Pellotte sat to his left, still acting girlish and continuously touching him with some part of her body. The doctor occupied the head of the table to his right. Next to the doctor but facing O’Keefe sat Cyanne Lindy. She leaned slightly to her left, her elbows propped on the table, engaging Beccassit in a conversation about people that O’Keefe had never heard of. He got the impression from those few words he could hear clearly that the conversation had something to do with politics.
Lindy sat to his wife’s right, engaged in an animated conversation about flying with Busht, who sat to his right. The two of them were speaking loudly enough to nearly drown out the doctor and Cyanne. Lindy’s hands climbed, banked, and dove through the air before him as he attempted to demonstrate the maneuvers of which he spoke. Lastly, the captain sat silently opposite Beccassit, dressed, like Busht, in a gold uniform. But unlike the ones O’Keefe had seen her wear before, this one was more extravagantly beaded with the jeweled designs that he assumed were the symbols of rank and looked to be made of thinner and more elegant fabric. He did not meet her gaze but was peripherally aware that she never dropped her eyes from him. She seemed to be studying his every move.
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