Isthia sighed, like an echo of her son. I’d thought that years of exposure to Reidinger and Angharad would have eroded your methody upbringing. What is it offenders have to wear on Capella? Sackcloth and ashes?
Afra shook his head, then, propping it into his hands, made a delicate effort to break out of the fugue which tormented him.
Of course, actually, as Earth Prime, I’m not supposed to interfere with local Tower discipline, so I won’t.
That is, said Isthia, no further than you’ve already done.
Listen to the generators, Afra, and Jeff grinned. She’s working it all out of her system. Maybe you should, too. No? I guess that’s only sensible. You’re shagged.
Afra, dear, Isthia put in, I love you incredibly, but you really must pull yourself out of this negativity. It simply doesn’t suit you. Then she grew thoughtful and added, No, you’re fighting something . . . resisting with every ounce of your mind. That’s why you’re displaying so much negative emotion, isn’t it?
Afra blinked. He had not actually been indulging in self-pity, or—the notion amused him—wearing mental sackcloth and ashes. In fact, he wondered that Jeff had not perceived what did, terribly, worry him. Now that he had shown Damia how to use her innate telekinesis, he had opened an avenue of escape for her that would lead to far worse expeditions than today’s. He’d already done the Gwyn-Ravens irreparable harm with that in utero link between Jeran and Cera: the link that caused that pair to so isolate themselves from Damia that she was excluded from any natural relationships with them, an outcast within the family unit that should have sustained her. She was also the youngest of the pre-school children but so far more advanced than the nearest child in age that she had no suitable playmates. If there had been even one station child who’d been compatible, he knew that Damia would have been content and certainly less trouble-prone. Afra groaned, shaking his head in his hands.
What is it? Jeff asked.
The Rowan will not like it, Afra responded obliquely. His shielding was insufficient to keep long-eared Isthia from penetrating his tired mind. Or perhaps she had arrived at a similar conclusion.
Aha! she cried triumphantly.
I know that sort of an “aha” from you, Mother, and it means trouble for someone, Jeff said with a groan not unlike Afra’s.
Wearily Afra explained. I was thinking that most of Damia’s problems would be solved if she had other Talented children nearer her age and accomplishment. She is the youngest in daycare by over a year. If she had a human playmate her own age . . .
I don’t want her down on Earth, Jeff began, and the only place where there’re more is—. He stopped short and regarded Afra solemnly. You’re right, the Rowan won’t like it. Not at all.
But she must see the sense of it, Jeff, Isthia said. This isn’t the first time Damia has instinctively appealed to Afra as a source of reassurance and assistance. He can’t be bailing her out of every little scrape. Or if he does—. Isthia kindly left the thought unspoken, but Afra could still see the Rowan’s desperate lunge to grip the Altairian freighter and could imagine what would have happened had not Jeff Raven been there to help her prevent the freighter from plunging into the void unguided.
“How do you feel about this, Afra?” Jeff asked the tall Capellan softly.
Afra’s response was a long time coming. “It is not what I feel that matters, Jeff. It is what is best for Damia.”
“It’ll be hard on all of us,” Jeff said in response to Afra’s unspoken plaint. Mother, not a word of this to anyone!
Particularly not within Angharad’s hearing. Thank goodness she’s involved in slinging cargo about the galaxy, Isthia replied. There are quite a few Talented children nearby. And a shower of second and third cousins who could be . . . if anyone bothered to show them a thing or two. I’ll see what can be contrived here on Deneb. Especially if Damia’s just become kinetically active. More to Afra than to Jeff, she added, I promise that I will help this difficult grandchild of mine whom you find so adorable.
* * *
With strong and sensitive fingers, Jeff massaged deep into the Rowan’s neck, kneading out the worst of the knots in her tense muscles late that night.
“If it hadn’t been for Afra!” she exclaimed. “Oh! That’s it, right there!” She swiveled her neck to aid his efforts. “Ah.” She pulled away from his grasp, taking his hands in hers and gently squeezing them. “Oh, thank you! That’s much better.”
“Anything to oblige,” Jeff replied with a slight bow as he sat on the edge of the bed. The Rowan was below him on the floor, tucked between his legs. She jumped up, brushed his forehead with a kiss, then dragged him up as well. Jeff responded with a firm hug and a tender expression. The Rowan stopped him with a stern expression and a finger on his lips.
To his puzzled expression she said: “Let’s talk in the kitchen.” She turned and, fingers twined with his, dragged him after her by the hand.
The kitchen presented two good places to sit: the bar-stools and counter near the stove and the larger circular table where they usually ate (or tried to) breakfast with the kids. Jeff raised an eyebrow inquiringly at his love, but she resisted his gentle probe until she dropped into one of the seats surrounding the kitchen table.
“Jeff, I’m scared,” the Rowan began. “If it hadn’t been for Afra, we might have lost Damia completely.”
“The ship was going to Altair, luv, not the Horsehead Nebula,” Jeff chided her gently. “They would have brought her back.”
“What if she had panicked?” The Rowan wrung her hands together. “What if Afra hadn’t been there? Hadn’t handled her kinetic thrust? She could have been lost forever.” She flung out her hands despairingly.
Jeff captured one in both of his, stroking her palm gently with his fingers. He smiled up at her. “But she wasn’t, luv. Afra caught her.”
Her answer came in a sob. “He did, didn’t he? Why didn’t she call me?” Her eyes watered. “Oh, Jeff, am I such a terrible mother?”
“No!” Jeff’s answer was emphatic, firm.
“Then why didn’t she call to me?” the Rowan cried. She pulled her hand out of his.
“You were too intent, Rowan. You had a freighter to ’port—”
“So did Afra!” she broke in. “He had that load, too! But she called to him, not me!” Again she pulled her hand free to wave it over her head in more wild gesturing.
“Rowan, love, who knows what goes on in the mind of a two-year-old child—especially Damia’s.”
“She’s almost three!” the Rowan corrected him almost absently.
Jeff shook his head. “No matter, she reacted out of panic, called to the first person to come to her mind. At least, she’s learned not to bother you when you’re working.”
“You see, I am a terrible mother!” she wailed.
Jeff let out a hot hiss of breath and turned away, angry with the Rowan for her futile outburst of self-contempt.
“Well, it’s certain that you’re not doing your new son much good, getting yourself all roiled up like this,” he remarked when he had schooled his emotions. “Damia’s a spirited child, which makes her a handful.” He grinned, flicking a finger accusingly in her direction. “If I recall correctly, you were just about the same age when you startled a whole planet, which is much more than your daughter’s done.”
The Rowan blinked and managed a small chagrined smile. “Our situations were somewhat different, but I take the point.” Then she sighed in despair. “Only I have no trouble coping with Jeran and Cera . . .”
“Who are even-tempered to the point of being phlegmatic and totally engrossed in their small selves to the exclusion, I might add, of their younger sister. Damia, on the other hand, requires the same delicate understanding you received from Lusena. But we don’t have a Lusena here, who can devote every waking hour to the care and companionship of our Damia. Who is, it has been pointed out to me, very much like her mother. Opposites attract, luv, and alikes set sparks. And, in turning to Afra
in time of crisis, Damia’s only following her mother’s good example, isn’t she?” He waggled his finger at her. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”
Rowan drew breath to contradict, then let it out in a long, defeated sigh. Their eyes locked and a long silence ensued. “If it happened—” she began.
“It’ll happen again,” Jeff finished, nodding. “We may not be so lucky the next time.”
“What can we do?”
Jeff was a long time forming an answer and when he did, his voice was rueful. “For all my fingers in Talent pies, I haven’t been able to find a T-6 nanny. And I’ve offered all kinds of enticements.”
“You didn’t tell me . . .”
Jeff rolled his eyes at her vehemence. “We’d need someone anyway, with the new one on the way. And come on, luv, after today, you wouldn’t have complained if I had found someone suitable.” He exhaled and made a less palatable suggestion. “We could try hypnotic—”
“No!” The Rowan’s response was emphatic. “I will not have my children tampered with!”
Jeff continued down the list of possibilities. “What about a pukha?”
“Damia has not been orphaned . . .”
“She has been through a rather traumatic experience . . .”
“She doesn’t need a pukha. She’s got a mother and a father . . .”
“Remotes, then? There’re some excellent robotic . . .”
“A robot minding Damia?” Rowan was horrified. “A thing with no sensitivity . . . Why even a pukha would be preferable!”
“’Bots can’t be distracted from the job they’re programmed for.” Then Jeff shrugged that notion aside before the Rowan gathered her contradiction. “I admit the notion doesn’t appeal to me but . . .”
“Hideous notion!”
“There is one possible alternative,” Jeff began, careful to sound tentative.
“What?”
“It worked with me,” Jeff began, judiciously choosing his words, “though even a whole planet might not be large enough. We could ask Mother to take all three of them . . . at least until you’ve delivered this child.”
“What? Admit to all Deneb and the Nine Star League that I can’t look after my own children?”
“No, admit to the Nine Star League that you are having a bad pregnancy, yet you honor your commitment as Prime. But, because your children are special, you are willing to sacrifice your daily contact with them to ensure that they grow up as happily as possible,” Jeff corrected her. “Besides,” he continued on a fresh breath, “what do you care for the opinion of others as long as the children are happy?”
“But your mother can’t possibly—”
“It’s not just Mother who’d be involved but my brothers, sisters, cousins, and nieces,” Jeff corrected. “They’d all be ecstatic. It’d be a good thing for Deneb. You know how many undeveloped Talents you found in the City. Even young as our kids are, they’ve had more training than anyone there. Deneb’s been reorganizing—give the planet examples of Talented children to stimulate interest in that natural resource. And,” Jeff added, reaching over to pat her belly lovingly, “you’ll be able to concentrate on him wholeheartedly.”
“Maybe if I hadn’t—”
“You got pregnant for Damia, if you recall,” Jeff gently reminded her. “Mother would be over the moon. And Ian’s a good lad: he’d certainly be happy to have nephews and nieces to play with!”
The Rowan had to smile at the incongruity of a seven-year-old uncle. Ian was the last born of Isthia Raven and the first baby the Rowan had had a chance to handle. She could, in fact, visualize him as a good companion for six-year-old Jeran, who was much too preoccupied with a sister fifteen months his junior.
“Jeran could do with an older brother and I’m sure Ian would be glad to oblige,” Jeff remarked, neatly accessing the Rowan’s thoughts.
“Jeff—” the Rowan began in preparation for a protest. He raised a hand to forestall her, then placed it over hers.
“Sleep on it, love.” Gently he led her from the kitchen to their bedroom.
In bed, the Rowan rolled over. “Jeff?”
“Mmm?”
“Don’t mention this to Afra, just yet.”
“Of course not, not until you’ve made up your mind,” Jeff responded ingenuously.
* * *
As the week progressed and the ripples from Damia’s “accident” spread throughout the Nine Star League, with shipments late or lost, the Rowan found it increasingly harder to resist the suggestion.
“It’s just that it’s so unnatural!” the Rowan railed late one night to her husband. Eyes tear-rimmed, she turned to him. “Why can’t I look after my own daughter?”
Jeff patted her soothingly. “Hush, luv, you could, if you’d nothing else to do with your time. But look at the demands on you. Three highly Talented children, another on the way, long hours in an FT&T Tower.”
“But I don’t want to be like Siglen . . .”
Jeff regarded her with astonishment, then laughed, rocking her in his arms. “Luv, you’re no more like Siglen than . . . than Brian Ackerman’s a Reidinger clone. Sometimes, when I think how that woman repressed you, babied you, gifted you with a load of rubbishy phobias, I wonder you’ve turned out as well as you have,” Jeff exclaimed. He cradled her possessively. “You’ve chosen not to repress or overprotect your children and they’re really rather marvelous. It’s just that,” he added ruefully, “a young Gwyn-Raven marvel is a handful for anyone!”
The Rowan sighed in agreement.
“And you’ve three handfuls with a fourth on the way.” Jeff moved a hand to rub her belly soothingly. “And then there’s this disturbing report from Elizara.”
“Hmm?” The Rowan stirred uneasily at the change of topic. “Oh? That, well, yes, she mentioned something about anomalies in my latest lab results.”
“Oh?”
The Rowan dismissed them. “Elizara said she’d come back to me. It does happen.”
“I’d really rather know asap,” Jeff said with gentle insistence. “I can’t think why,” and he grinned, “but you’re very important to me.” He draped an arm about her shoulders and peered down at her half-hidden face.
She gave him an long enigmatic look out of the corner of her eye. “I could . . .” she hesitated, “take a leave of absence from the Station!” Before he recovered from his surprise, she added, “Afra could take over . . . with you to give him a hand with the live and heavy stuff.”
The suggestion bowled Jeff over. Sympathetically he drew her against him as he mulled it over, digesting the notion—and also the Rowan’s reason for making such a drastic proposal. He knew how important the Callisto post was to her. And, in the normal way of things, she ran it faultlessly. He’d seen Reidinger’s private notes about her management. The Altairian freighter episode was unique in every way. He could feel through her that he had delayed an answer long enough to cause her to fret.
“You could. You’re entitled to leave,” and he stroked her hair, grinning. “None of us Primes take even a quarter of the leave we’re allowed. I could transfer Saggoner and Torshan here . . .” and with the index finger of his free hand, he prodded the bedspread, miming the moves he would have to make. Then he frowned. “Of course they’ve become indispensable to Altair, and that system hasn’t got DEW yet . . . Gollee could be spared to assist Afra here . . .” His voice dropped out while he considered the ramifications. Then he made eye contact with the Rowan and tightened his arm about her. “There’s another possible solution. Mother!”
The Rowan poked at him in disgust, physically and mentally, because he was concealing something. “Your mother can’t run a Tower.”
“No,” and Jeff’s grin was wide if the sense of him was tentative, almost wary, “but she sure raises kids well.”
“After all she’s had to raise? You’d saddle her with Damia?”
“And Jeran and Cera,” and Jeff was dead serious now. “If Damia has learned to ’port, th
at pair are too competitive not to mimic their kid sister’s trick.”
The Rowan’s expression mirrored the fearful tension Jeff could feel in mind and body. “We’re so far from Deneb . . .” the Rowan began defensively. Abruptly she gave a sharp poke in the diaphragm that made him grunt: her look altered as she jabbed him again, harder. “You devious, unrepentant dork! That was all pretense about shifting T-ratings. You had this in mind all along! You’re no better than Reidinger, now you’re Earth Prime. The Callisto Station runs best through me . . . even when I’m spewing my guts with morning sickness.”
Jeff coughed delicately. “Actually, the highest efficiencies and throughput were achieved when I was Prime.” The Rowan glared at him, words unneeded. Jeff shrugged. “Well, you could run Earth!”
“Jeff!” she growled, launching herself on top of him. The Rowan broke off the ensuing play fight with a groan. She pushed herself away from him.
“Are you okay?” Jeff asked solicitously, for her complexion had turned an odd gray.
The Rowan nodded raggedly. “Uh, our little one decided to join in the fun.”
“I’m calling Elizara,” Jeff said in tones that brooked no argument. “And the children are going to Deneb.” When the Rowan started to protest, he held up a hand. “This pregnancy is not proceeding normally and I won’t risk losing you.”
Elizara arrived so promptly that, despite the Rowan’s protestations that Jeff was being overprotective, she was alarmed. Elizara immediately reassured both parents that the child was not under any stress.
“You are,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at the Rowan. “I’ve checked, and double-checked, the lab reports of your latest tests. You have developed what’s known as gestational diabetes, Rowan.”
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