Federations

“You’re in charge of . . . ?” He thought he’d recovered as gracefully as possible.

“Very good. I’m a recovery specialist, but I’m chief of the suspension and support.”

“A most necessary specialty, especially for attack pilots,” he said with a smile. He couldn’t have met her before, but the sense of familiarity remained. “You didn’t study at Edo Institute, did you?”

“No. Fumitomo, then Heian for my residency.”

“Why did you decide on the service?”

“I like the specialty. It fits me, and where else would I get this kind of experience? All planetside suspension facilities are either geriatric wards for the wealthy or holding pens for clone-replacement therapy, and there aren’t many of the latter.”

Ghenji nodded. “In a way, it’s like attack flying. If you want to pilot anything outside the service, all you are is a tram driver . . . ”

All in all, they talked for close to two stans before he had to leave to stand an ops-watch, not that doing so meant more than watching the system indicators.

Ghenji didn’t see Rokujo the next day, but when he woke the following morning and rolled out of his cubicle, he decided that he would make an effort to encounter her, while he had time to get to know her . . . even though that was unlike him. But she did fascinate him, perhaps because of the calm, almost unblinking, way she viewed him, as if she were focused on him and him alone.

Still, the Amaterasu would enter deep jump in three days, and in two Ghenji Yamato would climb into a cocoon and be hibernated until the ship re-entered normspace, not that he knew that destination, only that it was in the area disputed by the Mogulate and the Republic. After that, his real tasks would begin.

For all his engineering background, he still found it hard to understand a universe where instantaneous—or near-instantaneous—interstellar communications were possible, but where interstellar travel was far slower. It did make for an interesting galaxy—and one that required the space service . . . and one Ghenji Yamato—or other pilots like him.

Despite his interest in Rokujo, with his own duties and schedule, it was just before the evening meal when he saw her standing just outside the officers’ lounge adjoining the junior officers’ wardroom.

“Good afternoon, Rokujo.”

“Good afternoon.”

“I was looking for you earlier, at lunch.”

“We were running tests, and I didn’t get away . . . ”

Since seating was not strictly by rank except at the formal mess dinners, they sat together and talked.

“You know your names are almost contradictions of who you are,” she said, taking a quick mouthful of rice.

“I hadn’t thought about it. I’m an engineer.”

“Yamato was an emperor, filled with courage, and willing to commit the most treacherous acts possible in search of honor. Ghenji was a schemer and a lover and the first non-divine Shinto romantic hero—as depicted by a woman. You certainly have courage, but your honor is that of a monk’s, and I doubt you could betray anyone.”

“That’s a fault?”

“I didn’t say that it was, so long as honor doesn’t preclude love.”

“What about you?”

“Let us just say that I have two natures, hot and cold, and I’m always seeking balance while believing in absolutes . . . ”

After spending the meal mainly listening and just watching her, Ghenji realized that it was one of the more enjoyable he had spent in a service wardroom in years, if ever.

Unfortunately, afterwards, Rokujo hurried off to deal with some sort of system glitch in the suspension diagnostics, but that, as Ghenji knew all too well, was more than typical for anyone who had to deal with systems. His turn would come once they entered the combat zone.

He turned, debating whether to stay and play speed-chess, when another pilot approached.

“I saw you with Captain Yukionna,” offered Hotaru, the flight captain in charge of Kama-three.

“What about her?” asked Ghenji cautiously.

“Oh . . . nothing.”

“What you’re not telling me isn’t nothing,” replied Ghenji with a grin.

“Well . . . if you want to be with her . . . don’t even think about being with anyone else.”

“Oh . . . ?” For Ghenji, the implications were appealing. He’d never liked it when women, especially officers, played off men against each other. “Is that a return flight?”

“If you’re hers, she’s yours, and no one else’s. I’ll see you later.”

Ghenji stood, watching. He thought he heard Hotaru murmur something else but he wasn’t certain. What was certain was that Hotaru could have said more. There was also no doubt he had no intention of doing so.

• • •

On threeday, after his shift on the combat simulator, Ghenji cleaned up and made his way down to the life- support deck, with the rows and rows of cocoons. He found Rokujo system-linked, and sat down on the deck, cross-legged—monk-fashion, he supposed—to wait.

“How long have you been here?” she asked, as she finished de-linking from the system.

“Not long.” He stood and gestured toward the console. “What were you doing?”

“I was checking diagnostics on the medical suspension cocoons.”

“There’s not a problem, is there?”

“No. That’s why now is a good time to check everything in detail. After you and the other pilots start flying missions, we’ll need them—that isn’t the time to find out something’s wrong.”

“That makes sense.” He paused. “Would you like to join me for some tea, if you can . . . and, if . . . ?” How could he ask what he really wanted to know?

She smiled, amusedly. “Are you trying to find out if I’m committed to someone in some way? I’m not. And yes, I’d love some tea, even what passes for it in the wardroom. Then, we’ll see . . . ”

Ghenji hadn’t made that offer, although it was what he had in mind.

II

The space service was practical, but not given to more than acknowledging that humans, particularly with mixed crews, did require a certain privacy. Cubicles for one officer would fit two, but not with all that much room to spare.

Rokujo, lying in Ghenji’s arms, or on his right arm, looked up. “Officers’ cubes have a cross-section that’s almost bell-shaped.”

“It helps get rid of excess heat,” he replied languidly.

“Or traps it . . . my not-so-monkish lover.”

He stroked her short, silky, brilliant white hair.

“I need to go,” she said. “I do have the med-section mid-watch.”

“You didn’t . . . ”

“I wasn’t about to. Your monkish concern with duty would have had you protesting that you didn’t want to interfere with mine.” Almost absently, she licked her lips, before smiling at him. “This way, you’ll get a good night’s sleep.”

He had to admire the seemingly boneless way in which she slithered into her uniform skin-suit and shipvest before leaving him and the cubicle.

He lay back, amazed at what had happened. In a way, she had almost coiled around him, he reflected, yet cool as she seemed, and as cool as her touch was, she also radiated warmth. How could anyone look so cool, even feel so cool, and then pour forth such heat? But then she had said that her nature was both hot and cold.

Later, alone in his small cubicle, he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, knowing that before long he’d be in