“The best dancers are all thin and small and strong, very whippy. Like Rish. By age fourteen, it was plain I was going to be built more like my Dada-my other sisters all took after my mother, willowy. I just grew too tall, too big, too heavy. Too top-heavy.” She sniffed as if in some weird-in Ivan’s view, anyway-female self-disapproval. “By age fifteen it was obvious that no matter how hard I worked, I could never be as good as the Jewels. So I stopped.”
“Gave it up?” said Ivan. “That’s no good. Just because someone else is some sort of natural flaming genius, doesn’t mean that you’re an idi…um.” Um. “Doesn’t mean that you should…” He tried rushing the notion. “Should hide your light under the covers.”
Her smile grew wan. “My sister Star said the only reason I wanted to perform with the Jewels was to make myself the center of attention. I expect she was right.” She hoisted herself wearily to her feet and went off to change places with Rish.
She’d forgotten to demand a trade. Watching her vanish into the shadows of the next room, all Ivan could think was: Actually, y’know…I expect you wanted to dance because you wanted to dance.
Tej dreamed.
She was running through writhing space station corridors, pursued by a nameless menace. Ahead of her, the Jewels scattered right and left, leaping in grand jetes down cross-corridors, flashes of red and green, blue and obsidian, gold and pearl-white somersaulting in fantastical triple turns in the air, but by the time she caught up, the corridors were silent and echoing, empty. She ran on.
A side door slid open; a voice hissed, “Quick! Hide in here!”
It was Captain Vorpatril. He was wearing his green military officer’s uniform over a bear suit. His chest was crisscrossed with bandoliers of power charge packs, and he held a very large weapon, perhaps a plasma rifle. Or was that a water gun? He grinned at her from the round, furry frame of the bear hood. The gun went away, and then they were kissing, and for a moment or two, the dream went good. His kisses were expert: neither too shy, tickling annoyingly, nor too invasive, like someone trying to shove a slug down her throat, but just right, firm and exploratory. Tej noted this, thinking, I’ll have to try very hard to remember this part when I wake up…
“I want to touch your skin,” she told him, when they broke for breath. “It’s very pale, isn’t it? Is it smooth, or hairy? Are you that pale all over? Do you have silver veins like Pearl?” Where was Pearl…?
“Here, let me show you.” He grinned again and zipped the bear suit down from neck to crotch. Both fur and skin peeled away, revealing glistening red muscle, white fascia, and the thin blue lines of veins.
“No, no, just the fur!” Tej cried in horror, backing up. “Not the skin too!”
“Oh, what?” said Vorpatril, in a tone of some bewilderment. He stared down, the bewilderment changing to dismay as the blackening crackle of a plasma arc burn spread out in a widening circle on his chest. Smoke and the smell of burning meat filled the air, and then it wasn’t Vorpatril anymore, but their ill-fated courier, Seppe, back on Fell Station…
Tej gasped and awoke. She was in bed in the dark of Vorpatril’s flat; Rish lay in silence beside her, unmoving, unaware, yet elegant even in sleep. Tej wanted to ask her where the Jewels had been flying to, but of course, people didn’t share each others’ dreams reciprocally. Tej wouldn’t wish hers on anyone else, certainly.
I’m glad to be out of that dream…Most of it. The beginning and the end were just like most of her dreams lately, altogether too much like her real life. The kiss, though, had warmed her right down to her loins. Hi there, loins. Haven’t heard from you for a while…
The strange rushing noise at the edge of her hearing resolved itself at last as the shower. It turned off, and then she could hear rustlings from the bathroom and its attendant dressing room/closet. In a while, a faint hiss sounded as the door slid aside, but the captain had evidently turned off the lights before he’d opened it. So as not to disturb his sleeping guests? Or, she wondered as his unshod footsteps wandered nearer to the bed, something more sinister?
She opened her eyes, turned, and stared up at his shadowed shape. He seemed to be fully dressed in his uniform again. No bear suit. His skin was firmly in place, good. Masked by fresh soap and depilatory cream, his scent was mildly aroused; as was her own, she supposed, but fortunately Rish was not awake to razz her on it.
“What?” she breathed.
“Oh,” he whispered back, “sorry to wake you. I’m just on my way out to HQ.”
“But it’s still dark.”
“Yeah, I know. Damn nineteen-hour days. Anything special you’d like me to bring back tonight?”
“Whatever you pick will be fine,” she said, with some confidence.
“All right. I’ll try not to be so late this time, but I never know what’ll come up, so don’t panic if I’m delayed. I’ll lock up behind me.” He made to tiptoe away.
“Captain Vorpatril!” She hardly knew what she wanted to say to him, but the dream-scent of burning flesh still unnerved her. She settled on a vague, “Be careful.”
He returned a nonplussed, “Uh…sure.”
The bedroom door closed behind him; she heard him rattling in the kitchenette, and then the sigh of the outer door, and then…then the flat sounded very empty.
Tej rolled back over, hoping for a sleep without dreams.
Despite everything, Ivan managed to arrive at Komarr downside HQ right on time that morning, half an hour before his boss was due-though more often than not Desplains managed to bollix that schedule by arriving early. Ivan started the coffee, sat at his secured comconsole, grimaced, and fired it up to find out what all had arrived in the admiral’s inbox since last shift.
Ivan had developed a personal metaphor for this first task (after the coffee) of the day. It was like opening one’s door to find that an overnight delivery service had left a large pile of boxes on one’s porch, all marked “miscellaneous.” In reality, they were all marked “Urgent!” but if everything was urgent, in Ivan’s view they might as well all be labeled miscellaneous.
Each box contained one of the following: live, venomous, agitated snakes on the verge of escape; quiescent venomous snakes; non-venomous garden snakes; dead snakes; or things that looked like snakes but weren’t, such as large, sluggish worms. It was Ivan’s morning duty to open each box, identify the species, vigor, mood, and fang- count of the writhing things inside, and sort them by genuine urgency.
The venomous, agitated snakes went straight to Desplains. The garden snakes were arranged in an orderly manner for his later attention. The dead snakes and the sluggish worms were returned to their senders with a variety of canned notes attached, with the heading From The Office of Admiral Desplains, ranging from patiently explanatory to brief and bitter, depending on how long it seemed to be taking the sender in question to learn to deal with his own damned wildlife. Ivan had a menu of Desplains’s notes, and it was his responsibility-and occasionally pleasure, because every job should have a few perks-to match the note to the recipient.
As he had both expected and feared, an urgent- of course — note from ImpSec Komarr with his full police interview of yesterday attached was nestled among this morning’s boxes. And the supply of venomous, agitated snakes in today’s delivery was disappointingly low.
After a brief struggle with his conscience, Ivan set the note in the garden-snakes file, although he did put it at the very bottom of the list. Desplains was possibly the sanest boss Ivan had ever worked for, and the least given to dramatics, and Ivan wished to preserve those qualities for as long as he could. Forever, by preference. So every once in a while, Ivan let something trivial but amusing filter through to the admiral, just to keep up his morale, and today seemed a good day to stick in a couple of those, as well. Ivan was still looking for a few more things he could legitimately enter when Desplains blew in, collected his coffee, and murmured, “Ophidian census today, Ivan?”
“All garden variety, sir.”
“Wonderful.” Desplains took a revivifying sip of fresh-brewed. Ivan wished he could remember which famous officer had once said, The Imperial Service could win a war without coffee, but would prefer not to have to. “What ever came of your interview with the dome cops yesterday?”
“I put the ImpSec note in File Three, sir.” File Three was the official designation of the garden-snakes crate, because, after all, sometimes Desplains did suffer a substitute aide, if Ivan was on leave or out ill or requisitioned for other, less routine duties, and some shorthands took too long to explain. “I expect you will want to look at it eventually.” Ivan made his tone very unpressing.
