said, “that looks good on you.”
He grinned, that extremely charming smile that seemed to light up his whole face, partly by contrast. Laurent looked very sober a lot of the rest of the time, which, under the circumstances, Maj thought, was probably understandable.
“So, here,” Maj said. “Baloney, mortadella, regular ham, Mom’s favorite smoked Virginia ham, which she will threaten our lives for eating, my father’s head cheese, white bread, pumpernickel, rye, mayo…”
“Mustard?” Laurent said.
“In the fridge.”
He went to get it. “It did not comment,” Laurent said, returning with it.
Maj smiled. “It’ll find something to say eventually. I should warn you, don’t leave its door open, or it’ll call you ‘Adrienne.’”
“Oh?”
“The Muffin likes to stand there and look in, pondering the mysteries of the universe.”
“Oh.” He started slathering mustard on some of the pumpernickel. “But her proper name is Adrienne….”
“She won’t answer to it. She decided some while back that Muffin is her name, and she won’t answer to Adrienne anymore.” Maj shrugged. “We’ll see if it lasts. She may change her mind in a few years when the other kids at school start ragging her about it.” She got a plate for her sandwich, then said, “Speaking of names…we’ll keep using Niko, huh? Just so she doesn’t get confused. But I know the story behind the cover story.”
He nodded, that somber expression in place again. “I am sorry,” Laurent said, “not to really be related to you.”
The pain in his voice, though he was trying hard to cover it over, was considerable. Maj shook her head. “While you’re here,” she said, “you are. So forget about it. But what do I call you in private? ‘Laurent’ seems awfully formal.”
“‘Lari’ is the short form, the — nickname?”
“Oh. ‘Larry’?”
“Close,” he said. “‘Larry,’” he said, a little slowly, as if it were a word in a foreign language — but then again, it was.
“It’s just a short form of ‘Lawrence.’ Your name, but the English version.”
“Okay. Larry.”
“Great,” Maj said. “Now at least I won’t have to shout at you and get no answer back all the time.”
Laurent grinned. “It must have seemed silly. But it is hard to remember you have a new name.” Then the grin fell off, as if he was remembering something that made him uncomfortable. “Larry is better.”
“Well, you’ll still have to remember around the Muffin.”
“I think I will manage. Is there another plate?” She handed him one, and he put his sandwich on it and cut it in half. “She will keep reminding me, I think….”
They went to sit down, and Maj rooted around in the fridge for her mother’s perpetual jug of iced tea and brought it to the table. For a while they sat and ate comfortably enough, not saying anything; but Maj suddenly became aware that Laurent was looking at her, and she raised her eyebrows.
“You look worried,” he said.
She opened her mouth to protest that she didn’t know what he was talking about…then laughed. “The battle,” Maj said. “I always get twitchy before these…”
“But it is virtual,” Laurent said, looking somewhat bemused.
“Well,” she said, “there’s virtual, and then there’s virtual. Look—” She pushed the plate away and got up. “We’ll be a little early, but there’s no harm in being the first ones into the hangar. Though wait half a second —”
She put her head out the back door and looked for her mother. She was crouched down behind some rosebushes, slaughtering aphids. “Mom,” she said, “my battle’s in a little while. I want to take L-Niko along, but I don’t want to sit at the table—”
“You use my machine, honey,” her mother said. “Niko can use the chair in the den. I don’t think Rick’s going to be back until well after you’re done.”
She let the door close. “My brother usually uses the den link,” Maj said. “Fortunately he’s out of the picture at the moment. Come on, finish that up and we’ll get you settled.”
A few minutes later they were both installed in separate rooms. Minutes after that they were in Maj’s work space. Laurent looked around appreciatively again. “Mine is nothing like so nice,” he said. “But maybe now it is over here, I can make some changes.”
“Your dad had your space cloned over here?”
“My father took care of it last week, he said.” Laurent glanced around him. “But it is very empty compared to this. All these books in the shelves…these are real works somewhere else?”
“Reference stuff mostly. Encyclopedias, almanacs, links to the news services. I’ll show you how it’s done after I get back from school tomorrow. Meanwhile—”
She paused by the version of her desk that lived in the work space, and put her hand down on it. “Computer…”
“Wide awake, boss.”
“Open access to
There was a pause. “Addition to account authorized,” said the computer. “Is the authorization intended for the party presently in your work space?”
“Yes.”
“Noted. Time limitations now apply to guest accounts. Fifty hours maximum.”
Maj rolled her eyes. This was more than enough time to get anyone she could think of addicted to the game…which was doubtless the designers’ intention. “Thank you,” she said. “Ready?”
“Ready now. Preferred area of ingress?”
“Hangar one.”
“Hangar one access ready.”
She went over to the door in the wall, opened it. “Come on in.”
Laurent followed her in. The other side of the door was now occupied by a huge empty space with a shiny concrete floor. The walls were a long way off and were also painted concrete with large tool closets and metal equipment shelving pushed up against them. From the corrugated metal ceiling hung lights so bright they almost hurt to look at, and in the middle of it all sat Maj’s Arbalest fighter.
It was a long, sharp-nosed black shape somewhat reminiscent of the old SR-71 Blackbird, but stubbier, and not so “flattened” in cross-section, and it was shiny mirror-black, not matte, for protection against light-weapons. The wings were swept back much more acutely, and the wing-roots were much broader, partly to support the weight of the “Crossbow” pumped laser cannons that hung under them on each side.
“This is yours?” Laurent breathed.
“Yup,” Maj said as they walked toward it. “Well, my group’s, anyway. The basic design, I mean. We’ve all made modifications to the design, here and there. But it’s not too bad.” She paused and just took a moment to admire it.
Laurent was walking around it with his mouth very satisfyingly open. Maj was pleased. Whatever else might be going on inside this new visitor, he plainly had taste.
“Suit,” she said to the air. Her space suit appeared on her — again one of the game’s standard suits, but customized with the Group of Seven’s black eight-ball patch (though the numeral was a seven instead) on the shoulders. It was similar to gee suits being used today by those pilots who insisted on flying their fighters “genuinely” rather than virtually, but it had much more attention paid to the insulation. Even fighter pilots do not normally have to worry about being dumped out of their craft in deep space, or having to wait there for pickup for prolonged periods.
“Games controller,” Maj said.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the game’s computer.
“Would you provide a suit for my guest, please?”
“Yes ma’am. Will he be participating in flight?”
