Safe House

twice.

The Great Hall of this particular cabin was scattered with animal hides which would have been extremely politically incorrect if they had been genuine. However, they weren’t, and some of them were simply hypothetical. Mairead was presently curled up on one of the five huge sofas, absently petting one of the pelts, an amazing thing streaked in midnight blue and silver. “This is really pretty,” she had commented when they first all came in. “They should make an animal to go with it….”

Now, though, she looked across to Maj, who was sitting on the sofa closest to the huge open fireplace. Maj had always been a sucker for fires, and she was presently gazing into this one, estimating idly that you could probably roast a whole cow in it, assuming you had a block and tackle to swing the cow into the flames with.

“Look,” Mairead said. “It’s not that he’s not a nice kid. He is. But I’m just not sure how committed he is to simming.”

“Lots of people think it’s simming they’re interested in, when what they really want is to be a fighter jockey,” Kelly said. “Nothing wrong with that. But it’s not what we do. If we start diluting the purpose of the group, adding people who’re going to pull it in different directions, it’s going to start coming to pieces. I’ve seen that kind of thing too often before.”

“Yeah,” said Chel.

Shih Chin frowned. “Kel, it’s easy to say that. But what about the other side of the argument? Do we want to shut ourselves off entirely from new blood, good people, just because we’re not sure they fit some narrow little definition of our own purpose? Don’t we have the room to grow a little?”

“Yeah, but—”

It had been going on in this vein for the better part of three-quarters of an hour now, and Maj felt like getting up, creating a can of spray paint, and graffiti’ing right across the biggest of the log walls YOU ARE ALL UNCLEAR ON THE CONCEPT. That might at least get their attention. However, it was considered bad form to trash others’ work spaces, no matter how sorely one was tempted — though there had been the time Chel had purposely built the Castle of the Sugar Plum Fairy, and everyone had lost their composure in unison—

That was unison, though, and the occasional outbreaks of unison were one of the things that made the Group of Seven worth sticking with. Maj sighed.

“Guys,” she said.

There was a lull in the argument. This was not necessarily a good sign — there had been several so far, to no effect.

“Look,” she said. “I’m not asking for an answer today. I’m not even sure I want an answer today, whether everybody has one or not. I just felt the need to let you know that Niko really likes what we were doing. He thinks he might be good at it…and he’d like to ‘try out.’ He wants a chance to get to know you better. And possibly to fly with you on a regular basis, if possible. But otherwise, he just would really like to fly with us sometimes…for now.”

“How long is ‘now’?” Chel said.

That was where Maj had gotten stuck the last time, for she was unwilling to let them know or guess too much about what was going on. “His folks may be moving over here,” she said. “They’ll be coming to visit for a while — his dad, will, anyway — but I’m not sure how long it’s going to last. I’m not even dead sure it’s going to be permanent.”

“Not that it matters when we’re all virtual,” Mairead said.

Yeah, but some of us are more virtual than others. Laurent had briefly shown her his small bare ported-over work space — just blackness with text and pictures hanging in it — and she had been at pains to cover up her embarrassment for him in a hurry, and to show him how to build it into an environment he could sit in and get comfortable with. He was a fast learner, but it was still going to take him time to get used to all the “special effects” now available to him, things that everyone else here had long taken for granted.

“What is likely to be affected is how often he can get in,” Maj said, “after the immediate present. This is sort of a quiet time for him.” She sighed. “Look, do I have to spell it out? He’s lonely. You guys made him welcome.”

Shih Chin made an aggrieved face. “Some of us called him ‘Goulash.’”

“He didn’t mind,” Bob said.

“No,” Maj said, “he didn’t. He’s a good-natured kid, for someone so young.”

“There’s that, too,” Del said, a little dubiously. “I mean, it’s nothing personal, we were all thirteen once —”

“Some of us may have done it twice,” Mairead muttered into the fur she was still stroking, looking sideways at Sander.

There was some muted snickering about this — the juvenility of Sander’s sense of humor was legendary in the Group.

Maj refused to be distracted. “In this case,” she said, “I’m not sure how much chance he’s had to be thirteen in the first place. He’s had a bad time of it at home. I’m not going to get into details. There has been family stuff going on for him, and he’s had to grow up fast. A lot of work, not much play, and not a whole lot of smart people who’re also nice to play with.”

“‘Play?’” Sander said, a little archly.

“‘When I became a man,’” said Bob suddenly, in a quoting tone of voice, “I put aside the concerns of a child, including the fear of looking childish, and the desire to seem very grown up.’”

Everyone looked at him. “Well,” he said, only a little defensively, “we’re old enough to cut each other some slack when we act underage, aren’t we?” He looked at Sander. “We can surely make a little allowance for someone who’s a little older than his age.” He looked at Maj. “Does he have any previous simming experience at all?”

“You’re not going to believe this,” Maj said, “but he had never even been in a sim before last night.”

“God,” said Shih Chin, in complete astonishment. “Talk about deprivation.”

“It’s not like they don’t have the Net over there, Maj,” Kelly said. “What was the problem? Financial or something?”

“I think maybe so,” she said. “Look, guys, please, there’s no need for any ‘final’ decisions. But he’d like to fly with us a couple of times, get the feel for what we’re doing. If it becomes obvious that he really is just a rocket jockey, I’ll take him aside and show him where better to practice the art. But, meantime…”

There was some silence. “When are we scheduled up next?” Bob said.

“You’re the squadron leader. You don’t have the schedule?”

“Schedule,” Kelly said to his work space. With a flourish of trumpets, there appeared in midair before them a meter-long parchment scroll supported at each end by a small flying cherub. The parchment unrolled, showing a Day-Timer page made large.

Mairead gave this apparition a look. “Very rococo,” she said. “Obviously you’re unconcerned that Della Robbia might sue.”

“Wednesday,” Kelly said.

“That’s the old schedule. I can’t do Wednesday,” Bob said. “I have jazz class that night.”

“Tuesday?”

“Cripes, that’s tomorrow already,” Sander said.

“No good for me,” Mairead said. “My turn to cook at home.” She looked at Sander. “And by the way, what about those chiles you were going to get for me?”

“Uh, I forgot. Tuesday’s out for me, though.”

“I can do Tuesday,” Bob said.

“Me, too,” Kelly said. “Who else can’t do Tuesday?”

Maj searched her mind. “I’m okay, I think.”

“I’m in,” Del said.

“Me, too,” Robin said. “I have a half day. What time?”

Time zones…Maj thought. “Six o’clock Eastern?”