He felt cold, almost as cold as he’d felt when he realized he’d intruded on the bridge during jump transition. If the captain had picked another canister—the gray and white one he’d painted orange and red, rather than the blue and gray he’d painted black and green—it could have been a real emergency. A real disaster. A real—another look at the screen to confirm it—end of the whole trip. For everyone.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the silent cabin. “I didn’t mean to cause any real trouble.”
Instead of an answer, the screen changed yet again, to show a transcript of what he’d said to George, every word. It looked worse, far worse, in glowing script on the screen. It looked as if he had indeed wanted to cause trouble—to harrass and humiliate the captain, to frighten and divide the crew. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, but he knew he had meant it that way, back when he thought it was safe to mean it that way.
The food, when it came, was bland and boring.
Heris climbed off the simulator after a vigorous ride across country on a large black hunter; every time she took the helmet off, the simulator startled her with its metal and plastic parts. Cecelia nodded at her.
“Very good indeed. You’ll certainly qualify for one of the mid-level hunts. Depending on who’s here, you might even be with me for a run or two.”
“Are you sure you want to drag me along?” Heris asked. “I know it’s not—”
“It’s not common, but it’s not unheard of, and anyway I do as I like. It’s one of the perks. Bunny won’t mind, as long as you can ride decently and don’t cause trouble, which you won’t. I’ll enjoy having you to talk with—there are few enough single women, and I’m past the point where the men want to talk to me.”
Heris was not sure she liked the assumption that she herself was also past that point . . . but it was true, she wasn’t on the prowl. She wasn’t over losing her other ship yet—though she could now think of it as “the other ship” and not the only one—and she would have to get her crew—and certain members of it—out of her mind before she could respond to advances. If anyone made them.
“What’s the matter?” Cecelia asked. “Don’t you want to go? Would you rather hang around Hospitality Bay with the other captains?”
“No!” She said it more forcefully than she meant to. “I’m sorry—the thought of those other captains has haunted me all along. I hate that. And yes, I would love to see what an estate set up for fox hunting looks like. It’s just—I didn’t want you to think you had to do it, because you said it in front of Ronnie.”
“Nonsense. I said it because I wanted to; Ronnie’s opinion is unimportant.” Cecelia looked hard at her captain. “And by the way, how is that young man?”
“Perfectly healthy.” That was true, if incomplete. He wasn’t even that bored, because she had him doing the work he should have done in his basic classes. Math, chemistry, biochemistry, ship systems, military history, tactics. . . . When he kept his mind on it, all his plumbing worked and his food arrived regularly, and the lights worked. When he threw a tantrum—and he hadn’t thrown one in the last several days, was he learning?—he found himself dealing with other problems, and the work still to do afterwards. “He may be rejoining you shortly, if you’ve no objection.”
“What have you done, chained him in the ’ponics to dig potatoes?” Then she held up her hands. “No, don’t tell me—I don’t want to know. But I shall be fascinated to see what happens.”
“So shall I,” said Heris. She had found him more interesting than she’d expected, in the rare moments she tutored him over the com herself. He had a supple, energetic intelligence that would have rewarded good initial training. It was a shame that no one had ever made him work before. He could have been good enough for the Regular Space Service.
Ronnie reappeared at breakfast one morning, smiling pleasantly. Cecelia, at Heris’s suggestion, had begun breakfasting with the young people some days before. This way, Heris had said, the collusion would be marginally less evident. She noticed that Ronnie was clean, dressed neatly, and showed no visible bruises—of which she approved—and the sulky expression she disliked no longer marred his face.
“Well?” George said. “Tell all.”
“All of what?” Ronnie looked over the toast rack and chose whole wheat with raisins.
“You said you were up to something.” George looked at the others for support, but they weren’t playing up. “You said you were—”
Ronnie looked at him, a bland good-humored look. “I’ve said many things, George, which aren’t breakfast conversation. And I’m hungry.” He smiled at Cecelia. “Excuse me, Aunt Cecelia—could I have some of that curry?”
Cecelia smiled back. Whatever had happened, she wasn’t going to interfere with it. “Certainly. I hope you haven’t been ill. . . .”
“Not at all.” He engaged himself with the curry, and the variety of other edibles that Cecelia considered appropriate to breakfast with company. George opened and shut his mouth twice, then shrugged and went on eating omelet. Buttons, never very forthcoming in the morning, finished nibbling toast, excused himself, and went away; the three young women, after glancing several times from Ronnie to his aunt and back, also left. Cecelia ate her usual large breakfast, trying to ignore all the signals they were trying to pass so obviously. Finally only George and Ronnie were left, Ronnie eating steadily, as if to make up for many lost meals, and George in spurts, eyeing Ronnie. Cecelia struggled not to laugh. It was, after all, ridiculous. There was George, trying to protect Ronnie (too little and too late) from whatever horrors an elderly aunt could inflict on him. Finally she decided to intervene, before Ronnie hurt himself overeating, or George had a stroke.
“I am not planning to harm him, you know,” she said to George. George turned bright red and nearly choked on a muffin.
“She’s quite right,” Ronnie said, in the same pleasant tone he’d used so far. “It’s safe to leave us alone.”
“But—but you said—”
“It’s all right,” Ronnie said. “Really it is. I can tell you’re not hungry—why not go play something with the others? I’ll be along shortly.”
George, still red and coughing, managed to say that he hadn’t meant to interfere and Ronnie would know where to find him. Then, with a nod to Cecelia, he got out of the room as gracelessly as Cecelia had ever seen him move.
“You are all right. . . .” Cecelia said. Ronnie’s clear hazel eyes gazed into hers, a look that combined all the charm and mischief she had seen in him since birth.
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Well . . .” Cecelia pleated her napkin, a gesture that she knew conveyed feminine indecision to the men in her family. “You were fairly cross about my new captain, and when I wasn’t sure your message to me was . . . was quite true, about studying for exams, and I pressured George—”
Ronnie flushed, but managed a smile. “Did he break down and tell you I had planned some mischief? I’m sure he did. Well—so I had, but I—I changed my mind. And I did study for exams, but if I tell George that—”
“Ah. I see.” Into Cecelia’s mind came the faint glimmer of what Heris must have done. How she had done it still remained a mystery. But she understood this much of the psychology of the younger set. “You don’t want George to know you changed your mind, or that you studied—you must have been awfully bored, Ronnie, to decide to study.” She hoped her voice didn’t tremble with repressed laughter on that . . . or would he think it was a senile tremor?