“Tell me what happens to the people you don’t need,” Wednesday said in a threatening monotone, “then I’ll stop.”
“We do not do anything—” Mathilde caught herself, took a deep breath, and looked down her nose at Wednesday. “Occasionally a planetary government petitions us for admission. Then we send advisers to help them work out how best to deal with their criminal elements and decadent factions. Will you stop doing that, child? It is disruptive. I would go further and say it was typical of your indolence if I didn’t believe this was merely an aberration on your part.” She smiled, baring even, gleaming teeth that gave the lie to her veiled jab.
Wednesday smiled right back and kept rubbing the rim of the glass. The Japanese lady cellist chose that moment to join in with her own fingertip, smiling and nodding at her in linguistically challenged camaraderie. Steffi glanced at Mathilde. If looks could kill, Wednesday would be a smoking hole in the bulkhead. “If you don’t take over worlds,” Wednesday said, slurring slightly, “how’s it that people want to join you? ’Mean t’say, I’ve only heard a bit about the concentration camps, an’ obviously he’s gotta grudge, but you’d think the summary executions and forced labor’d make joining the ReMastered ’bout as popular as rabies.” She bared her teeth at Steffi, in a flicker of amusement that vanished as fast as it had come. Hum, hum, hum went the fingertip.
“There are no concentration camps,” Mathilde said icily. “Our enemies spread lies” — her look took in the whole length of the table, as if no one was above suspicion — “and obviously some fools fall for them.” She lingered over Wednesday. “But repeating such slanders—”
“Wanna meet anin — an, uh, ex-inmate?” Wednesday cocked her head on one side. She’s drunk as a skunk, Steffi realized with a cold feeling in her overfull stomach. Damn, how’d she get so shit-faced? She’s handling it well, but — The last thing she needed was Mathilde going for Wednesday’s throat over the cheeseboard. Not if she wanted to keep the other Syb-class passengers happy. “Got least one of ’em aboard this ship. Call him a liar, why don’tcha.”
“I think that’s quite enough.” Steffi forced herself to smile. “Time to change the subject, if you don’t mind,” she added, with a warning glance at Wednesday. But the kid couldn’t seem to take the hint, even when it was delivered by sledgehammer.
“I’ve had more than enough,” Wednesday slurred, sitting up straight but staying focused on Mathilde. They’re like a pair of cats, squaring off, Steffi realized, wondering if she was going to have to break up a fight. Except that Mathilde didn’t look remotely drunk, and Wednesday looked as if she was too drunk to care that the ReMastered woman was built like the northern end of a southbound assault gunship, with muscles where most people had opinions. “I’m sick of this bullshit. Here we all are, sitting round” — she waved a hand vaguely at the rest of the dining room, then blinked in surprise — “sitting round the table when down in steerage refugee kids are, are…”
Steffi was out of her chair almost before she realized she’d come to a decision. Wednesday’s back was tense as steel when she wrapped one arm around her shoulders. “Come on,” she said gently. “Come with me. You’re right, you don’t need to be here. Leave everything to me, I’ll get it sorted out. Stand up?” For a moment she was sure it wouldn’t work, but a second later Wednesday pushed herself upright. She would have been swaying but for Steffi’s supporting arm. “Come on, come with me. You’re doing fine.” She steered Wednesday round toward the nearest door, barely noticing the ReMastered woman’s stone-hard glare drilling into her — or was it Wednesday? “Come on.” To the gold braid on her left cuff: “Table six — someone cover for me, please. Taking a distressed guest back to her room.”
They were barely past the doorway when Wednesday tried to break away. Steffi grabbed her. “No! ’M going to—” Oh shit! Steffi repositioned her grip and hustled Wednesday toward the potted palm she’d taken a tentative lurch toward. But once she was head-down over the plant pot Wednesday proved she was made of stern stuff, drawing deep gulping breaths and slowly getting her stomach under control.
“Table six. Is anyone there?” Steffi mumbled into her cuff. “I’ve got a situation here. Who’s covering?”
A voice in her earbud: “’Lo, Steffi. I’ve asked Max to cover for you. Are you going to be long?”
Steffi looked at the young woman, leaning on the rim of the plant pot, and winced. “Think I’m going to miss the tail end.”
“Okay, check. Banquet control over and out.”
She straightened up in time to see Wednesday doing likewise, leaning against the wall with her eyes shut. “Come on. What’s your room?” She prodded her guest list, still handily loaded in her cuff. “Let’s get you back there.”
Wednesday shambled along passively if somewhat disjointedly, like a puppet with too-loose strings. “Lying bitch,” she mumbled quietly as Steffi rolled her into the nearest lift. “Lying. Through her teeth.”
“You’re not used to drinking this much, are you?” Steffi ventured. Wow, you’re going to have a mammoth hangover, antidrunk or not!
“Not … not alcohol. Didn’t wanna be there. But couldn’t stay ’lone.”
Heads she’s maudlin, tails she’s depressed. Want to bet she wants someone to talk to? Steffi punched up A deck and Wednesday’s cylinder, and concentrated on keeping her upright as they passed through fluctuating tidal zones between the electrograv rings embedded in the hull. “Any reason why not?” she asked casually.
“Mom and Dad and Jerm — lying bitch!” It was almost a snarl. I was right, Steffi realized unhappily. Got her away just in time. “Couldn’t stay ’lone,” Wednesday added for emphasis.
“What happened?” Steffi asked quietly as the elevator slowed then began to move sideways.
“They’re dead an’ I’m not.” The kid’s face was a picture of misery. “Fucking ReMastered liar!”
“They’re dead? Who, your family?”
Wednesday made a sound halfway between a sob and a snort. “Who’dya think?”
The elevator stopped moving. Doors sighed open onto a corridor, opposite a blandly anonymous stateroom door. Steffi blipped it with her control override and it swung open. Wednesday knew which way to stagger. For a moment Steffi considered leaving her — then sighed and followed her in. “Your parents are dead? Is that why you don’t want to be alone?”
Wednesday turned to face her, cheeks streaked with tears. Weirdly, her heavy makeup didn’t run. Chromatophores, built into her skin? “Been two days,” she said, swaying. “Since they were murdered.”
“Murdered—”
“By. By the. By—” Then her stomach caught up with her and Wednesday headed for the bathroom in something midway between a controlled fall and a sprint. Steffi waited outside, listening to her throw up, lost in thought. Murdered? Well, well, how interesting …
It was 0300 hours, day-shift cycle, shortly before the starship made its first jump from point A to point A’ across a couple of parsecs of flat space-time.
The comforter was a crumpled mass, spilled halfway across the floor. The ceiling was dialed down to shades of red and black, tunnels of warm dark light washing across the room.
Wednesday rubbed her forehead tiredly. The analgesics and rat’s liver pills had taken care of most of the symptoms, and the liter or two of water she’d methodically chugged down had begun to combat the dehydration, but the rest of it — the shame and embarrassment and angst — wouldn’t succumb so easily to chemical prophylaxis.