It was her heart plummeting; that was what made the illusion of free-fall seem so real. “But—but you’re not going up again for another eight months—”
“Things have changed, love,” he said. “I mean, really changed. Sit down.”
“Sit down? I’m lying down, what the hell do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
She lay back. “Okay, I’m ‘sitting down.’ Go on.”
“My brother called. While I was down at the shore a while ago.”
“Oh? How is Jay? Cancel that, I don’t give a damn how he is: what did he say?”
“Pribhara bombed. Big-time. She hates space, the customers hate her—even the company hates her new work. But most important of all, she says she just can’t adapt. She’s a born perpendicular. So she’s thrown in the towel… a few seconds before they would have yanked it out of her hand.”
Rhea was confused. She knew there was a booby-trap in this somewhere, but couldn’t find one big enough to justify all this buildup yet. “So that’s good news, right? Now there are only three of you competing—”
“It goes beyond that,” he said, looking uncomfortable. He dithered with his invisible controls until their shared rotation in space slowed and stopped. The starry universe stabilized around them.
She took a deep breath. “Tell me.”
“The competition is over,” he said. “I won.”
“What?” she cried in dismay. “You won?”
It was only that: a misplaced emphasis. Had she said, “You won?” there might not have been a quarrel at all. That night, at least.
Rand had been one of four competitors for a plum position: Co-Artistic Director and Resident Shaper/Composer at the legendary Shimizu Hotel, the first hotel in High Earth Orbit and still by far the grandest. The creator and first holder of that position had held it with great distinction for fifty years—then a year ago, both he and his heir apparent had been killed in the same freak blowout while vacationing off Luna. Replacing an artist of Willem Ngani’s stature overnight had been a daunting task: the management of the hotel had narrowed the field to four candidates, and then found itself unable to reach a final decision. It had elected instead to postpone the question for a three-year trial period. The first year of that period was nearly over: each of the four candidates in turn had gone to space for a three-month residency at the Shimizu. Rand had drawn the third shift, and had only returned from his own highly successful season a month earlier; the fourth and final composer, Chandra Pribhara, was supposed to be just now entering the second month of her own first residency.
But Pribhara had turned out to be a “perpendicular”—one of those rare unfortunates who simply cannot adapt to space, who cannot make the mental readjustment that allows a human being to retain her sanity in a sustained zero-gravity environment. She had abruptly canceled her contract after only a single month in free-fall, accepting the huge penalties and creative disgrace, and returned to Earth early.
This left the Shimizu’s management with a quick decision to make. A hotel must have entertainment. The show must go on. The Resident Choreographer—Rand’s half-brother Jay Sasaki—needed a Shaper to collaborate with. Someone had to replace Pribhara, fast. They might have simply advanced the rotation schedule, summoned Wolfgar Mazurski back to orbit two months earlier than he was expecting, and continued from there on a three-shift rotation while they pondered their final decision. But Mazurski had other commitments, and so did Choy Mu Sandra, the other contender.
Which left Rhea’s husband.
But Rand was only just back from orbit. Returning to space for another three-month shift this soon would raise his total free-fall time to six months in one calendar year: very likely enough time for his body to begin adapting—completely and permanently—to zero gravity. It would take fourteen months for the transition to be finished… but deleterious metabolic changes often began much sooner. If they asked him to replace Pribhara now, the competition was over: they would have to give him the permanent position to forestall a costly lawsuit.
The Shimizu management had little choice. And Rand’s first season had been the most well-received of the four so far. So they had sent word, through his half brother, Jay. The job was his if he wanted it—along with a scandalous salary, outrageous perks, immense cachet and luxury accommodations in-house for himself and his wife and daughter. For life—which was how long they would need them.
Rhea hated the very thought of moving.
And if she were going to move, space was the very last place she’d pick. The only one-way ticket there was. Fourteen months or more in space, and you had to stay there forever. You couldn’t even hope to go back home again someday…
Worse, Rand knew all this. Or at least, he should have known. A decade ago, he had solemnly promised Rhea—as a condition of marriage—that he would never ask her to move away from her beloved P-Town, from her home and family and roots.
When he had first mentioned the possibility of this job, she had been shocked and hurt. But she had not reminded him of his promise… partly because she loved her husband and knew how badly he wanted the job, and mostly because she knew in her heart that there was no way Rand would ever actually be offered it. That had been clear to her from the start. For one thing, his blood relationship with Jay would work against him—allowing disgruntled losers to cry nepotism. For another, he was the most talented of the four—traditionally a handicap. To nail it down, he was by far the least political—traditionally the kiss of death.
Ironically, it was that which had clinched the deal. Mazurski and Choy each had a powerful and influential clique of friends, skilled at vicious infighting: they canceled each other out. Rand was the only choice everybody could (barely) live with. And so it was the very same aspect of her husband’s character which had in fact won him the job that caused Rhea to say to him now so injudiciously, “You won?”
The ensuing quarrel was so satisfactory a diversion that it was a full hour before they got around to the actual argument they had been avoiding for over a year now.
“God dammit, Rhea, just tell me: what’s so awful about space?”
“What’s so fucking good about it?”
“Are you kidding? Sterile environment, pure air, pure water, perfect weather all day every day, no crime, no dirt, longer lifespan—and weightlessness! You don’t know, honey, you haven’t been there long enough to get a feeling for it; everything is so easy and convenient and restful in space. Nothing is too heavy to lift, nobody’s a weakling, your back never hurts. And the freedom! Freedom from the boredom and tyranny of up and down, freedom to live in three dimensions for a change! To use all of a room instead of just the bottom half—to see things from different angles all the time—to let go of something and not be afraid gravity’s going to smash it against the wall by your feet. Put that all together, throw in a better class of neighbors and the best view God ever made, and it doesn’t sound half bad to me.”