Love and Rockets Part 12

Lolanyo was disappointed he wasn't being guided out by Dianthe. It would have been nice to have heard her voice, even if his meetings with her were never entirely satisfactory. In six months, he'd be pa.s.sing through Oshun again, and with any luck, Dianthe's voice would guide him in, even if he knew he wouldn't see her. In fact, he couldn't imagine her recognizing him even if they did cross paths.

"The Pride of Pavo preparing for hypers.p.a.ce departure," he announced to Oshun station.

A slight delay, longer than the radio lag would have accounted for, and he heard Oshun's response.

"The Pride of Pavo is cleared for hypers.p.a.ce departure ," Dianthe's voice had replaced the man who had talked them away from the station and Lolanyo felt his heart quicken. "And when you return, I think I might be ready to sit down with you and look at your latest pictures, Lolanyo."

FISN'T FOR FREEFALL.

Donald J. Bingle.

"So,how about you,Jake? What was your first time like?"

Tyson froze, then eased back into the shadows, careful not to slip on the soapy wet floor of the shower stall. No way he wanted to be seen by the circle of uppercla.s.smen-jerks, each and every one of them-shooting the breeze by their lockers after Physical Conditioning Cla.s.s. As a newbie-a plebe-he would be ha.s.sled for sure if he was caught overhearing their conversation. He reflexively gripped the damp towel around his waist tighter, as if he could stop them from taking it if they tried-as if he could stop them from doing anything if they tried.

He didn't like the rough-housing and mean-spirited laughter that always accompanied any encounter with "senior pilots-in-training" at the Sky Eagle Pilot Training & is.p.a.ce Collegium. Some of the so-called "initiation hazing" went far beyond shared-experience pranks and group-inflicted embarra.s.sment supposedly meant to build macho cohesiveness, and, instead veered into the realms of barbarism and cruelty. Unfortunately, Tyson had to endure the juvenile hazing if he wanted to become an is.p.a.ce Pilot. His grades were good and he studied hard; he would make the cut and graduate in four years if the macho ex-military men, work-out yahoos, over-compensating former race car drivers, and adrenaline-jockey tough guys didn't drive him out during his plebe year.

Of course, being smart enough to know that towels snap for the same reason whips crack-the angular momentum of the rapidly uncoiling flexible matrix forces the tip to exceed the speed of sound, generating a mini sonic-boom-was of no practical a.s.sistance when you were on the receiving end of a hundred snap salute, naked on the slimy shower room floor, just doing your best to cover your privates and your face to protect yourself and make sure the bullies didn't see you wince in pain . . . or, worse yet, cry.

There was no other exit from the utilitarian shower stall, so Tyson just wedged himself into the dark corner behind the near edge of the open doorway and settled in to wait. He had to be quiet-the ceramic tiles of the stall echoed and amplified every sound. But as he focused on taking shallow, even breaths to evade detection, he realized that the hard surfaces of the floor and stall amplified everything the guys he was evading were saying, too. He could hear every word; he literally couldn't help but eavesdrop.

"So," Jake recounted, obviously winding up his story, "I gave her just one more quick thrust and, as she settled contentedly, I said 'Yeah, baby! This Eagle has landed . . . again.' "

Fortunately, the hoots and hollers and raucous laughter of his would-be tormentors drowned out Tyson's involuntary sharp intake of breath. His momma had warned him, back in South Dakota, when he first told her that he was declining his Ivy League scholarship to go to Flight School at Sky Eagles, that there would be this kind of lewd and scandalous talk. "Locker room talk," she had called it, but he had no idea that it would happen in an actual locker room and that people really talked about such things . . . out loud . . . with a crowd of people shouting encouragement.

But his momma had known, right from the start. When he'd first told her he wanted to become a Sky Eagle, her immediate reply had been: "Remember, son, the Eagle is a bird of prey." He'd been surprised at the time, even upset, at the insult her statement implied about the cadets studying at a respected inst.i.tution, but now he knew better. Now, it bothered him that he hadn't listened to his momma and now had to listen to such talk. It bothered him even more to realize that his dear, pristine momma even knew about such things.

His disquieting remembrances of his momma's advice were interrupted by Jake's voice once more. "Yessiree. I must have taken that ride a hundred times since, but nothing like that first time." Tyson did his best to suppress both the wave of nausea and the touch of excitement that fluttered through his body as he heard the coa.r.s.e boast of prowess and ribald cheering that reverberated through the locker room in response. "So, c'mon," Jake continued. "Who's next? How about you, Yoshi?"

"Me?" he heard Yoshi squeak. "There's really not that much to tell." Tyson could hear the embarra.s.sment in Yoshi's voice as he talked, but after numerous shouts of encouragement, talk he did.

"I was young, not yet a man in my father's eyes. And he came to my room one day and said 'You spend too much time studying. You do nothing but read. Your head is filled with science and formulae, but not with life. You must experience things firsthand before you make any life choices, so you know what to expect, what to do.' I flushed. I didn't know what to say. My father had always been very formal. I never spoke to him about such things. I never told him of my desires. It would be too embarra.s.sing! Yet somehow he knew. Then he told me he was going on a 'business trip' the next evening and that I would accompany him, but that I should tell my mother that I was sleeping over at my friend's house overnight and, of course, never say anything at all to her about our excursion . . ."

"Your first time was a 'business trip' with your dad. Yeecchh!" someone hooted. "That doesn't count. That's . . . that's . . ."

"That's disgusting!" interrupted Jake. "I take it back. You're not next. You forfeit your turn . . . in perpetuity."

"We wouldn't want to diminish the father-son bonding experience for you by making you tell us the details," sneered the hooter from before. "I'm sure you have fond memories of your dad's face turning red, his heavy breathing coming in ragged, rhythmic bursts from the couch on the other side of the cabin."

"It wasn't like that," protested Yoshi. "I was just responding to your question. It wasn't my idea to talk about it."

"Here's a hint," continued the hooter. "Next time someone asks about your first time, just lie! Don't bring up your dad. In fact, don't bring up your family at all. Make it thrilling, exciting, exotic. s.e.x it up for us!"

"I'll tell you what, Yoshi," said a new partic.i.p.ant. Tyson was sure it was Evan, a mild-mannered uppercla.s.sman who was generally somewhat nicer to all of the plebes than were his companions. "You can borrow my story if you like and just change things around a bit. You know, insert your own dates and places."

"So, it was good for you?" asked Yoshi.

"It was transcendent," replied Evan. "Spiritual, profound, intense, perhaps even . . ."

"Imaginary . . ." interrupted Hoot-Boy, generating a ripple of convulsive laughter from the crowd.

"No," replied Evan in a smooth, even voice. "Life-altering, though, if you-all of you-can imagine that. After my tech proficiency testing was over, I'd gone to Florida for spring break . . ."

"Yeah, that sounds sacred . . ."

". . . and I was on the beach when I saw her in the distance. She was tall, even taller when you got up close, and sleek and beautiful-her curves subtle and enchanting, with the sweetest little tail you ever did see. And I knew, right then and there, that I just had to get me into that." Everyone else was silent, but Evan chuckled softly, as if to himself. "Let me tell you, that took some doing. I basically just dumped my friends, the guys I'd come to the beach with, and spent all my time chasing her down. It wasn't easy, but I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a gal . . . You get the picture. And finally, there I was on the elevator on my way up to her. It was the last day I was supposed to be in Florida and I was sweating bullets, not because it was hot, though it was, but because if it didn't work out, if there was any kind of problem or delay or I messed up in any way, the ship would sail without me, man. I'm out and I probably never see her again and some other guy, someday later gets what I shoulda had and I miss the sweetest ride of my life."

"But that didn't happen. Everything went smoothly, without a hitch: all the preliminaries; the suiting up for protection, pushing all the right b.u.t.tons, and getting nothing but green lights. The next thing I know, I'm lying on my back on the couch, looking up at her, soaking up her curves, her exquisite beauty, and I hear 'Just lie back and enjoy' and I do. I simply position my joystick and then relax and she does the rest. First, I just let the pleasant rocking lull me into a sleepy contentment. Slowly, the rhythmic pressure of her revving up begins, my heart rate increases, and the adrenaline kicks in, rousing me into a growing euphoria of happiness and excitement. Then my breathing begins to match her rhythm and comes faster and deeper, and the hydraulics deploy, and my screams of ecstasy mix with her rumbling roar of release, and then I'm panting and my blood-pressure is peaking, and the thrust is maxing out, and I can't seem to even breathe anymore, and then there is a sudden shudder and release and its like I'm floating and she's quiet and life is good."

Tyson found he was holding his breath as the story reached its climax and his towel needed adjusting, but he dared not move. He continued to hold his breath until the crowd of storytellers broke their silence.

Finally, someone gave a low whistle. "Wow," whispered Yoshi. "Thanks for saying I could use your story."

"Oh, yeah," cracked Hoot-Boy, "like anyone would believe you, if you told 'em that."

"Leave him alone," replied Evan. "You're just jealous, 'cause now he's got a better story than you have."

"What makes you say that, lover boy? You haven't even heard my story yet."

Jake interrupted. "So, spill. Put up or shut up. We'll see who's got the better tale."

"Well," drawled Hoot-Boy, "mine's the complete opposite of his and since his is all lovey-dovey plain vanilla, you can bet mine is Rocky Road with Tabasco Sauce."

Tyson grimaced.

"Stop selling and start telling," demanded Jake.

"None of this tall and sleek and subtle curves bull-c.r.a.p for me. Too delicate for my sensibilities. Naw, my first time was in the back of a 2057 Chevy. Short, fat, with big ol' curves and plenty of room to take care of business, if you know what I mean. Now, of course, I wasn't supposed to be there, which makes it just that much more exciting-you know, the thrill of being caught and all-and there weren't no preliminaries and no protection. I just kinda maneuvered my way in and slam-bam, suddenly things just take off and its real rough and everything is shaking and I'm just grabbing hold of her anywhere I can and she's slapping me about, so I just grab on harder and try to survive the punishment she's dishing out, and it's painful, but it's exciting all the same. Finally, things steady out a bit and then the thrust builds and there's this unbelievable weight pressing down on my chest and I practically black-out, but she just keeps going and going and going until suddenly all the fuel's spent and I just lie back, exhausted."

"Sounds rather tawdry to me," said Evan.

"To each his own," sneered Hoot-Boy. "She was beautiful to me. Short and curvy, that don't bother me. Big ol' fat tail works for me, too. And I gotta say, I still love her fins . . ."

Tyson shook his head to clear it. Did he say "fins?"Was that Hoot-Boy's euphemism for . . . well . . . hooters?

"You like fins?" exclaimed Jake.

"I love 'em," replied Hoot(er)-boy. "They're not just decorative, y'know. Though I love the way they look, protruding out from the main body, all glorious and proud, the rounded edges curving down to narrow points of critical contact. She had three, y'know, which provides structural stability . . ."

"Three?!?" Tyson blurted it out before he could stop himself, dropping his towel in astonishment into the sheen of water still slowly circling the stall drain. Was Hoot-Boy fornicating with mutants or aliens . . . or mutant aliens? Or was three the latest fad in breast "enhancement" surgery? He shuddered at the disgusting possibilities as he reached down for his wet towel.

The entire circle of jerks was standing at the stall door by the time he had recovered his dirty, soaked towel, wrapped it around himself, and turned around.

"Looky here," snarled Hoot-Boy, "it's Plebe Tyson Stafford, spying on us."

Tyson trembled, but did his best to stand up straight and tall. "I wasn't spying. I was taking a shower."

Jake reached over and felt the shower head. "It's not even warm. What, were you taking a cold shower?"

Hoot-Boy chimed in. "Does Tyson take a lot of cold showers?"

"How long have you been listening in?" demanded Jake.

"Long enough," Tyson gulped, "to . . . uh . . . know what you were talking about."

"Plebe spy! Stick his head in the toilet!" yelled Hoot-Boy.

"Yeah," yelled someone in the back. "Make him swirl."

Evan waved his hands to quiet the crowd. "I say we give him a chance."

"A chance to do what?"

"A chance to tell his first-time story," replied Evan. "If it's better than Elroy's," he continued, motioning toward Hoot-Boy, "then we just take his towel and let him sneak back to the dorm naked."

Elroy scowled, but Yoshi voiced quick approval of Evan's idea. Within a few seconds, almost everyone else murmured agreement.

"So spill," said Jake.

"Make it interesting," suggested Evan with a nod of encouragement.

"Give us details," demanded Elroy.

"Lie if you have to," mouthed Yoshi from the back of the crowd, his eyes wide.

Tyson flushed. He couldn't . . . He wouldn't . . . He hadn't . . .

He tried his best to take Yoshi's advice. He'd held hands with a girl once at summer camp in Minnesota. Maybe he could use that as a base, embellish a bit, gloss over the details, and get away with merely a naked streak across campus. But even as he decided to do it, he couldn't make the words come out of his mouth. Not only would he undoubtedly do a lousy job of entertaining his superior officers with his imaginary exploits, it was dishonorable to even try. His "girlfriend" from camp wouldn't ever know he had made things up about her, but it still made him feel dirty to even contemplate doing so. She didn't deserve it. His memory of her didn't deserve it.

He'd admit the truth. Maybe they'd laugh, but just maybe they'd respect him for it . . . or just let him go out of sympathy.

"I won't. I mean, I can't. I can't tell you about my first time, because . . ." He looked at the ground and muttered the rest of the sentence with a sigh. ". . . because I'm a virgin." He looked up to see their reaction so he could be ready to take a defensive position, if need be.

"You're a virgin?" asked Jake, one eyebrow higher than Tyson thought possible.

"I sure wouldn't phrase it that way if I were you," guffawed Elroy.

"But that doesn't make sense," replied Evan. "You came to the moon base on the GMC s.p.a.ceways 6000 Rocket Express, just like the rest of us at one time or the other, so how can you be a virgin?"

Tyson didn't understand. Were there amenities in the first-cla.s.s cabin reserved for recruits that he didn't know about and hadn't taken advantage of? He tilted his head to one side and gave Evan a hard stare. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Evan scrunched up his face a bit before replying. "We were just telling each other stories about our first time aboard a rocket ship. Mine was on one of those two orbit tandem flights they were testing for offering to well-heeled tourists down in Florida." He furrowed his brow even further. "What did you think we were talking about?"

Tyson suddenly felt light-headed. He'd misunderstood; ships were always referred to as feminine. When he'd heard "she" and "her," he'd just filled in the blanks in his mind . . . in graphic detail.

He had a.s.sumed; now he was ashamed.

Momma would not be proud of what he had been thinking.

"I . . . I thought you were describing . . ." He stopped. Better to shut up than say what he had been thinking. He looked up at Evan. "Never mind what I thought. It doesn't matter. I'm just a plebe . . . sir." He looked at the faces of the uppercla.s.smen-some blank, some stupid, some hostile-and began to calculate how many toilet flushes he could hold his breath through. Given the lower water pressure and slower swirl rate of a low-grav loo, he'd be lucky if he could make four before gasping for breath. He needed to make sure to time his breaths appropriately during the inevitable hazing to come.

It wasn't like it was his first time.

IF THIS WERE A ROMANCE.

Shannon Page and Jay Lake.

Haunted, Loren thought. The man haunts me. Not that there was anything sane or rational or even halfway intelligent that she could do about it. Of course not. Furthermore, she wasn't even sure he knew what he was doing.

It was just that he appeared . . . everywhere. She'd be walking down a narrow steel service gallery embedded in the hullframe 280 gardens, wrench in hand, sent to adjust the timing on the mildew pumps-and there he would be. Squeezing past her, his arm brushing hers as his eyes scanned ahead to the great towering falls of greenery that made up the bulk of Ship's biological resources.

Or it would be end of shift and she would have stopped off for a ration of slivovitz in Frame Zero, the generic little bar on Deck 47 near her bunk bay, and he'd be in there, huddled at a small table talking to some officer she didn't recognize. Not that Crew spent much time down here in work gang country.

Or what happened today. She was all the way across Ship's circ.u.mference, a full one-eighty from her usual workshift site, at the coreward edge of the habitable area where the pa.s.sageways began running to anoxic atmospheres and the bulkheads carried exotic gas warnings in a mult.i.tude of languages and symbols, running an errand for her gang boss. Even the grav plates were wonky there-Loren had to watch every step, as the bad patches tended to acc.u.mulate a lot more dust. And she was lost; the numbers seemed scattered over here, half the hatches not even marked; the pa.s.sageways didn't follow the normal patterns. They bulged and shifted around to make room for the gardens hullward, but still, why did it have to be this complicated?

Loren hefted the carryall of excess He-3 cartridges around to her other hip and sighed. Heavy. Too heavy. She should have brought a waist pack, but she didn't think she'd be carrying them so long. "Blasted things," she muttered. The corner of the carryall dug into her side; the cartridges rattled against one another. Why couldn't Gramma Francesca have sent a runner? She was a biomechanic; skilled far above this sort of makework.

And then he was there. Not a haunting at all, but just about treading on her boots as she turned a blind corner.

"Oh! I am sorry, sir." She reeled back, nearly dropping the carryall, and felt her face flush. Had he heard her?

"Citizen," he said, his voice softer and somehow higher than she'd expected. "My fault. I wasn't attending."

His accent was that of the highest echelons of senior Crew. This much, at least, she'd expected. His words, though . . . Far more polite than one of her cla.s.s could ever expect from one of his cla.s.s.

The Captain would not take as Consort any other than a man of the highest rank, after all.

"No, the fault is mine," she murmured, and struggled to reposition the carryall, ease gracefully past him, not look him in the eye, and show proper respect all at once. As several of these actions were impossible to perform simultaneously, she managed only a hesitant step forward before he spoke again.

"Citizen, your name, if you please?"

"Loren 68. Sir." With an uncharacteristic fit of compulsive honesty, she added, "Work gang Forty-Seven Charlie. Best gang in the decks, sir."

A small smile flickered across the officer's face. "Citizen Loren, do you have a pa.s.s for this area?"

She fumbled with the carryall again, then finally set it down at her feet. Holding out her left wristband, she blushed even further as she said, "Gramma Francesca gave me a thirty-minute override. But I'm lost . . ."

He sniffed as he examined the blinking red light on the band. "Very well." Then, taking her hand gently in his and turning it over, he tapped a code onto the tiny keypad at her wrist. The band beeped; the glow changed to green; delicious, startled shivers of craving and delight emanated up her arm from his casual touch. "There you are. Thirty more minutes. Your destination is that way." He dropped her hand-nearly painful, the loss of contact!-and pointed ahead.

"Thank you, sir, thank you!"