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“Mother, please—”
“And your father says you’re going away for months, and I’ve had no time at all to take you around… If you’re out of circulation too long, you know, people will forget about you—”
“That’s the idea,” Ky said. Though if Charley Berlioz forgot about her that was all to the good. Despite her mother’s prodding, she had no interest in Charley. It was Hal… except now it wasn’t, almost certainly.
“Well, it’s all very well on the political side, but on the matrimonial side, it’s a disaster. They’ll go and marry unsuitable girls, rather than you, and Slotter Key is not exactly full of eligible boys.”
“Mother, I’m sure that eventually—” At least her mother was still harping on marriage into some civilian family; at least she hadn’t caught on about Hal, whom she would not have considered suitable.
“Well, we have to do something about your clothes.” Her mother started off down the hall; Ky trailed behind, feeling the same reluctance she had so often before. She knew what spacers wore, and what ship captains wore, and she knew, without waiting for her mother to say so, that those simple outfits were not what her mother had in mind.
“Even if you are in the wilds of the Borderlands,” her mother said, opening Ky’s closet. Ky could see that someone had already unpacked her luggage and put things away. “Even there, you must be prepared to present yourself properly. Perhaps even especially there.”
When her mother was in one of these moods, it was easy to forget she was also a professional engineer of considerable reputation. It was the family background, Ky thought: being the eldest daughter of a socialite—for Grandmother Benton was still making news in the gossip columns with her endless string of admirers.
“Not this. Not this either,” her mother said, flinging clothes to one side. “I know you thought you’d spend the rest of your life in uniform, dear, but surely you had more sense than this—” She held out an outfit in rust and green which, Ky had realized only after paying for it, made her look like someone a day away from death.
“Sorry, Mother,” she said.
“I don’t care what your father says, you simply must get some suitable clothes.” She eyed Ky up and down. “You aren’t shaped like anyone else in the family, worse luck. I can’t just tell you to put some meat on your bones. You have meat; it’s just not…”
“Mother!”
“Oh, be reasonable, Kylara. You’ll be representing the family; you must have clothes and they must fit. I’m not saying you’re ugly or misshapen; you’re just not…” Again her voice trailed away. “Well,” she said, after a moment’s awkward silence. “Measurements first and then we’ll see what we can order. Shops here on Corleigh are useless, but if something can be delivered to the ship before you leave, that will do.”
The last thing Ky wanted to do was stand in the middle of the room while her mother ran a clothes scriber over her, but she stood in the middle of the room while her mother ran a clothes scriber over her anyway. Halfway through, with her mother tut-tutting about the way the uniform had concealed what was after all an acceptable shape, it began to be fu
“What are you laughing at?” her mother asked, from knee level, without looking up. Her mother always knew, without having to see Ky’s face, when the ill-timed laugh demon caught her in the throat.
“Nothing,” Ky said, sulky again.
“It’s not fu
It was, though. Everything else in the universe was horrible, but this one thing was fu
The di
Ky took off the uniform she had been so proud to put on that morning, stepped into the ’fresher briefly, and put on loose slacks, blouse, and overrobe for di
Di
Her father and San talked of island politics—not the labor dispute, but such things as the proposed new desalinization plant, the possibility of a branch of the central university on the island, the state of the waste recycling facility at Harbor Town. Ky listened as if to a debate on the vid; it all felt unreal. Too many changes too fast.
“We have to have enough time to get her some clothes,” her mother said suddenly. Her father and San stopped in the midst of telling each other what an idiot Councilman Kruper was.
“How long?” her father asked.
“I can get clothes offworld,” Ky said.
“No,” both her parents said. Her father sighed.
“Ky, you’re going to be a Vatta captain; you will represent Vatta Transport. You have to start out with something suitable. But Myris”—he turned to his wife—”it has to be quick. Three days.”
“Impossible,” her mother said. “We don’t have a fabricator here; we’ll have to go toHarborTownand that’s—”
“Less than an hour by plane. Gle
Delivery commitments were, her father had once said, a natural force. Vatta Transport’s default rate on delivery commitments was the lowest in the industry and one reason for their wealth.
“Five,” her mother said.
“Four. Absolutely no more. And she doesn’t need much. Captain’s uniforms, shipboard and port. Not much more than that.”
“Kylara, we’ll start ordering after di
“Four days,” her father said. “You have the measurements; you can start without her. Tonight, Ky, we’ll go by the clinic and get your implant in—that’ll let you sleep on it so you’ll be in cycle in the morning. All loaded with the current codes and everything.”
She had not had an implant since she left for the Academy—cadets weren’t allowed them. She was used to doing without, though she had missed her implant a lot that first year at the Academy. She was not sure she wanted one again. But she needed the extra capacity, with all she had to learn in a hurry. She shrugged. Better an implant insertion than more talk about clothes. “I’m ready,” she said.
Insertion went easily; the implant access port still met all the specs, so all she needed was the device itself. She expected the moment of nauseating disorientation, the strange visual auras, the itch in her nose. Before she could access the implant, she had to go through the initialization protocols—the longest part of an insertion—and then the implant unfolded in her mind like a flower, each petal a gateway to another database. The displays flickered past, the communications links—now activated only for the clinic units—let her answer the questions without speaking aloud.
“Checks out,” the medic said finally. “Any problems at your end?”