Part 6 (1/2)
Kosta gritted his teeth, cold hard reality forcing its way through his hesitation. More than likely, he would be spending his next few months literally surrounded by these things... and there would be no better time than right now to try and detect their influence. Bracing himself, trying to watch every facet of his mind at once, he reached his hand gingerly toward the crystalline dome and touched it.
Nothing. No wrenching of emotions, major or minor. No sense of alien thought or presence or influence. No overwhelming urge to confess that he was a spy.
Nothing at all.
He drew his hand back and let it drop to his side, feeling a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. Beside him, Podolak nodded. ”Yes, that's the usual reaction. The angel effect isn't nearly as dramatic as most people think.”
He looked her straight in the eye. ”Is that what this object lesson was for? To eliminate any residual nervousness?”
A small smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. ”As a matter of fact, yes, that's one of the reasons we try to bring newcomers into contact with an angel as soon as possible. We don't want to be too obvious about it, of course-people don't like to admit to fears they intellectually believe are unreasonable. That's why we like to include it in the general orientation. You understand psychology.”
”A little. Mostly, I understand nervousness.”
”But there are a few who do sense something right away,” Podolak went on, her forehead wrinkling slightly. ”Did you feel anything? Anything at all?”
Kosta reached out and touched the crystalline dome again, then took his hand away. Nothing. ”No,” he told her. ”Nothing at all.”
”Yes,” she murmured. ”Well... as I said, that is the usual reaction.”
”Sorry to disappoint you.” Kosta looked at the crystalline dome. ”Question, though: which is the real angel? The subnuclear particle in the center that everyone calls the angel, or the particle plus the sh.e.l.l of positively charged ions it surrounds itself with?”
He watched Podolak's face, holding his breath. One of his instructors had suggested that question as a way to quickly establish himself as a visionary, independent thinker, the sort who might be able to get away with ignoring facts about the angels that every genuine Empyreal would already know. But if the question, instead of sounding original, merely came across as sounding stupid...
”An interesting question,” Podolak said, her expression thoughtful. ”The quick and obvious answer is that it's just the central particle; but quick and obvious doesn't necessarily equal correct. Offhand, I can't remember if anyone's ever tried to study the significance of the outer ion sh.e.l.l before. Beyond the simple physical explanation that a particle with a negative charge in the quadrillions has no choice but to pull a lot of positive ions over to it, of course. Might well be worth taking a look at.” She c.o.c.ked her head slightly. ”You interested in volunteering?”
Carefully, Kosta exhaled. ”I'd like to do a database search, anyway,” he told her. ”If it turns out no one else has done any work that direction, I might like to give it a shot.”
”Sounds good,” Podolak nodded. ”Let's go back to your office and I'll give you a list of the database access codes.”
CHAPTER 8.
The man was young and thin and rather sloppy looking, his clothes smelling of oil, his lower lip twisted in a permanent smirk. But there was nothing lazy or funny about his voice. ”Forget it, kid,” he growled. ”I got Rafe and I got me, and that's all the crew we need around here.”
”And what about when you have to do some emergency maintenance?” Chandris countered, fighting to keep her voice calm and reasonable. ”Not here, but while you're out in s.p.a.ce. Who runs the s.h.i.+p while you and Rafe are busy fixing it?”
The smirk seemed to get bigger. ”You, I suppose?”
”Why not?” Chandris demanded. ”I'm an expert navigator and pilot, and I also know my way around an engine room. I could fly this thing out to Angelma.s.s and back by myself if I had to.”
”No, you couldn't,” the man shook his head. ”Want to know why?” He leaned forward, to smirk directly in her face. ”Because you aren't ever gonna be aboard this s.h.i.+p.”
With a snort, he straightened up again and reached down for the box he'd been carrying. ”So get lost, huh? We're busy.”
Turning, he headed back toward the ma.s.s of metal that towered over him, all but filling the large open-air service yard. Chandris watched him go, hoping desperately that, even now, he might reconsider.
Midway down the side of the s.h.i.+p, he disappeared up the long fold-out stairway that led inside. He'd never even looked back.
Blinking back tears, Chandris turned and trudged back to the wire fence and the gate with the faded sign Hova's Skyarcher above it. Across the street, visible between the s.h.i.+ps parked on that side, the sun was touching the distant hills. She'd spent the entire day here, going from one hunters.h.i.+p owner to the next, trying to find one who would be willing to take her on.
None of them had been especially polite. Most had been rude, or sarcastic, or even angry.
All had said no.
For a long minute she just stood there, leaning against the gate, too weary and drained to move. The clink of metal and the hums and growls of machinery came from all around her as hunters.h.i.+p crews worked to get ready for the next morning's launches. All that studying aboard the Xirrus-all that time she'd spent reading and memorizing and struggling to understand. And then getting caught on top of it all, and having to chop and hop without a single nurking thing but the clothes she had on.
All of it for nothing.
A motion across the street caught her eye: a middle-aged man, rather overweight from what she could see of his profile, coming stiffly down the stairway of the hunters.h.i.+p housed behind the fence over there. Carrying a small handled box in one hand, he disappeared toward the far end of the s.h.i.+p.
For a moment Chandris hesitated. It would end like the others, she knew; but it was the last hunters.h.i.+p on this side of the launch area and the only one she hadn't yet tried her luck at. Might as well make a clean sweep of it.
The gate was unlocked, its overhead sign proclaiming the s.h.i.+p beyond to be the Gazelle. Chandris let herself in and headed back toward the stairway, studying the s.h.i.+p towering over her as she walked alongside it. In slightly worse shape than the average, she decided, at least as far as the exterior was concerned. A smooth circular indentation in the hull caught her eye, and she stepped over for a closer look. A handful of small flat lenses and fine-mesh gratings were grouped within it, their sparkle and cleanliness in marked contrast to the pitted and faded hull itself.
”It's a sensor cl.u.s.ter.”
Chandris turned toward the voice. The overweight man was standing at the foot of the stairway, watching her. ”Yes, I know,” she told him, sifting quickly through her memory for the pictures of such things that she'd seen in the Xirrus's files. ”Half-spectrum and ion a.n.a.lysis.”
He smiled. Not a smirk, but a simple, friendly smile. ”Right as rain. You must be the little girl who's been driving everyone in the Yard frippy today looking for a job.”
”I'm hardly a little girl,” Chandris snapped, suddenly tired of having to take this dribble from every jerk on Seraph. ”And if you just came over to tell me you don't need any help, don't bother.”
She spun around and stomped off toward the gate, eyes blurry with sudden tears of frustration and fatigue. To h.e.l.l with it. To h.e.l.l with all of them. She should have known better than to try something this puff-headed in the first place. She might as well head back to the city where she could steal the price of a meal and find a place to sleep. Tomorrow she'd hit the streets, try and hook up with one of the local scorers- ”So tell me what sort of help you're offering.”
She stopped. ”What?” she called warily over her shoulder.
”You want a job, right?” he said. ”So come inside and tell us what you can do.”
Slowly, Chandris turned around to face him, half afraid this was just the setup for a parting twist of the knife. But there was nothing but calm curiosity in the fat man's face.
”Well, come on,” he waved, starting up the stairs with the same stiff gait she'd noticed earlier. ”It's not getting any warmer out here, in case you hadn't noticed. You like tea?”
Chandris took a deep breath, her fatigue vanis.h.i.+ng like nothing. To have found here, of all places, a real, genuine, open-faced soft touch. Sometimes she couldn't believe her own luck. ”Thank you,” she said, walking quickly back toward the stairway. ”I'd love a cup of tea.”
The tea was hot and rich and strong, with a sprinkle of sadras spice and probably some cinnamon mixed into it. A solid, working person's drink; simple and hospitable, with no pretensions or apologies attached. Exactly the sort of tea, Chandris thought as she sipped, that she would expect soft-touch types to offer a stranger.
Not that it wasn't welcome. It was indeed not getting any warmer outside, and Chandris hadn't realized how cold she'd actually been until she began to warm up. Holding the mug to her lips, she inhaled the steam rising from it, suppressing a s.h.i.+ver as she did so.
Or at least she thought she'd suppressed it. ”Still cold, child?” the plump woman sitting across the table from her said, reaching for the teapot. ”-Ach!” she added, pus.h.i.+ng back her chair to get up.
The overweight man in the chair beside her was quicker. ”I'll get it,” he said, heaving himself to his feet. He plucked the empty teapot from her hand and stepped toward the simmering samovar on the counter. ”A sprinkle and a half of sadras, right?” he asked over his shoulder.
The woman gave Chandris a knowing look. ”You can see how often he makes the tea around here,” she said.