Part 5 (1/2)

”I missed you,” she said. ”I was busy. I went back and forth to Abanat a lot.” She rubbed her chin. ”I could have used a pilot. Domna Sam kept sending a bubble for me. I think I spent more time with her than Ferris.”

Zed said, ”I don't even know what Ferris looks like.” Rhani made a face.

”I'm sorry I wasn't here to pilot you.” _Were you happy?_ he wanted to ask. _Did you take a lover?_ If he asked her the first question, she would only smile, and say, ”_Of course_.”

He never asked about her lovers.

She said, ”I have to go to Sovka.”

”Why?”

”I retired the old manager, and appointed a new one, Erith Allogonga. She was head of the birthing section. I want to see how she's getting along. And I'm concerned about those litter deaths.”

”Are you feeling nostalgic?” he teased.

She laughed. ”For Sovka? Zed, one _couldn't_ feel nostalgic for Sovka.”

Unable to restrain himself, he said, ”You went there eagerly enough.”

It was an old sore between them. Rhani touched his arm with her palm.

”Zed-ka. I was seventeen, and I was not asked if I wanted to go. I was told to go. I was frightened. I couldn't talk back to Isobel.”

”I know. I'm sorry I said it.”

”Shall I tell you more gossip? I can't think of anything more to tell.

You'll have to ask Charity Diamos. Or I could have Binkie make printouts of the old copies of PIN.”

Charity Diamos was related to the Yagos: she was a vicious, malicious harridan and the worst gossip in Abanat. Zed choked.

Rhani laughed. ”You talk to me,” she said. ”Tell me about the trip.

You've not yet given me the Net report.”

”It's on the computer, you can read it there.”

”No. I'd rather hear it from you.”

She sat with her head c.o.c.ked slightly to one side, fingers clasped together loosely in her lap: it was her listening look. Zed picked up a piece of fruit. ”All right,” he said. ”The trip was uneventful until the end....”

Downstairs, in the quarters set apart for slaves, Dana Ikoro dreamed the sound of footsteps in a hall.

He came awake, sweating and cold. The room was very bright; the dappled brilliance of sunlight, not the desolate glare of artificial lighting. Someone was knocking on his door. A woman called his name; her voice soft through the heavy wood. He sat up. He was sticky. ”Come in,” he called. A small blond girl came in.

”h.e.l.lo,” she said. ”I'm Amri.” She wore a soft light s.h.i.+ft of red-and- yellow; she reminded Dana of a b.u.t.terfly. She carried a pair of straw sandals in one hand, and a gray jumpsuit over her arm. ”These are for you. Binkie says they should fit.”

Dana sat on the edge of the bed. ”What time of day is it?” he asked.

”Two hours after dawn.” She had pale fine hair that fell to her waist and equally pale, near-translucent skin, an infant's skin. The s.h.i.+ft was sleeveless; Dana saw the tattooed ”Y” on her left arm. That meant she was a slave. He blinked, shocked. She looked barely fourteen; he couldn't imagine what possible criminal act she had committed. But she was here.

He took the clothing from her. ”After you're dressed,” she said, ”come have breakfast. The kitchen's at the other end of this hall.”

”Yes, I remember. Thank you,” he said.

Walking down the hall to the kitchen Dana experienced that unmistakable twinge in the head that says: _You have seen, done, smelled, tasted, been here before_. He puzzled out the _deja vu_. He was sixteen, walking from the sleeping s.p.a.ce to the eating hall in the Pilot's Academy on Nexus, wearing a uniform, a hundred unfamiliar terms and customs crowding his mind, his hair brus.h.i.+ng the tops of his shoulders, shorter than it had ever been on Pellin. He hadn't wanted them to cut it. He liked his hair long. He closed his eyes abruptly, remembering _Zipper_, Russell O'Neill, Monk, Tori Lamonica, Nexus, the forest-crested hills of Pellin, the faces of his family -- freedom, he thought. He wondered where his musictapes were now. He pictured some Net crew member riffling through them, listening to one, frowning in boredom, tossing them aside. ”_Nothing of value, Commander_.” Inside his head he heard, like birdsong, a few swift, improbable notes of Vittorio Stratta's ”Fugue No. 2 in C.” The gay ancient music drew tears.

He rubbed them out with the heel of his hand and went inside the kitchen.

The walls were red wood; the floor was squares of brown tile. Binkie, Amri, and two women he hadn't met sat at a counter on high metal stools, eating.

Their faces did not change as they turned to look him over. Binkie said, ”This is Dana. This is Cara Morro, steward of the Yago estate, and Immeld, the cook.” Cara was angular and brown, with silver hair that trickled down her back in asymmetrical ringlets. She had a pale scar on her left upper arm. Immeld was younger, jaunty, and talkative.

”I saw you come in last night,” she said. She pushed a platter towards him. ”Have some food. There's a stool over there.” Dana turned, to find Amri bringing it to him. His feet dangled to the bottom rung. He picked fruit and cheese from the plate. ”Are they awake?” said Immeld.

Amri said, ”Zed took the tray from me to bring in himself.”

”Someone was in here last night.”

”That was Rhani,” said Amri. ”She brought _him_ something to eat.” She pointed at Dana.

”What time was that?”

”About three hours after sunset,” said Binkie. He said, ostensibly to Dana, ”Immeld likes to know everything.”

”So do you,” said Cara tartly.

”Does anyone want more cheese?” asked the cook. No one did. She put the platter in a cooler. Casually she said, ”What's new this morning?” She looked at Binkie.

”Nothing's new,” he said. ”Rhani's working.”

”On what?” asked the cook.

”I don't talk about Rhani's work,” said Binkie. ”You know that.”

Immeld chuckled, unabashed at her prying. ”I just wondered.”

”How many more days before they go to Abanat?” asked Amri.

”Ten,” said Binkie.

”I want to go with them,” Amri said. She kicked the rungs of her stool.

”I like Abanat.”

”I don't,” said Binkie. Diffidently, Dana said, ”What's the Chabad calendar?”

Binkie said, ”Nine days to a week, five weeks to a month, ten months to the year. Every fifth year they add two days to the last month of the year.”

Immeld said, ”And they don't celebrate birthdays at all on Chabad. I miss not having a birthday. I used to get two: Standard birthday and -- ”