It had been nearly four hours since takeoff: Time for a break. Sandra stepped into the galley to find fellow flight attendant Haleigh leaning into a sink mirror, applying makeup. She had taken advantage of the privacy to slip off her hair tie, loosing a mass of bright red curls. Sandra shook her head. "Ach! What I wouldn't do for that mop!"
Haleigh looked over her shoulder. The girls exchanged glances, then broke into snorts of laughter. "Right," said Haleigh, and returned to her face. Sandra was the skinny, blond, undisputed sweetheart of the shuttle line, with three dates this weekend alone and two men from previous nights begging for more of her attention. She was the last person who needed help with relationships.
Not that Haleigh is a plain jane, of course, Sandra thought as she primed the coffeemaker. She was a sweet girl. "Any takers in port this weekend?"
"No . . ."
She tried to sound casual but Sandra wasn't fooled. Poor thing. On the other hand, all that sweetness was prone to give off a safe, sheltered vibe, which a lot of men liked to write off as "un-fun". "I could have one of my boyfriends give you a ring if you get bored . . ."
"Oh, no!" Great, thought Haleigh, now she thinks I'm pathetic! But she was, sort of, and Sandra was just being a good friend. "No, see, I have this date—well, this guy, he likes me, it's just . . . you know, he's got a girlfriend, and he doesn't want to see me until he's left her . . ."
"Ahhh. Good for you!" Good luck with that. Sandra poured the coffee.
"Yeah. Meh. I dunno if it's sweet or . . ." Her voice trailed off as she saw, or thought she saw, something in the mirror. Something that made her feel weak. She smoothed back the curls around her temple for a closer look.
"Haleigh? You alright?"
Haleigh spun around. Sandra was standing in the middle of the galley, a cup of coffee in each hand and a very concerned look on her face. "Mm? I'm fine!"
She clearly wasn't, but Sandra didn't see the point in arguing if the girl wouldn't admit it. "Coffee?"
"Yes, please!"
"Cream or—okay," she said as Haleigh dove for the cup. Now she knew something was wrong. Haleigh couldn't stand black coffee. And now here she was, guzzling it down in all its steaming hot glory. "You sure you're alright?"
"I'll be okay. Just a little . . . worn out."
"Well, here, sit down, then. I can take care of things the next few shifts if you need a break."
"Thanks . . ." Dizzy, trembling, Haleigh took the bench and tried to settle down. She was panicking for no reason: Everyone was a little paranoid these days, it was probably nothing. She didn't feel any different—apart from being scared, of course. Everything was fine.
"I'll fix you a plate," said Sandra, heading back to the cupboards. "That should perk you up. Is there anything you'd like? I'm sorry if you want playfood, the skinny guy in row 9 bought off the last—"
"Ohhhhh . . . my—No! NO!"
Sandra went cold. She turned slowly. ". . . Haleigh . . . ?"
Haleigh started screaming.
The Doctor sat—leaned back, eyes open—in the most comfortable third class seat he'd ever been in.
—Well, by human standards, anyway. But really, Astro Ilythia was no second-rate shuttle line.
The rest of the cabin was more or less asleep. It was technically the middle of the night, and they'd been flying for over five hours, so anyone on a reversed schedule would've passed out from boredom by now anyways. The lamps were turned down to a barely noticeable glow, so that the room was lit chiefly by the window—not one of the little portholes that ran along the left side, but the great glass skylight that took up the entire upper-right half of the cabin, under which the Doctor sat gazing out at the stars.
He couldn't sleep. Who could sleep with a view like that? It was beautiful. They had been in Aurora's shadow for an hour now, which meant the shades and the shutters were safe to open and the void of deep space left unobscured. Funny: As beautiful as it seemed, there was always a small part of him that looked into that great, glaring emptiness and found it just a tad unsettling. Because for all its wonder and its eons—eons of perfect stillness, it made up billions of miles in all directions that would rip to shreds whatever life form dared enter into it. Amazing how a bit of engineering and titanium could defy physics long enough to hold up against that! —For oblivion, space could feel so very alive . . .
"Excuse me?"
He looked up, around, and finally turned his head to see a pale face peeking at him over the seat backs of his row, its hair dyed black with two precise stripes going down the middle. "Um, hi!"
"Hi . . . Do you mind terribly if I sit down for a minute—here? Just for a minute."
"You have a . . ." He was at a loss. He gestured helplessly to her head. "Skunk . . . stripe . . ."
"Oh!" She grinned. "I like you already. Do you study mythology?"
"More or less. Sorry. You can sit here, go right ahead."
"Oh, thanks!" She slid round the seats and plopped down beside him. She was a lean little thing in a black utility jacket, with particularly pale blue eyes. She seemed unusually spry for a student of mythology—if that was what she was. "I'm sorry, I won't bother you long. I'm . . . kind of hiding."
"Hiding. Hiding from what?"
"Well, I'm—I'm sort of in trouble. But not," she added quickly.
He raised an eyebrow. "That so?"
"It's not really a problem. If he sees us and thinks we're talking like we know each other, he's likely to keep going."
And whatever prevented this "he"—whoever "he" was—from staking out and waiting for her to emerge later? The Doctor frowned. She seemed to think she wouldn't have to hide that long . . . He pushed it out of his head. It wasn't his business.
Oh, hang on, though—the pilot! Sure, that made sense: He was the only one who couldn't afford to stalk the cabin all flight long. So, one of the pilots was after her—but why? What could the pilot want with her personally that couldn't be handled by someone else?
. . . Ahh, then it was personal: Personal meant embarrassment.
Oh, no.
He licked his lips. "You're not . . . you're not together, are you? with this person who's looking for you?"
She blinked, then realized what he meant and snorted. "Oh, he wishes."
"But you never were?"
"Nope."
Oh, brilliant. That left him with the less savory explanation. "Then you're . . . not blackmailing them? . . . "
She broke into a grin. "No! . . . Not actually, anyway." She saw him frown and explained: "I have this friend, and this friend has a friend, and that friend knows the captain. Well, they thought it would be funny to download some data off the captain's key that . . . well, the captain didn't want anyone else to have, and they shared it with my friend, who then shared it with me." She raised her arm and indicated a thick, glossy black band looped round her wrist. When she tapped it, a colorful holographic display sprang out of the blackness and orbited her arm. "It's nothing dangerous to anyone, just to his pride."
Ahh, the wrist keys: He forgot, these people liked to carry their whole identities in their bracelets. "You say you're not blackmailing this person, this captain.—'Not actually.' What does that mean?"
"It means he's paranoid and thinks because I've got it, I care."
"Shouldn't be a problem, then. Just delete the video and let him know it was a misunderstanding, eh?"
"Hmph." She tapped the display off. She seemed about to say something when she noticed his hand. "Hey—where's your key?"
". . . Oh!" He looked at his wrist. "Yeah, I . . . I don't have one."
"You've gone tagged?"
"Oh, no, no—the Hecatians don't use wrist keys." He hadn't even seen any of those bands till he went through Gettys III, the space station, and the psychic paper gave him clearance to fly without having to apply for one.
She raised her eyebrows. "Ohhhh!—You're from Hecate?"
". . . Yes." Well, it was true: He had come from Hecate, if only just now.
"Wow. Sorry. I might've guessed." But then she took a second look at him and changed her mind. "No, actually, no, I never would've guessed. You seem too—well, compared to the Hecatians I have met, you seem a bit too . . modern."
"Not all Hecatians are farmers."
"Fair point. Is this your first time on-planet, then?"
"My first time to Aurora? . . . Yes." Actually true: Last time he'd been to Hecate, Aurora hadn't even been terraformed, let alone civilized. Back when Hecate was just a sprawling little moon colony lost on the edge of mankind's star charts.
"Okay, bit of advice, then: Find an administrative office or somewhere when we land and get a key fitted as soon as you can, right? There should be a place in port where you can get it done."
"Thanks, will do." Will not.
"Ladies and gentleman!"
They frowned and looked together into the aisle. The blond attendant was at the back of the cabin with the microphone in her hand. . . . Her shaking, pale hand, he couldn't help but notice. "Ladies and gentleman, w-we will be landing in a-about an hour." She turned off the microphone to take a deep breath, then went on: "Please stand by to take your seats and secure your safety belts for the descent. Thank you."
He frowned. Half to himself, he wondered, "Now, that's odd, what's wrong with her? . . ."
The girl got out of her seat. "Well, that's my cue. See you later—or, well, maybe not. Anyway it was nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too!" And then she was gone, and he turned his attention back to the attendant, who was still shaking. Not in fear, though. Not exactly. Her eyes were sort of dead and blank, like she was in a daze. Had something happened? It might be nothing; it might just be something personal.
Regardless, however, he deemed it better to be safe than sorry and went to the back to check on her. She shut him off, though, snapping something defensive about it being none of his business, and closed the galley door on him, nearly in tears. And she was right, it wasn't any of his business, so he returned to his seat and waited for landing.
Malcolm Barkhoff sat at the edge of his bed and rubbed his face. The doctor still hadn't called.
It had been three days since they last spoke. How long could it possibly take?
Perhaps this was good? he wondered hopefully. What if Kreshner wasn't calling because he had something and didn't want to get Malcolm's hopes up till he was sure of it?
No, no, now he was getting his own hopes up.
His wrist went off. He tapped the line open. "Dr. Kreshner?"
"Chancellor Barkhoff. I hope this isn't a bad time."
"It's never a bad time. Tell me."
Dr. Kreshner stood in the middle of a stark white quarantine chamber at Ilythia General Hospital, before a great, monstrous life support unit. It had round, friendly edges and a soft green color, as if its designer had thought appearances could lessen the gravity of its application; at its head was a lit window through which the head and shoulders of Barkhoff's son, Grady, could be seen. The unit had been modified to maintain his body functions at a prolonged metabolic rate, and technically everyone who entered the room was supposed to wear a mask and gloves, but it had been weeks since the boy had been put into stasis and no one really believed in any risk of infection now.
The doctor consulted a clipboard. "I've got the results back. It's . . . it's not good. I'm sorry. We've been able to slow the spread of the virus, but the new DNA didn't take." If anything, the virus had chewed through it with all the more relish.
Malcolm's heart sank. He was silent a long while, till Kreshner finally said: ". . . Sir?"
He smoothed his forehead. "Yes."
"There's a shuttle coming in with some passengers from Hecate. Shall I send for more subjects?"
He thought it over. ". . . No. Not now. Try again. Try something else. I dunno, give it one more chance."
"As you say, sir. I'll call you when we have more results."
"Oh, one more thing, Kreshner! . . . Is he . . ." He licked his lips. "Is he still . . . alright?"
Grady was anything but alright, but the Kreshner knew what he meant. "He's looking good sir."
"Thank you. Goodnight, doctor."
"Good night, sir." He tapped off the line and looked down into the unit window. Grady had been looking good, two days ago. A slight discoloration had formed on the scalp at the back of his head. No need to worry the chancellor, though.