Misti Wolanski – I already replied to your reviews in more detail, but I want to thank you again for your detailed and thought-provoking words.
Readers, I must warn you. This chapter is nothing but fluffy fluff, with just a touch of not-so-fluffy at the end. But mostly fluff. If anyone recognizes the landscape I describe, you win a million gold stars.
-o-
The cool façade he had been maintaining so far slipped for a moment, betraying his shock. He smoothed his face again quickly, but now he wore the smile she was used to seeing when they were together.
"Yes, ma'am," he said solemnly and, with a tiny bow, disappeared into his bedroom.
Beka averted her eyes and kept them fastened to the tapestries. One of them, she noted with a grin, depicted a space battle. A fleet of ships of Commonwealth military design fired bright missiles at a hodgepodge of ships with a few Nietzschean designs she barely recognized. The Nietzschean ships were firing even more weapons, depicted with threads so violently red and blue and green they seemed to glow. At intervals, eye-searing orange and yellow flames engulfed Commonwealth ships. Beka suspected that the artist had never witnessed a real firefight in space.
If she had to guess, she would say that the tapestry depicted the Nietzschean rebellion against the Commonwealth, a war which neither side had truly won. The Nietzscheans had succeeded in bringing down a millennia-old civilization, but they too had crumbled in the years following. Beka could not imagine what Charlemagne meant by having it here; perhaps he just found it amusing to tack such a piece of art to the bulkhead of a Commonwealth ship.
While she was still studying the tapestry, Charlemagne emerged from his bedroom. She made no attempt to hide her own surprise; he looked as chic as ever, but she had never seen him wear this kind of style before. Except for the boneblades she could not help but see, he looked like a very nostalgic kludge in a snug t-shirt inscribed with characters she did not recognize and tight denim trousers.
"Oh my God," she breathed, employing an ancient kludge expression for the occasion. "Let me see those." She circled him and spied the distinctive label on the waistband of his jeans. "These things are older than your race, Charlemagne Bolivar."
He chuckled. "I've never been on a date before; I was feeling whimsical. If you stay there, Beka, I'm going to begin to suspect that you aren't really interested in the label."
Rolling her eyes and scoffing, Beka took a few steps so she was facing him. "Hilarious as always." She wanted to ask about the sudden change in his mood, tease him about it, but figured that this was not the best time. Maybe during their date when they were both feeling mellow she would bring it up.
"I aim to please." He paused, and Beka could have sworn she detected a flicker of uncertainty in his expression. Of course not. "Is this appropriate attire for a date?"
Beka laughed. This was going to be even more fun than she had thought. "For dinner you're fine. Back when everyone wore those things," she nodded at his jeans, "you might've had a hard time getting into the really nice places. Where did you get them, anyway?"
Charlemagne hooked a thumb in the belt loops and tugged experimentally. She wondered if he had ever worn them before and why he bothered to spend a lot of money on them if they had been destined to hang in his closet for the rest of his life. "Fascinating," he murmured.
He raised his voice back to a conversational level. "Human popular culture before first contact is a special interest of mine. It has always seemed a good idea to understand the stock from which my people sprang."
"So, what, you troll vintage stores on your days off?"
"You see the most interesting people," he replied, utterly unselfconscious.
A mental image of Charlemagne pawing through a bargain bin flashed through Beka's head, and she chortled. "And I'm sure you know the pieces that will sell for millions at auction."
"I do have a perfectly preserved collection of ladies' shoes that could probably purchase several very pleasant planets," he agreed. "Some of them would likely be banned in certain societies as heinous torture devices."
Beka winced. She had seen the same historical holovids as everyone else. Hell, those things could be banned as weapon in certain very polite societies.
"I gotta admit," she began, "I really haven't thought this whole date thing through. Dinner's a traditional, um, activity for dates, especially first dates, so if you know of anything good, I'm all ears." More like all eyes, she told herself. Charlemagne generally did not go in for clothes that molded themselves to him like his present ensemble did. Compared to certain other parties, he was slender, but like any Nietzschean man with an ounce of self-respect, he sported a beautiful musculature lovingly accented by his t-shirt. Beka looked back at the tapestry.
"I have an idea," he said after a moment's thought and refused to reveal it to Beka until they arrived at a planet she'd never heard of, which did not say much either way as Beka made it a point to avoid giant, unpredictable, storm-ridden balls of dirt as much as she could. Despite her nonstop wheedling, all she got out of him was a promise that they possessed one of the best climate regulatory systems in the Known Worlds, which was some little comfort.
When Beka docked the Maru, she stepped out from the hangar to a flower-scented breeze and glacial blue sunshine from twin stars burning in an orange sky. After just a few minutes in a silent hover transport, Charlemagne pointed out their destination. When they disembarked, he stood still for a moment and held out a hand, wearing a quizzical expression on his face.
"Yes?" Beka asked, eyebrows raised.
Charlemagne gave her a slow smile. "It is my understanding that it is customary for people on a date to hold hands." His eyes were wide and sparkling blue. "Will you hold my hand?"
Beka couldn't help it; she burst out laughing. This was too much like the cover to a trashy romance holovid. "I haven't held hands with anyone since the Salvage Guild's Debutante Ball. Considering how that turned out, I haven't done it since."
"In the interest of human-Nietzschean relations," Charlemagne said in what she recognized as his ambassadorial tone of voice, "I ask you most sincerely to hold my hand."
There was nothing to be done, she realized, but to do as he asked. It was not so laborious a chore, just odd. With a put-upon sigh, she took his hand and twined her fingers with his. He gripped her hand firmly, his palm warm and dry and superficially soft, but underneath the skin she could feel the potential strength in the small bones there.
"Lovely," he remarked before leading her to their destination.
As they walked, Beka had to admit that a planet as strictly regulated as this one to please every sense might not be such a waste of real estate. They stopped at the entrance to a little valley behind two hills, and immediately a uniformed Makra padded forward to greet them.
"Welcome to the valley," he purred. "Arch Duke, what a pleasure to see you again." It came as no surprise that Charlemagne frequented this place; it was beautiful and decadent and probably very expensive.
A dark gold river dappled with azure starshine wound from distant mountains and foothills down through the valley to disappear behind another gentle swell of land. Bright scarlet grass grew underfoot like a plush rug, and silver leaves rustled a constant hum in the background.
"I should have timed this for sunrise," Charlemagne murmured as the server guided them. "You must see it sometime, the twin suns rising over the mountains. The leaves seem to burn in the light."
At irregular intervals, Beka saw couples and small groups of people sitting at low tables, humans cross-legged and Makra curled up with boneless grace. She noticed few other species, though she thought she heard the distinctive Than chitter in the distance. They walked long enough for Charlemagne to explain a little about this place, that the Makra who had discovered this planet had needed to reform it only a little to suit their needs. This particular establishment served a fusion of Makra riverine cuisine and, of all things, old Earth sushi.
Finally, their server slowed and offered them a secluded riverside spot with one of the low tables. He bowed very low when Charlemagne voiced his approval, produced two thin cylinders from a pocket, and disappeared. The cylinders contained a roll of thick pulp sheets inscribed with elaborate calligraphy. Beka could barely read the Common, and comprehension of the words did not help her understand the offerings.
"I realize that this is very presumptuous of me," Charlemagne began, "but it might be best if you allow me to place an order for you."
Well, at least he had asked. Beka agreed. She had eaten a lot of weird things in her life and the only food she really disliked were the squirming grubs and worms regarded as Nightsider delicacies. As Charlemagne continued to speak about the planet and its inhabitants, Beka leaned against the trunk of a tree with weeping branches that trailed in the river. Tiny aquamarine petals swirled in the breeze and landed in her hair.
"This place is amazing," she said almost dreamily. "You don't suppose they're looking for a resident gang lieutenant, do you?"
Charlemagne regretfully replied that he doubted it, but before he could finish the thought, the server reappeared. He rattled off their order, and, after only a few minutes' absence, the server returned with a tray of glasses and a large platter dotted with brightly colored shapes arranged in fastidious order. Shallow wells ringed the edge of the platter, filled with glossy sauces.
"I get that we eat these," Beka said as she pointed to the platter, "but what do we eat them with?" She decided not to ask what it was until she had made up her mind whether she liked it or not.
Charlemagne waggled his fingers. "It's all part of the experience," he answered laconically in response to her wide-eyed disbelief. "Dive in." He made it sound dirty.
She recognized some of the shapes as seafood, extraordinarily fresh and delicately flavored, but others remained a mystery. They ate slowly, tasting every one of the sauces. Charlemagne laughed at the faces Beka made, mostly ecstasy interspersed with the occasional grimace and teary-eyed exclamations when she ate something that burned her mouth.
The glasses proved to hold ordinary water, which was a great relief after the spicy green paste. After they finished, Beka lounged against the tree again with a glass of water and watched the pale dapples dance on the river. Charlemagne slid around the low table and slouched beside her. They remained silent as they digested, and Beka found the distance between the two of them decreasing inch by inch as minutes passed.
Eventually, she was mildly surprised to discover that their hips and shoulders pressed together. "Well," she said, "fancy meeting you here."
He grinned at her and took her hand again. "How is this rating so far as a date?"
Beka riffled the velvety grass with her free hand and watched the reflections from the silver leaves marble the shade. "Colorful," she said thoughtfully. When he raised an eyebrow, she laughed. "Very nice. Also would make good real estate shopping."
She looked around again, strained her eyes to the mountains in the distance, and sighed. "I have a long way to go tomorrow to track down my one very slim lead." Gently disentangling her fingers, she stood and brushed her trousers to dislodge any stray pieces of red grass. She shook her head and combed her hair with her fingers, sending flower petals flying in the breeze.
Beka made automatic responses to whatever it was Charlemagne was talking about when they returned to the Maru, but her brain was not in it. She could not figure out just how she felt right now, winding down her first date with this man. One of her first real dates ever, she reminded herself dryly. The spacers she'd known and loved rarely for fancy dinners and flowers, and they always went dutch. At no point during their evening had the server asked for any sort of payment, come to think of it, but perhaps Charlemagne had a tab there.
The planet was gorgeous, of course, and Charlemagne behaved in his usual charming manner. Sitting against the tree with him, almost leaning on him, she had felt peaceful and comfortable, but it was already over, and her mind was returning to larger concerns. Soon – she had no idea how long it would take to arrange a wedding – he would leave with his new wife, and no matter how willing Dominique was to support Beka's relationship with Charlemagne, whatever it really was, she knew the marriage would create a great distance between them.
The more she thought about it, the more this seemed like a stupid idea. She could only vaguely recall her motivations in bringing him the flowers and dragging him on a date. At her side, Charlemagne continued to speak, but he shot these concerned looks at her like he knew she wasn't paying attention but was too polite to remark on it. Or too worried about her reaction, a reasonable assumption considering the night before.
But flying the Maru again, her malaise could not hold, and after a few minutes of flight time, she felt herself wake up again, conversing more freely and with more laughter. Tension she had not noticed before in Charlemagne's face melted away, and when she closed the slip portal behind her, Beka realized that she was disappointed that their date was over.
Their footsteps took them out of force of habit to Beka's quarters, and with a start she remembered that dates had to end, formally. In spite of his professed ignorance of human date etiquette, she was sure that Charlemagne knew this too, and a minute after she thought this, he confirmed her suspicion.
"We're here at the lady's doorstep," he observed in his silkiest tone, "and the night draws to a close."
Beka smiled. "So we can avoid looking at one another for awhile in awkward silence until you slink away, which is how most of the few dates I've had have ended. But…" she continued, "Unlike them, you didn't try to rob me or sneak off with a redhead. That has to count for something."
She took a single step closer and unconsciously licked her lips. When she stopped a few inches from his face, she paused and murmured, "Thank you." The smile he gave in return was soft and slight, nothing like the amused grin with an edge of mockery that he usually wore. She pressed her lips to his in a light, chaste kiss, then turned to enter her quarters as the hatch slid open.
"Good night," she called.
She collapsed on her windowseat and let her head loll against the screen. A wash of bright white stars twinkled at her but offered no answers to the roiling chaos in her mind. She liked Charlemagne, but he was getting married by her hand. She really liked Charlemagne, but she thought she had loved Tyr. She didn't want to suffer again, but neither did she wish to cause anyone else's suffering, especially not Charlemagne's. Round and round her thoughts chased one another until she drifted off to sleep on the ledge.