Yrilan grinned at her, the grin she had first fallen for, and gave a little skip-step. “Great—but why not Uptop first, to get in the mood?”
“I’m already in the mood,” Sirkin said, and ran a finger down Yrilan’s arm.
“Patience is a virtue,” Yrilan said, tossing her head, and Sirkin had to laugh. They both knew who had the patience. She wished Yrilan didn’t like noisy taverns like Uptop, but she’d have put up with worse for the evening to come.
By the time they reached Uptop, it was crammed with mainshift rush hour business, vibrating to the beat of its music. Sirkin saw a sonic cop check her meter from across the corridor, shrug, and go on. Well-bribed, perhaps. She inserted her own filters, and followed Yrilan inside. They stood with a clump of others waiting for space at the bar or booths; Sirkin saw merchant ship patches on some arms, nothing on others. Uptop had never been a favorite of either Fleet or Royals, which made it more popular with other groups. Remembering the captain’s warning, she tried to notice anything out of the ordinary, but she didn’t like this kind of place anyway. How could she tell if the big, scar-faced man in front of her was really from Pier’s Company #35 or not? Against her hip, she felt Yrilan’s hip twitch to the music. She wouldn’t be wearing sonic filters; she liked it this loud. Sirkin had to admit that the bass resonances dancing up her bones from heel to spine were exciting, but she wished the higher tones didn’t tangle her eardrums in the middle of her skull.
Two seats finally opened at a large table. Yrilan nodded before Sirkin had a chance to see everyone clearly, but she shrugged and followed the flashing arrow on the floor. Two women in matching gray with a yellow stripe: Lyons, Inc., but probably not ship crew, since they were hunched over a digipad poking at it with styluses. Probably accountants. A man in rusty black; Sirkin was glad he sat on the far side of the table. A woman and two men in nondescript blue, playing some sort of game on the table’s projector. An elegant woman, hair streaked with silver, whose silui-silk suit probably cost more than all the other clothes at the table. The empty seats were between her and the Lyons, Inc. women.
Yrilan edged in beside the older woman. She would, Sirkin thought, amused. She had a passion for jewels, the classic case of champagne tastes on a beer budget, and the woman wore jewelry as costly and elegant as her clothes. Sirkin wondered what she was doing there . . . she wasn’t much like the rest of Uptop’s clientele. She herself squeezed in beside Yrilan and looked at the table’s display. She wanted wine with dinner; she really didn’t want anything now.
“Let’s have a mixed fry as well,” Yrilan said in her ear. “Or will it spoil your appetite?”
The tickle distracted her from the question for a moment. “If we’re going to eat a good dinner, why . . . ?”
“Oh . . . there’s no hurry, is there? I think I just want to cram it all in, love, all the things we like. I can see the signs as well as you can. Your Captain Serrano isn’t going to hire me, and this may be our last chance to celebrate together.”
Implicit in that was the understanding that she, Sirkin, wasn’t going to quit the Sweet Delight to work wherever Yrilan found a berth. Nor would Yrilan wait. Her eyes stung; she hadn’t admitted it to herself yet, but it was true. She drew a breath, trying to think how to say what she really felt.
“Don’t spoil it, now,” Yrilan said, punching her arm lightly. “Let’s just party and enjoy it.” She reached out and entered an order for both of them. Sirkin didn’t cancel it; right then she didn’t care.
The mixed fries, hot and spicy, gave her an excuse for watering eyes; the first gulp of her drink took the edge off both spice and emotion. Was Yrilan trying to anesthetize her, or what? She glanced sideways, and saw that Yrilan was smiling at the elegant older woman. Fine. Drag her into a place like this and then ignore her.
“Amalie—” That got a quick sidelong look, a nudge. “Look—maybe we should go somewhere and talk—”
“No . . . talk’s the last thing we need.” Yrilan shook her head decisively, and reached for more fries. Sirkin shrugged and sat back. Even with filters, her ears hurt. On her right, the conversation between the two women she thought of as accountants consisted of sequences of numbers with exclamations like “But of course the rate’s pegged to the Green List!” She knew the Green List had something to do with investments, but had no idea what. Glancing that way, she saw their display covered with intersecting lines that flicked from one pattern to another. “All profit,” one of them was saying. “See, the first shipment makes up the difference between—”
Yrilan poked her. “Wake up, Brig. Kirsya here has asked us to dine with her.”
Sirkin peered around Yrilan at the elegant woman, startled out of her mood and into wariness. Had Yrilan known her before? But she was explaining.
“I met Kirsya while waiting for Sweet Delight to arrive—I wanted you to meet her before, but we’ve been so busy—”
Was this her replacement? But she had to say something; Kirsya was reaching around to shake her hand. Sirkin forced herself to smile. “Glad to meet you,” she said. At least she didn’t have to say how much she’d heard, since she’d heard nothing. Surely Yrilan could have mentioned her.
“And I.” Kirsya had a lovely voice, surprisingly clear through the music and the filters. “I asked Amalie to let me be a surprise . . . I hope it doesn’t bother you.”
Bother was the wrong word. Sirkin felt that she was somehow in the wrong when she hadn’t done anything. Yet.
“I’m Amalie’s therapist,” Kirsya said. Sirkin glanced at Yrilan, whose cheeks were slightly flushed.
“Therapist? What’s wrong?” Immediately she knew that was the wrong thing to say, even before both sets of eyebrows went up. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, but too late. “I know—it doesn’t mean anything’s wrong—it’s just—” Just that unless Amalie was going to confront her laziness, there was nothing she really needed to change. Not to please Sirkin, anyway.
“I was really miserable, waiting for you,” Yrilan said, not quite apologetically. “I got into a little . . . mess, sort of. And they recommended therapy.”
“Who?” asked Sirkin, her heart sinking right to the floor. Mess? She hadn’t mentioned any mess, and they’d always shared everything before. What kind of “mess” got a recommendation of therapy, and how had she concealed that from Captain Serrano? Sirkin felt a sudden desire to bolt from the tavern, straight back to Sweet Delight.
“The . . . uh . . . Station police. They said no charges might be filed if I agreed to short-term therapy . . .” Yrilan’s voice had the pleading tone which had always worked before. Now it sawed on Sirkin’s nerves almost like the music. “And . . . Kirsya really helped me. We got to be friends—”
In the short time that Yrilan had had to wait, of course. Friends. Sirkin bit back all she was thinking, and simply nodded. Memories flooded her: the day she’d first seen Amalie Yrilan in the registration line, fumbling with a stack of forms and data cubes. What had it been, the look in her green eyes or the quick toss of her hair? The study dates, the walks by the lake, the long intense discussions of their future.
“It’s not what you think,” Yrilan was saying now, with a worried look. Kirsya’s face was composed. So it well might be, Sirkin thought, finally recognizing her own anger. She with her good clothes and jewels—“Of course I still love you,” Yrilan went on. “I always will—” The necessary but hung in the air, battered by the music.