"Worried. Distler has only been in office a couple of months, but he's already started trying to carry out his campaign promises . . ."
"Don't tell me about the United States, don't tell me about
sword-rattling. I can hear all that on the news, I can remember it from twenty years ago. forty years ago. It's all cycles. I want to hear about you. Has it been a year. since . . . ?"
"A little more," Victoria said. All the memories surrounding the accident came back to her. Time had begun to dim the pain, but she had to work to keep her voice steady. "Stephen Thomas got through it better than Satoshi and I."
"You're stilt with them both," Grangrana said hesitantly.
Victoria turned away from the window and toward Grangrana, the relative she loved most in the world. Her vision blurred and she blinked furiously. She had thought and believed she would never hear that particular querulous tone again, and never have to live through this conversation.
"Yes, Grangrana," she said. "I'm still with them. They're still with me. We're a partnership, personal and professional. The accident—Merry's death—changed things. But it didn't end the partnership."
"I thought it would," Grangrana said, softly, as if she were speaking to herself. "When it happened, I was sorry for your grief, but I thought it would release you."
"It isn't like that!" She sat on the floor at Grangrana's feet and clasped one frail hand in both of hers. "I'm not entrapped, I'm not blinded—I never was. It's true that Merry was the catalyst for the family. Merry loved falling in love and being in love and staying in love with a lot of people and managing the partnership. But . . . Why can't I explain it right to you? I love you and I want you to think well of me.
I don't want you to be ashamed of me—"
"Ashamed! Victoria, nothing you could ever do could shame me. No, I'm so proud of you. but when you told me
6 0 Vonda N. Mcintyre
about this arrangement, I remembered some of the foolish things I did when I was your age—younger than you."
"But it isn't like that. It isn't a cult. Merry didn't use charisma to keep us as pets, or worshippers, or slaves."
"Cherie, you never know it until it's over. It's so easy to persuade yourself to give up yourself for someone. Especially someone you love."
Anger mixed with despair. "I've made myself believe it happened to you, because you say it's so. Why can't I make you believe it isn't happening to me?"
"Because I'm old and stubborn and I love you." She drew Victoria up and embraced her. "I want you to be happy."
"I am, Grangrana." Victoria let her cheek rest against her great-grandmother's shoulder. She breathed the cool cedar scent of Grangrana *s perfume, the fragrance of clothing kept in cedar trunks and a huge freestanding cedar-lined cabinet, Victoria's favorite hiding place during childhood games.
"They seem like good men, Satoshi and Stephen Thomas,"
Grangrana said. "But don't stand for it if they pretend to be better than you.. Men like to do that, even when they don't realize it."
Victoria knew the struggle her great-grandmother had had to endure to succeed, in a different time. It seemed, to her, nearly as bizarre and incredible as the lives of Grangrana's great-grandparents, who had escaped to Canada from the United States during the years of slavery. Grangrana's stories of times past had taught Victoria the fragility of freedom-
"They wouldn't, Grangrana," she said. She sat down again in the wrought-iron chair, in the warm sun-room. The rays slanted through the windows, nearly horizontal, casting blacker shadows against the black flagstones. Victoria suddenly chuckled.
"What is it, cherieT'
"It's that you think my household is outrageous," Victoria said, "and all my other friends think it's terribly old-fashioned."
Next morning, orbital time, Victoria floated into the transport cafeteria. She wanted a cup of strong tea. Stephen Thomas used to tease her about the British influence on her eating habits, but once she persuaded him that a single taste of English breakfast tea with milk and sugar would not kill him, he decided he liked it. He still drank coffee the rest of the day and night, immune to the effects of caffeine, but sometimes he drank tea in the morning. Victoria thought she had done him no favor, for tea was scarcer than coffee outside earth's gravity well, and milk was expensive.
She passed Floris Brown, so far the only member of Grandparents in Space, accompanied by a member of the transport crew,
"Good morning, Ms. Brown." Victoria smiled. "I mean,
Floris. How are you enjoying the trip?"
"Oh . . . hello. It's fine, thank you." Nothing in the tone of her frail voice indicated she remembered Victoria from yesterday.
She must be tired from the stress of lift-off, Victoria thought, trying not to be disappointed.
"Victoria!"
J.D. and Feral called to her from across the room. She was impressed that they had both already learned not to make unnecessary gestures in zero-g.
Feral, who looked like he had been up for hours and had already hit his stride, pushed toward her and handed off a
61
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hot-pack to her. He kicked against the wall and passed her again going the opposite direction, still facing her.
"Good morning. Docking in an hour."
They both reached J.D. at the same time. Feral grabbed a handhold; Victoria brushed her hand along the bulkhead, using the friction to dissipate her momentum.
Victoria extended the hot-pack's straw and sipped it. Tea, with milk and sugar.
"Thanks," she said to Feral. Most Americans, even if they had noticed how she liked her tea, would have put cream in it. "Have you guys had breakfast already?"
"Just finished," J.D. said. "I wanted to be sure to get a good spot to watch the docking."
"I don't think you'll have any trouble," Victoria said.
"Most of the folks on board are old hands. You and our new grandmother are the only new permanent residents, and Feral and that other guy are the only temps."
"What other guy?" Feral asked.
"He was in the observation bubble yesterday morning, but he disappeared and I haven't seen him since."
"I don't remember him."
' 'He has kind of brown hair, or was it blond—you know, that color that you think is blond but when you really look at it, it's brown. And . . ." She tried to remember what color his eyes were. Her image of him shifted and faded. "Medium height, maybe a little taller." Height was difficult to judge in weightlessness. "Medium build." She searched for a distinguishing characteristic.
"I saw him a couple times in the corridor," J.D. said.
"But he didn't say anything."
"I guess I didn't notice him," Feral said, frowning.
"Not much to notice. Anyway, even if he and all of us here and half the crew go to watch the docking, it won't be crowded." She sighed. "This is the first time I've ever taken a transport to Starfarer that hasn't been full."
"So Chandra's not on board?" Feral asked.
"Who?"'
"The sensory artist. I heard she was leaving earth soon. I thought I might get a chance to interview her."
"Oh, dear," J.D- said. A blush crept up her cheeks.
"What's the matter?"
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"I was supposed to take her diving. I completely forgot about it. I just . . . left."
"Didn't she call you?"
"No. Isn't that odd . . . Maybe she forgot our appointment, too," J.D. said hopefully. "Excuse me, I'd better try to reach her and apologize, at least."
Her eyelids nickered closed and she fell silent as she connected with the web.
Letting the hot-pack drift in place, Victoria took a sandwich from a service module, lore off a comer of the wrapper, and pulled off a bite-sized piece of the sandwich. She left the rest inside the paper so it would not shed crumbs. She ate the bite, then ate the comer of the wrapper as well.