"I've never run across the name, 'Joat' before," Channa began casually. "It doesn't give a clue about where you're from the way that some names do. I use 'Hap' as a surname because I was born on Hawking Alpha Proxima Station, for example."
"Joat's my name." Joat answered, sticking his chin out aggressively. "I gave it to myself. It means 'jack-of-all-trades,' 'cause that's what I do, some of everything."
"So it's a nickname," Channa said. "Shall we put you down on the form as Jack, then?"
Joat looked at her with cool contempt. "Why? That's a boy's name."
"You're a… girl?" Simeon asked, bringing the "g" sound up from the depths of his diaphragm and managing to split the word in several astonished syllables.
"What's wrong with that? She's a girl!" Joat declared defensively, pointing at Channa, as though ducking responsibility.
Channa burbled with heavily suppressed laughter before she managed some reassurance. "Hey, it's all right that you're a girl. It's just that… All that dirt…" Channa couldn't risk continuing in that vein and switched abruptly "… is an effective disguise."
"Good disguise," Joat said proudly. "Bad idea to let people know when you're a girl. Can cause you trouble. But, since you say I gotta go to a medic," she paused to look questioningly at Channa who nodded, "best you don't look surprised then." She grinned slyly and then looked over at Simeon's column. "You really didn't know?"
"Not a clue," he said wonderingly, and Joat giggled with pleasure. "Hmm. According to the biological studies I had, it's not easy to tell with the pre-pubescent… dressed or in disguise."
"I can always tell," Joat said with some contempt for his ignorance.
"You're a softshell."
"You sure you're not a computer?"
"Yes, I am-stop teasing!"
Joat grinned unrepentantly. Simeon felt an unfamiliar sensation and tried to identify it. A flutter in the ribcage? he thought wonderingly.
"Why haven't they answered the tight-beam?" Simeon asked nervously a week later. "I sent everything. The forms were all correct."
"It's a bureaucracy," Channa said soothingly.
"Oh? That's supposed to reassure me?" Simeon said. A moment later: "Why is Joat's room always a mess? I send in the servos twice a day and it's still in a maximum-entropy state."
"It's called 'adolescence,' Simeon," Channa said. "At least she seems to be settling in at school."
Simeon's image winced. Joat had unexpectedly cleaned up as pretty, though she had wrinkled her nose when he'd mentioned that. She seemed to trust him-Channa as well-to a limited extent. Any further social interfacing was… lacking.
"She gets in too many fights," he said. She also fought very, very dirty. He winced again when he thought of the places some blows, kicks and punches had landed.
"She's not used to interacting except as a potential victim," Channa replied. "I don't think she's ever been with anyone in her own age group. She certainly doesn't know the local rituals. She's an outsider-practically a feral child. We're lucky she can respond to other human beings at all."
An awkward silence fell for a moment. Unspoken: and she didn't think you were human when she met you.
"She's learned about daily showers," Simeon pointed out helpfully.
"Oh, there's good stuff in Joat," and Channa grimaced. "Even if her brand of ethics is unusual, at least she's consistent in applying it. All she needs is some security and a chance."
"Isn't that all anybody needs?"
Several hours later, Simeon still glowed with satisfaction in their accomplishments with Joat. This, being a father thing, is great, he thought, and wanned measurably towards Channa. I've got to thank her.
For the first time since she had arrived, Simeon looked into her quarters and was surprised at how, in that short time-under two weeks, although it seemed like more-it had changed from the spartan chamber Tell Radon had occupied. She had tinted the walls a soft, off-pink and had put "paint-chips" into the permanently installed frame-projectors. The jewel-bright colors and romantic images of the pre-Raphaelites, Alma-Tadema and Maxfield Parrish glowed from the walls, along with some modern Mintoro reproductions. The bedspread was an icy gray satin on which were scattered embroidered pillows of peach and gray and blue.
"Say, Channa," he said in tones of pleased approval, "I like what you've done with the room."
Channa emerged from the bathroom clad in a blue silk robe trimmed with lace, a brush in her hand and swept out of her quarters into the main lounge without saying a word. She stopped in front of Simeon's column and crossed her arms, her eyes blazing. All Simeon's warm feelings fell into cold ash as he looked out at her. Maybe if he didn't say anything, she'd go away and not say whatever it was that was burning inside her eyes. Nah, when have I ever been that lucky where she's concerned?
Her body was rigid, though her shoulders twitched and her lips opened several time. He'd better say something to stem the acid eruption.
Using as casual and complimentary tone as he could manage, he said, "You have very romantic tastes, Channa," which seemed to reduce her blazing eyes a degree or two. He'd never know why he continued: perhaps sheer mischief to get a little of his own back. "Though your bed looks amazingly like an ice cube."
She blinked in astonishment and he thought, A hit! A very palpable hit! But then she took a deep breath.
"I did not think," she said, every word precise and polished, "that it would be necessary to actually say this, but since I must, I shall. Because we got off on the wrong foot and I did not trust you, I swept my quarters for active scanners." She crossed her arms. "You will please," she went on with careful emphasis, "not ever enter my quarters without knocking and requesting admittance, and waiting for my express permission to enter. Is that clear, Simeon?"
"I apologize, Channa. Of course you're right. I got careless, all those years with Tell."
"As to the quality of my taste…" she said in a voice even more brittle than before.
Oh please, he thought, for once, just once, shut up and let it go.
"… it's none of your business." She glared at him. "Given your own preference for interior decoration," she said indicating his sword and dagger collection, "I'd say you have titanium gall to make snarky remarks about mine."
"But I like it. I said I liked it!"
"And what," she continued unheeding, "would someone with such a morbid fascination with humanity's lapses into ritualized slaughter know about romance anyway?"
Simeon was dumbstruck. "I've never… thought of my interest in military history as a 'morbid fascination.' I am genuinely fascinated by strategy and military tactics. But to call it morbid, well, romance and morbidity have a long and interesting relationship."
She sighed with exasperation. "Let's just say that while both can be morbid, romance and militarism make uncomfortable…" and she winced "… bedfellows."
"Channa, some of the most romantic people in history have been military personnel. Doesn't the very word 'warrior' conjure up romantic images?"
She shook her head discouragingly. "Not to me!"
"Not even 'knights in shining armor?' "
She groaned. "Look, Simeon, it's late and I'm tired. Let's just say that I don't like my privacy invaded at any time, by anyone." Her lips curled in a slight rueful grin. "But I think I overreacted a tad. Especially when you made fun of my decor."