The familiarity of our tag lines calmed everyone down. Our backstory in this sitcom was that Mom and Dad were cooks at The Arches, a grand hotel back on Old Earth before the wormholes. Qory was training to be a waitress; I washed dishes. This particular story had lots of historical detail, like money and bicycles and gods and toilets and hats and libraries filled with stories that never changed. But it wasn’t just about all the old boring information. We had plenty of fun bouncing off the other characters. In addition to the never-ending stream of oddball guests, many of them famous dead people, there was the hotel manager, Mr. Landrinar, who couldn’t find his way out of a storage locker, and the owner, spooky Miss Brontë, who never left her penthouse.
Dad had calmed down, but I couldn’t dredge much fun out of the scene so I ate like I was on deadline.
“He said at lunch that he was too hot.” Qory served Dad a sweet rice cake for dessert, trying to keep him engaged. “So I promised him I’d personally turn the air conditioning up.”
I hadn’t been following their conversation. “Who’s this?”
“William Randolph Hearst,” she said. “The guy who puts ketchup on everything. Then maybe half an hour later, I was clearing the entrées and he complained that the dining room was too cold. Would I please get a grown-up to take care of it this time? I thought that was pretty rude so I told him that I’d ask Mr. Noman, our air conditioning engineer, to turn it down right away.”
“Who’s Mr. Noman?” Dad was still cloudy. “And there is no AC in the dining… oh.” He patted her hand and smiled. “No man. Good one, sweetheart.”
Just then Mr. Landrinar fluttered into our apartment in a classic tizzy. “Joan of Arc is coming. To us. Here at The Arches.”
Mr. Landrinar was a plump man with pale skin who was moist and a little nervous. He was wearing his tuxedo, ready to greet his dinner guests, even though first seating wasn’t for a couple of hours.
“Joan of Arc?” I said.
“She’s French,” said Qory.
“Which means she’ll be expecting la belle cuisine française.” Mr. Landrinar fixed Mom with an accusing stare, as if this new guest were her fault. “Pâté and crepes and fondue and where am I going to get escargots?” He plopped into an empty seat at our kitchen table and glanced at his watch. “The doors open for dinner in two hours. Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?” He snatched one of our cloth napkins. “We’re talking about Joan of Arc, people.” But instead of spreading the napkin on his lap, he began to twist it.
“Different regions of France eat different dishes,” said Mom.
“She’s from Lorraine,” Qory said.
“So quiche,” said Dad. “Or else pork stew, maybe rum cakes for dessert.”
“I can see that you’re absolutely not prepared for this crisis.” Mr. Landrinar poached a rice cake from our plate and stood. “I want you two in the main kitchen this minute. We’ll go over tonight’s menu.”
I was sure Dad would tell him to stuff it.
“Good idea,” said Mom. “I have a few ideas I’ve been wanting to try.” She rose and boosted Dad to his feet.
Mr. Landrinar did a cross between a shrug and a squirm of pleasure, and marched out of our apartment, expecting them to follow. Dad hesitated, lost.
“This way, Dree dear.” Mom took his hand and led him out.
Qory watched as I stacked dishes. I thought I should say something about Dad, only I didn’t know what. Then the door popped open and Mom was back.
“Listen, kids, we’re all going to have to pitch in. Your father isn’t one hundred percent. That means we have to be one hundred and ten percent. For him. And for each other.”
“Math, Mom,” I said.
“You know what I mean.” Then she rushed back to gather us into a group hug.
“This family is going to be all right,” she murmured. “Remember that, no matter what happens.”
Qory’s eyes were bright with tears, so I took that as permission to cry too.
Grace gave us a category-five audience awww. It was a tender ending to the story, and our lives together.
Because that was the last time we were all together.
For three days after Mom and Dad were traded to Mercy, Qory and I skipped our stories. We talked. We ate. We played games. We slept, but not well. I cried a little, but only when Qory wasn’t around, because I was embarrassed. Grace told us that Mercy had invited Mom and Dad for a visit, and that they had liked her so much that they had elected to stay. As passengers. Grace’s sister ship had a crew of seven, and now, with Mom and Dad, she had reached her full complement of nineteen passengers. Sensors showed Mercy as a massive necklace of modules big enough to accommodate a swimming pool and two skyball courts, according to Grace. I would’ve liked to visit, but no chance. Grace needed her crew and, at the moment, Qory and I were it.
Which made me very nervous.
I was sad about losing Mom and Dad, but even though this was my first trade since coming to Grace, I’d known it had to happen someday. We were human, after all, resources of the infosphere, pledged to help it grow. But what if they weren’t replaced and all I had for company was a starship’s intelligence and a bot? Grace assured me that she was still negotiating with Mercy for new crew members. She told me that I was not to worry.
But I don’t have to do everything she tells me.
At least she let us take a holiday from standing watch, except that gave Qory and me more time together than we needed.
“Maybe it’ll help Dad to be with different people.” My sister sat crossed-legged on the stool in my workroom and leaned back against the desktop.
“He always said he hated crowds.”
“Nineteen isn’t a crowd,” she said. “At least he won’t have any responsibilities.”
I slithered out of my shirt. “It’s not like he was doing much here.”
“He was trying.”
“He missed half his watches toward the end, and we had to cover.” I wadded my clothes into a ball and stuffed them into the recycler next to my drum set. “And those meals he printed at the end? The sausage cake?”
“The one with the ginger frosting?” She smiled as she ran a finger along the shelf where I kept some of my old bot toys. McDog, the sphinx, a couple of soldiers from my army of dancing warriors. “Dad had peculiar tastes. But that’s what made The Arches funny.”
“To Grace, maybe. Personally, I thought it was going stale.” I knew Grace was listening, even if she wasn’t paying attention. I’d been trying to lure her into a conversation all day. “Do you think maybe he’s giving up?” Crew could leave the starship program whenever they wanted—only they could never come back.
“No way,” said Qory. “He’ll die in space. Just like his brother.”
I supposed that was a comfort. The idea of Dad marooned on some dirty planet with a billion strangers, staring up at the stars and wondering what to do with himself, made me shiver. He’d always said that he’d loved all the starships he’d been on and that they had loved him back. To him, being starship family was more than just a slogan.
Did I love Grace?
“Why did Mom have to go with him?” I pulled on my electromagnetic clingies, and settled on the deck to stretch before my workout.
“Because they’re a pair.” When she nudged my toy McDog, it yipped and rolled over. “Bot and human.” She’d built the little bot for my tenth birthday. “Like you and me.”