“They probably could,” I said. “They’re smart.” I turned around to see that Orisa was frowning. “Is something wrong?” Maybe she didn’t like mollusks.
“Not at all,” she said. “It’s just a little sad.”
“No, they like it here,” I said. “They even know our names. Watch.” I tapped the tank next to Nob and it burped a bubble the size of my fingernail that rose through the syrupy water and burst at the top of the tank, releasing a musky chocolate scent.
“Smell that?” I said. “That means ‘Joj.’”
“Actually,” said Qory, “it means, ‘Hello, Joj.’”
But Orisa was done with them; she’d already moved on to Qory’s bedroom. “Is that a new painting, Qory?” she called. “Oils, I’m impressed.”
We settled into our watch schedules and the new routine. I still had breakfast with Qory before my watch. Orisa and I did lunch most days. We all ate dinner together. But the group stories were not going well. At first I thought it was because Orisa didn’t care about the plots. She wasn’t paying attention to where we were in the story and kept breaking character. She’d either get too serious in the sitcoms or turn silly at dramatic moment or else she’d object to details in the historical re-creations. But after a week of false starts I realized she was sabotaging.
“Why don’t you take over?” I challenged her. “Pick a new story.”
The women had been remaking one of the modules into a lounge. Each of us lay on divans that Orisa had created. Qory had donated two of her paintings and a frangipani tree in a pot. Jenny and Pevita from my army waited in the corner for a chance to perform; I’d invented some new toss-up steps.
“No.” Orisa sat up. “I never want to plan another escape from an imaginary prison, and you can keep your clueless bosses. I’m my own boss.” She swung her legs around and faced me. “We could just talk, you know. You ordered us to get to know each other, Captain.”
“Grace wants us in story together,” I said. “For socialization. Builds solidarity.”
“Does she?” Orisa said. “You’re sure about that?”
I expected Qory to take my side, but instead she deserted to Orisa. “Some crews need stories to get along,” she said. “But we seem to be doing all right without them.”
I rolled over and glared at her.
“For now.” Qory tried to look innocent.
“Grace?” I said. “Tell them.”
“Conversation is an acceptable substitute,” she said, “as long as it’s productive.”
That stopped me. Productive?
“For example,” Grace continued, “Orisa could tell us what’s she’s been writing.”
This was Orisa’s big secret. We’d tried several times to pry it loose, but she wouldn’t let go.
“No thanks.” She remained obstinate. “That’s private.”
“Why?” Now Qory propped herself up on an elbow.
“Because nobody ever understands. So would you please stop asking?”
I waited. Clouds drifted across the sky that Grace displayed on the ceiling. The frangipani flowers breathed their soft, soapy fragrance into the silence.
“Okay, then,” I said at last, “maybe another go at the roommates story?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
I was glad Qory didn’t call Orisa out for language. This was the most upset she’d been since she’d arrived.
“I tried this on Mercy, but they didn’t get it.” Orisa kicked at the deck. “And then they wouldn’t stop talking to me about not getting it.”
“We’ll be good,” Qory said.
“Okay.” She hesitated. “Okay, I’m writing a novel.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’ve written eight novels.”
“A novel.” I remembered novels from a story about how virtuality got invented. “That’s a story that’s just words? That doesn’t change?”
“See!” She turned on Qory, arms flung wide.
Qory let the storm pass. “Can we read it?”
“Does he even know how?” Was Orisa sneering at me?
Qory give a quick shake of her head.
I pretended not to notice them. “I can read.” Which was true, although I never did.
“What’s it about?” Qory asked.
“It’s a murder mystery,” said Orisa.
“Set on old, Old Earth,” Grace said. “I like it so far.”
I expected Grace’s snooping would set Orisa off again, but the compliment seemed to mollify her. I was irked. “I thought you said it was private. How come Grace gets to read it?”
“You’re all part of the infosphere,” said Grace.
“Yes, we’re all just happy little data points,” said Orisa.
“You could read it to us,” Qory jumped in, sensing we were losing an opportunity.
Which was what happened. We lay back on our divans as if we were going into story and Grace displayed the text on the ceiling. All those words made my head spin, so I closed my eyes.
“Just a paragraph or two,” Orisa said, “and then you’ve had your fun and we forget about this, okay? And hold all comments, thank you very much.”
I noticed her voice changing as she read; it suggested another, more mysterious Orisa, one whom I might never meet. “The living room,” she read, “was a hodgepodge of the old, the new, the pricey, and the garish. The four-door oak sideboard against the far wall and the elegant teak coffee table on the bright Peruvian rug…”
“Wait,” I said. “What’s Peruvian?”
“It’s historical.” Qory shushed me. “Just listen.”
“… were from before the war. The couch and matching loveseat were so new that the cherry microfiber upholstery still had a gloss. A couple of paintings hung on the walls, blurry impressions of fruit bowls and bridges. Photos in matched silver frames marched across the sideboard. The cop and I settled on the couch. My client hovered anxiously before falling back onto the loveseat. The last few days had aged her a decade. A solid woman with too much face and not enough chin, she seemed to be shrinking into herself. Her eyes slid from one to another of us and then to the suitcase in the hall. She didn’t want to be here, probably didn’t want to be anywhere. She was wearing a lifeless blue pantsuit, a collared white blouse, and sensible black flats. Ready for another day at the office—except it was nine thirty on the worst night of her life.”
Orisa paused and I opened my eyes. There were more words on the ceiling, but Orisa was finished. Qory started clapping. “More! Read more for us!”
“Some other time.”
I hated the way her bold reading voice shrank to a mutter. I wanted to encourage her too. “That was amazing,” I said. “Like I was there, like a story, except I was still me.”
Orisa smiled and shook her head.
“But what’s a pantsuit?”
“You figure that stuff out from context,” said Qory. “Some kind of clothing, like a jiffy. And next time, no interruptions, okay?”
Almost two weeks passed before we could convince Orisa that there should be a next time.
The three planets in the Goldilocks Zone of the Kenstraw system were kind of a waste. All were lifeless disappointments. Kenstraw B was a Chthonian, a gas giant that had drifted too close to the red dwarf and had lost its atmosphere, leaving only a rocky core. Kenstraw A was tidally locked to its star. Grace had hoped to find life in the twilight zone between the hot and cold faces, but long-range scanning suggested a probability too low for a diversion to see for sure. We were finishing our flyby of Kenstraw C as my watch was ending. Orisa arrived to relieve me as Grace was still processing the data. In the days before we reached the inner planets, Grace had been enthusiastic about the encounters, but now a monotone of chagrin crept into her conversation as she highlighted entries on the command center’s screen.