“I wonder whatever happened to them?” she asked; she remembered that she had even named her sinopod, though she couldn’t recall the name. Pedar laughed outright.
“Cecelia, you have a genius for getting off the subject. If you really care about sinopods, look it up. My point is that people in the same generation share experiences—know things—that others cannot know directly. Long ago, people who wanted to pretend they weren’t aging tried mingling with those younger—hoping the youth would rub off, I suppose. We don’t have to do that. We can have the best of youth—the healthy bodies—and the best of age—the experience.”
“So you wear rings in your ears.” She hated to admit it—she would not admit it aloud—but Pedar made sense. She remembered her exasperation with Heris as far back as that insane adventure on the island. To waffle around like that, about whether or not she loved Petris—she herself would not have been so baffled, and she had straightened the younger woman out. Heris had been wrong again about Sirkin, and again her own age and experience told. But Heris wasn’t boring. Ronnie, maybe.
“A ring like this—” Pedar tapped his rings, “simply tells us—those who have had multiple rejuvenations—that you have had one, and how many. We choose to stabilize at different ages, so you have to do a little calculation. The commercial version gives about twenty years per treatment, so if you combine the appearance and the number of rings, you can come close to the actual age.” He grinned again, a challenging grin this time. “Or, you can wear no ring and simply pretend to be forty. Talk to other forties, live among them, and become like them. . . .”
“No,” Cecelia said firmly. “I have no intention of pretending to be younger than I am. That’s why I never wanted rejuvenation in the first place.”
“Then wear the ring,” Pedar said. “It will save you a lot of trouble.”
Restlessness, too much energy . . . was it all because she hadn’t had the chance to confront Lorenza directly? She had confronted Berenice directly enough, and that hadn’t satisfied her.
Something bothered her about Pedar’s advice, about Pedar’s complacency. She had deliberately refused to think about the implications of rejuvenation. It complicated things; she wanted to go on with her life and not worry about it. But his attitude suggested that this wouldn’t work, that others would always be assessing her, looking for correspondence or conflict between her visible age and her real self.
Exactly why she hadn’t wanted to do it. Better than being blind or having to use optical implants, certainly. She wanted to be healthy, whole, able to do what she wanted to do. But she didn’t want to waste her time wondering if she was confusing people or what they thought.
And he implied a whole subculture of rejuvenated oldsters, a subculture she hadn’t even noticed. How many serial Rejuvenants were there? She began to wonder, began to think of looking for the telltale rings.
They weren’t always in ears, but once she looked, they were on more people than she had expected. Discreet blue—and-silver enamel rings on fingers, in ears, in noses, occasionally in jewelry but most often attached to the body. She began to suspect that where they were worn signaled something else Pedar hadn’t told her. Certainly when she saw couples wearing them, they were usually in the same site. She wondered if anyone outside the Rejuvenant subculture had caught on, if some of the rings were faked. She had had no idea so many people had been rejuvenated at all, let alone more than once.
Cecelia pulled out her medical file from the Guerni Republic, something she’d stashed in the yacht’s safe without another glance. Sure enough, a little blue—and-silver ring slid out of the packet, and the attached card explained that it contained the medical coding necessary for a rejuvenation technician to correct any imbalance. Odd. Why not just implant a record strip, as was done all the time for people with investigational diseases?
She sat frowning, rolling the ring from one hand to another. Did she want to identify herself to others as one of the subculture? She wished she knew more about it. She disliked even that much concern . . . and yet . . . she couldn’t deny that Pedar was right about the callowness of the young.
Chapter Five
Heris left Cecelia onplanet and went back up to the yacht where, she hoped, she could have ten consecutive minutes in which no one mentioned horses or anything connected with them. She found Sirkin making the same complaint to the rest of the crew about Brun. She herself had had to remind Brun firmly that she was a crewmember, not a rich girl on vacation, and order her back to the ship.
“All she talks about is horses. And she knows a lot of other things, but from the minute she unpacked Lady Cecelia’s saddle, everything else went out of her mind.”
“Everything?” Meharry asked.
Sirkin reddened. “Well . . . you know what I mean.”
Heris cleared her throat and they all straightened. “Any messages?” she asked.
“Yes, Captain.” Meharry could be formal when she chose. “All disclaimed urgency when we offered to transfer them down to your hotel, but you do have a stack.”
“I’ll get back to work then. I have no idea how long Lady Cecelia will stay—the Trials are over, but she’s meeting old friends. However, we should be prepared to depart in a day or so.” She glanced around. “Where is Brun?”
“Probably watching Trials cubes,” Sirkin said. “Again.” Everyone laughed, including Heris.
“How’s the installation coming?” She had finally decided to let Koutsoudas install his pet equipment on their own scans, with Oblo to ensure that nothing went wrong.
“It’s done, Captain.” Koutsoudas looked at Oblo, and Oblo looked back; Heris recognized the expression from years in the Fleet.
“And just what have you gentlemen been up to with it? Looking into the yachts of the rich and famous?”
“Something like that,” Oblo said, scratching his head. “But nothing too . . . damaging. They all seem to be down on the planet playing with horses.”
In her office, she found most of the messages to be routine queries, including some from travel agents who wondered when she would be free for bookings. She hadn’t thought of having any client but Lady Cecelia—but if Cecelia stayed here too long, she’d have to find another charter. And that meant hiring service staff as well . . . she felt her shoulders tensing. She hated the thought of dealing with service staff; she was a commander, not a . . . whatever you called it.
She had gone through the messages in order of time, the usual way, so the one headed “Serrano Family: request meeting” came last. It had arrived days ago, but she saw by the comments that whoever it was had refused several offers to forward the message. She stared at it, breathing carefully: in, out. Which of her many relatives could it be? And why? Only one way to find out; she posted a message to the station address and waited for the response. It came almost at once: request for meeting, and a suggested location, the dock outside the yacht’s access tube.
The dark compact form in uniform looked vaguely familiar. Heris paused, suddenly wary. Upright, as only the military youth were, and ensign’s insignia. Who? Then the young man turned and met her eyes; she felt that look as a blow to the gut. “Barin!”
“Captain Serrano.” His formality steadied her. Her own distant cousin, and he gave her her title.
“What is it?” she asked then. “Would you prefer to talk in my quarters?”
“If—if you don’t mind.” He waited for her answer in that contained, measured posture she knew so well. He would wait for a day if she chose to make him.
“Come along, then.” She led the way; her neck itched with his gaze on it. She felt vulnerable, as she had not for a long time. He could kill her easily, be gone before anyone knew . . . no, that was ridiculous. Why would he?