A Circle of Celebrations: The Complete Edition (15 page)

“And why is Jackson blowing a gasket?” Holcomb murmured, watching the quartermaster snarling at the chief engineer.

“It’s Commander Campbell, sir,” Thompson said, lowering her voice. “He thinks the cornucopia is a more appropriate symbol of the event than a turkey. After all, it’s the symbol of abundance, and we aren’t going to find any turkeys on Gamma Four that we don’t bring there ourselves. He wants
all
of them like that.”

“Well, there’s plenty of room in them for the stuffing,” Holcomb said, “but you’re right. Everyone else is going to be expecting the ordinary turkey shape.”

“That’s what I said!” Jackson exclaimed, turning toward him. “You see?”

“Well, I can’t help it!” Campbell said. “We can’t reshape them now!”

Holcomb stepped between Jackson and Campbell.

“They ought to look like turkeys!” Jackson insisted, glaring up at him.

“These are perfectly fine for serving,” Campbell insisted.

Wincing, Holcomb held up his hands. He turned to Jackson. “I know.” He turned to Campbell. “No. We’re doing it the way it’s been done on Earth for four hundred years. Problem solved?” He smiled at both of them. “Good. Because I need to get up to the bridge.”

Campbell scowled at him. “Your favoritism doesn’t become you, captain.”

“It’s not just favoritism, Commander. I was just thinking that one day I hope to have a lot to be grateful for, and one way I mean to get there is by working for the good of the many over the good of the few. You’re outnumbered, and I am just casting the deciding vote. Is your staff ready for its part of the feast?”

“Not yet,” Campbell said, sulkily.

“Then, I strongly suggest you get out of Ms. Jackson’s kitchen. I have other crises to attend to. By the way, Lieutenant Thompson,” he said, looking straight over the frowning Campbell’s head, “good-looking pies.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“I expect to see you up on the bridge in about, oh, ten minutes. We’re about to enter into our new system. I know you wouldn’t want to miss a moment.”

“Yes, sir!” Thompson rushed to the sink and started washing her hands.

“Thank you,” Betty Jackson said in a low voice, following Holcomb out the door. He pulled her arm through his and squeezed her hand. “I didn’t mean to start a holy war over turkey and stuffing. My tongue runs away with me, I have to admit.”

“Don’t mention it,” Holcomb said. “I have to say I will be glad when all this is over. It’s almost more trouble than having everyone whispering behind my back.”

“A lot of that was my fault,” Jackson said. “I am sorry. I never meant to undermine your authority. I was just trying to do my job.”

“Which you did very well,” Holcomb said, sincerely. “Just get the rest of those turkeys into a recognizable shape. I’m a leg man myself.”

“Good!” she said, smiling sweetly, eyeing him up and down until he could feel her gaze brush his bare skin. “I will make sure there are lots of drumsticks. I owe you a lot for your support, Captain. Thank you.”

“Call me Dan,” Holcomb said, feeling his throat constrict like a shy teenager’s. If he’d been any closer to puberty his name would have come out as a squeak. Her long lashes flickered flirtatiously.

“I’m Betty, Dan. You know, in my personal luggage I brought along some very good wine. When all this is over, let’s go back to my quarters and crack open a bottle. We’ll need it by the time this feast comes off.” She looked up at him, her lovely eyes laughing. Without quite thinking about it, Holcomb bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek. She turned her head so their lips met. Hers were so warm. Holcomb’s skin suddenly felt prickly-sensitive all over, his mouth the most sensitive of all. When he drew back from the kiss, he felt his heart pounding in his chest like one of the drive engines.

“Betty Jackson, will you marry me?” he said, almost breathlessly.

She grinned. “After
my
term as governor.” He grinned back. She slipped through the door of the Biochem lab and stood with one hand on each side of the frame. The fabric of her blue shipsuit strained across her breasts, and Holcomb found himself staring. “Say, does that fancy chair of yours recline all the way?”

“All the way,” Holcomb said, letting each word drop as slowly as honey, raising his eyes to hers. The door of the galley slid shut. It cut off the sight of her wicked grin. He whistled all the way up to the bridge.

O O O

On the day of the feast, Holcomb felt every eye on him as he appeared in the door of the rec hall. He wore his best dress uniform, pure white with blue piping and gold flashes on shoulders and wrists. Snapping a formal salute to the assemblage, he took off his hat and entered. Commander Campbell himself, crisp and neat in his dress whites, came over to usher the captain to the head of a twenty-meter table set with a gorgeous cascading arrangement of tan and orange leaves. A papier-mâché pumpkin hung overhead, streaming with vines and green leaves that festooned the ceiling like streamers. Colwabe’s people had done a fabulous job. Holcomb felt the décor matched the momentous but joyous nature of the occasion. Electric candles glistened on the sideboard among decorations made of wood, yarn, clay, cloth, anything that people had that they wanted to donate to the effort. Hundreds of people had participated to make this feast a success. They
wanted
to belong to a community. All they needed was a cause to rally behind, and they would cooperate beyond anyone’s wildest dream. He, and they, had relearned that fact over the last few days.

The turkeys, now coated in a dark, golden-brown glaze that exactly resembled roasted skin were brought out on trays decorated with leaves, and bedecked with jewel-like yams and carrots that looked almost good enough to be real. He chalked up mental kudos to Lieutenant Riga and his hobby, and the determination of the Biochem techs to achieve verisimilitude. The green beans could have been plucked off a vine that morning, instead of being extruded through a plate like twin-lead wire. The bowls of corn gave off a sweet, unmistakable aroma. Everyone had really pulled together for this feast, more than he ever dreamed possible.

The beaming faces meeting Holcomb’s gaze made his heart swell with pride in his chest. These were wonderful people. In spite of the years of work he knew were ahead, the colony couldn’t be anything but a success with such willing hands and minds like these working together to make it happen. He was proud to be their captain, soon their governor, and one day—he looked across at Betty Jackson, sitting at the opposite end of the table—their peer.

Very ceremoniously, Campbell dished onto his plate a teaspoonful of dark meat, his piece of the real turkey. To Holcomb, it meant more than a tie to the ancient celebration; it was the result of his first successful act as captain. Betty held up a glass to him with her eyebrows raised, offering him the victory and reminding him of her promise, for later. Holcomb smiled back, clasped his hands together and bowed his head over his plate. The entire room fell silent.

“For what we are about to receive,” he said, “may we be
truly
thankful.”

And he heard her voice loud and clear, even from the other end of a twenty meter table. “Amen.”

Holcomb waited in delightful anticipation as Campbell’s people came around to carve the soy turkeys into slices, accompanying each plateful with a deferential mutter describing the symbolism of every course on the plate. Each represented the past and the future in one. Holcomb was satisfied.

The future was going to be fun.

***

Christmas

The Revenge of Chatty Cathy

“Her name’s Chatty Cathy,” Perinda’s mother, Cherille, told her, handing her the big, brown paper bag. “I wanted one just exactly like her when I was a little girl like you are now. You ought to be lucky you have her.”

Perinda stuck out her lip, knowing she didn’t look much like a fully-grown up seven-year-old at the moment. She crossed her arms and sat back in the worn rear seat of the ancient, gold Buick. She had had to sit out in the cold on this miserable, dim day, while her mother went in without her, and she didn’t get to choose her own birthday present. Having an early December birthday was the pits. All the good stuff was bought already for other children’s Christmas presents.

“I don’t want an old white doll with brown hair from some resale store. I want a Bratz doll with maybe a motorcycle and an iPod. And some outfits.”

“Well, I want the moon,” Cherille said, climbing into the driver’s seat and looking back over her shoulder. “We’re both just about as likely to get what we want. I wish I could shop in Bloomingdale’s for you, but we can’t afford it. Baby, you have just got to learn how to be happy with what you’ve got. Take it or I’ll take it back. You decide.”

“Well …”

The girl studied the box in her arms. The doll was kind of pretty. Her hair was the color of chocolate. She liked chocolate. And the eyes were blue, really pretty, with long eyelashes. When she tilted the big doll backwards, the eyes closed. That was kind of cool. Bratz dolls’ eyes didn’t close. They were painted on. Still, this doll had on the oldest, most moldiest of outfits. It was a red dress with a petticoat, like Perinda wore to church on Sunday. But Chatty Cathy had an interesting face. It wasn’t too pretty, and the big blue eyes looked like they had some brains behind them. But what was Perinda thinking? It was just a doll. Dolls were plastic. They didn’t have brains.

“It’s nice.” She knew she sounded half-hearted, but it was hard to make her expectations climb down to reality. The doll looked up at her hopefully.

“Try the pull-string,” Cherille said.

Perinda hooked her finger into the plastic loop and pulled it. It drew a string out of Chatty Cathy’s back about a foot. When Perinda let it go, a high-pitched voice cooed.

“I love you.”

“See?” Cherille beamed. “Isn’t that cute?”

Perinda would have had her fingers cut off with a plastic picnic knife than agreed with her mother out loud, but she did think it was kind of cute. “I guess.” She tried the string again.

“Will you play with me?”

“Go on, honey, take her out of the package.”

Reluctantly, the girl pulled open the flap on top of the box and eased out the long card out to which Chatty Cathy was attached with plastic bands. She undid the ties in the back of the cardboard. The doll slid down so she was sitting in Perinda’s lap. Unwittingly, the girl’s arms slid around her and held her tightly. It felt right to hug the doll. She felt a charge like electricity, like she’d been waiting a long time to find something this special. She hugged her again, deeply content. Chatty Cathy’s big blue eyes blinked up at her.

“You’re my best friend,” Chatty Cathy said. And she meant it. How long had she been waiting on that dusty shelf, hoping for a real live girl to be friends with her? Years and years had come and gone. Once in a while the man in the shop had taken her down to be examined by various shoppers in search of a birthday or Christmas present. They had pulled her string and listened to her talk. Each and every one had smiled politely and turned away. The man had put her back on the high shelf, behind the fading teddy bears and the plastic Fisher-Price train. After many years, a new manager lowered her price. That did it. This was the moment she had hoped for since the day she had been placed in her box back at the factory. She had been ready to be a friend and confidant. Her miniature record player was in pristine shape. Her dress was neatly pressed, her hair coiffed, and the bloom on her cheeks and lips just the right shade of pink to look like a healthy human girl. She tweaked her smile to be just a little brighter, and saw an answering expression from Perinda. This was the right girl. She was very special. They were going to be good friends, now and forever. She’d do anything to make Perinda happy.

“Isn’t that nice?” Cherille asked, as she pulled away from the curb. “Happy birthday, honey.”

“Thank you, mama,” Chatty Cathy said, a little bumpily.

“Thank you, mama,” Perinda echoed. She lifted her hand to pull the string again, then dropped it. It seemed as though the doll talked by itself. That was kind of awesome.

“My name is Cathy. What’s yours?”

“I’m Perinda,” the girl said, before she realized she was talking with a doll.

“That’s pretty. You’re pretty,” the squeaky voice said.

Perinda pulled at one of her multiple braids self-consciously. “No, I’m not.”

“Brown eyes are beautiful.”

“Well, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. You have a nice nose, too.”

“It turns up too much.”

“Noses should turn up.”

Perinda laughed.

“Honey, it sounds like you like your Chatty Cathy.”

“She says a lot of things,” Perinda said, a little more enthusiastically. “I didn’t know they talked so much.”

“Where do we live? Are we going there now?”

Cherille’s eyes in the mirror looked doubtful. “I never heard of them saying
that
before.”

“I’m sorry,” Chatty Cathy said, in a doleful voice. “I don’t mean to be nosy.”

“It’s okay,” Perinda said, cradling the doll. It made her feel warm and happy to hug her. “Mama, you hurt her feelings.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to,” Cherille said, amused. “I’m sorry, Chatty Cathy.”

“I’m happy. Are you happy?”

Perinda thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, I guess. Yeah.”

Cherille relaxed in her seat. She had known that her daughter was going to be a little disappointed at getting yet another birthday present from the resale shop, but she seemed to be cheering up. Chatty Cathy was a big success. Who’d have known it had such a sophisticated talk-box for such an old toy? No wonder it had been so expensive back in the 70s. It must use a prototype of artificial intelligence. It was still pretty costly, even in the resale shop. But it was worth every penny to see her daughter’s smile as she talked with the doll on her lap. She hadn’t been smiling much lately. Their neighborhood had gotten dangerous enough over the last few months that mothers were keeping their kids upstairs in their apartments after school instead of letting them loose in the playground. Perinda, the only one in her grade in their building, had been very lonesome lately. Sounded like she had a new friend, even if it was a toy.

“How old are you?” Chatty Cathy wanted to know.

“I’m seven. Tomorrow.”

“Happy birthday!”

“Well, not yet,” Perinda said, sheepishly. “Tomorrow.”

“I’ll say it again tomorrow. I promise. I love you.”

“Well, I love you, too,” Perinda replied. She hugged the doll. It felt as if the doll hugged back. Even if it was just her imagination, it felt nice.

Cherille was so engaged by the conversation going on in the back seat that she wasn’t paying a lot of attention to traffic. A car horn honking brought her back to reality. She jammed on the brakes, and ground to a halt just inches from the fender of a fancy dark blue BMW, driven by a white man in a North Face jacket. Cherille tried to look apologetic. He gave her the finger, and zoomed through the intersection just before the light changed. She shook her head and took a right into the grocery store parking lot.

There were no spaces. She crept out and around to the right again, into the alley, where sometimes there was room to park illegally between the dumpsters. It was nearly dark, but she managed to get the car in underneath a fire escape without scraping anything.

“Now, I’m just going to get some milk and some cereal,” Cherille said, turning around to Perinda. “You two stay here and behave yourselves. All right?” She shoved open the door with her elbow.

That was when she felt the cold ring of a gun’s barrel touch her temple. She slewed her eyes leftward to the cold, dark eyes of the man holding it. He wore a leather jacket over a filthy green hooded sweatshirt. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Cherille’s heart pounded, almost choking her.

“You get out right now, and nothing’s gonna happen to ya,” he said.

Another man stepped out of the shadows. About thirty years of age, he had pouches beneath his hazel eyes that made him look angry. Cherille tried to drag her purse out unobtrusively with her.

“Leave it!”

Cherille pointed, careful not to move her head. The round barrel of the gun was ice-cold against her skin. “But I’ve got to get …”

“Move your ass out! Now!”

“You got to let me get my …” The men grabbed her by the arms. They yanked her away from the car and threw her into the heaps of snow plowed up around the Dumpster. Before she could scramble up, the men leaped into the car and roared away down the alley.

Heedless of the cold and wet, Cherille crawled, then ran after her disappearing car. “My baby! Come back with my baby!”

O O O

The two men cackled and exchanged high hand-slaps. “That was too easy!” the hazel-eyed man said. “You dog, Riff! We sell this, and we can be floatin’.”

The youth in the hoodie grinned and leaned over the steering wheel. He aimed the old Buick’s headlights straight at an old woman with a cane who was trying to cross the street at a stop sign. Her face went slack with alarm, and she hobbled as fast as she could out of their way. To their glee, she slipped in the gutter and went down on her knees. “You got the gun, you got the world, Paulie. Hey, any money in that purse?”

Paulie turned out the cheap leather bag. “About three dollars. Crap.”

“Tough luck. We got the car anyhow.”

They zipped through the narrow streets, cutting down alleys and under overpasses. The chop-shop that didn’t ask questions was about five miles to the south. With the proceeds from even an elderly car, the two could afford enough crack to keep them high for a few days. The fix they’d gotten the day before was wearing off. Paulie was starting to feel itchy and tense. He needed more, and soon.

They screeched to a halt at a stop sign facing an oncoming patrol car, and sat virtuously waiting for it to cross ahead of them.

“You want me to wave to the cop?” Riff asked.

“Stop it, dammit,” Paulie said, scratching his ribs uncomfortably.

As soon as the police car was safely past, Riff stomped on the accelerator and flattened them against the seats. “Whee-hew!”

The men went on congratulating themselves on a successful carjacking, and how easy it was to scare ordinary people into giving up their possessions.

“Hey, I don’t care what people got, as long as when I want it, I get it, and they don’t have it no longer,” Riff said.

A tiny voice interrupted them. “I want my mommy.”

Riff jammed his foot down on the brake, bringing the Buick to a halt mid-block, causing a delivery van to roll within inches of the rear bumper. The van laid on its horn. Riff automatically thrust his middle finger up out of the window. He turned to look into the darkened rear seat. “What the hell is that?”

Paulie gawked. “It’s a kid. A girl.”

The little girl trembled, her big brown eyes huge with fear. She pushed herself as far back into the seat as she could. The men glared at her. She managed to get out another sentence. “I want … my mommy.”

“Oh,
shit
!” Paulie said.

“We gotta get rid of her,” Riff said. He hit the gas again, and turned a few corners, until they were in a street with several derelict houses with overgrown yards. “There.” He pointed to an empty lot on the right, where the acid glare from the streetlights left a deep shadow. “Push her out.”

“What?”

“Right there. Do it!”

Paulie couldn’t think of a better solution to the problem of compounding kidnapping on top of carjacking. As soon as the Buick slid into the curb, he sprang out, yanked open the back door, and pulled the protesting girl out by one arm. He flung her away from him. She landed in the gray-stained snow and rolled over and over. He jumped back in, and Riff peeled away. He glanced behind him. The kid just lay there where she fell, staring after them with her big, brown eyes. She looked forlorn and lost, covered with the dirty snow. Paulie felt bad, but he didn’t want no hassles with no kid.

“All right,” Riff said, clutching his forehead with one hand. The withdrawal was starting to hit him, too. “That is handled. We gotta get to Buzzy’s. I need my fix.”

“That was
mean
.”

“Shut up.” Riff screeched to a halt again. “Dammit, is there another kid in this car?”

Paulie looked in the back seat. “Yeah,” he said, grabbing it by the arm. “No, it’s a doll. A new doll. Box is right in the corner.”

“Bro, toss it out the door after the kid!”

Paulie retrieved the box and inspected it. “No, man, this one’s worth money! It’s a Chatty Cathy doll. It’s vintage. If it’s mint, it can be worth bucks. There’s a collector store up on the north side. We can go and score some real money for this.”

Riff stared at him. “What, you kidding?”

Paulie was serious. He held the little figure up for his friend’s inspection. “Nah, man. I saw it on TV, doll once sold for twenty gees on eBay. I could use some of that.”

Riff studied the doll with distaste. “Man up north ain’t gonna give us no twenty gees.”

“Yeah, but he’ll give us what he got. It’s new. Kid didn’t have a chance to mess it up. Dumb kid, didn’t know what kind of a gold mine she was sittin’ on.”

“That’s my mama you’re talking about,” Cathy said, indignantly.

The two men looked at one another. “Did you pull that doll’s string?”

“Hell, no.”

“Take me back to my mama.”

“Aw, come on!” Riff groaned. “That bull make my head ache. Tear her voice box out.”

“No!” Paulie said, throwing a protective hand over the doll’s body. “It could ruin her value. We gotta keep her intact until we get to the store.”