Damia (22 page)

“I’d really rather know asap,” Jeff said with gentle insistence. “I can’t think why,” and he grinned, “but you’re very important to me.” He draped an arm about her shoulders and peered down at her half-hidden face.

She gave him an long enigmatic look out of the corner of her eye. “I could . . .” she hesitated, “take a leave of absence from the Station!” Before he recovered from his surprise, she added, “Afra could take over . . . with you to give him a hand with the live and heavy stuff.”

The suggestion bowled Jeff over. Sympathetically he drew her against him as he mulled it over, digesting the notion—and also the Rowan’s reason for making such a drastic proposal. He knew how important the Callisto post was to her. And, in the normal way of things, she ran it faultlessly. He’d seen Reidinger’s private notes about her management. The Altairian freighter episode was unique in every way. He could feel through her that he had delayed an answer long enough to cause her to fret.

“You could. You’re entitled to leave,” and he stroked her hair, grinning. “None of us Primes take even a quarter of the leave we’re allowed. I could transfer Saggoner and Torshan here . . .” and with the index finger of his free hand, he prodded the bedspread, miming the moves he would have to make. Then he frowned. “Of course they’ve become indispensable to Altair, and that system hasn’t got DEW yet . . . Gollee could be spared to assist Afra here . . .” His voice dropped out while he considered the ramifications. Then he made eye contact with the Rowan and tightened his arm about her. “There’s another possible solution. Mother!”

The Rowan poked at him in disgust, physically and mentally, because he was concealing something. “Your mother can’t run a Tower.”

“No,” and Jeff’s grin was wide if the sense of him was tentative, almost wary, “but she sure raises kids well.”

“After all she’s
had
to raise? You’d saddle her with Damia?”

“And Jeran and Cera,” and Jeff was dead serious now. “If Damia has learned to ’port, that pair are too competitive not to mimic their kid sister’s trick.”

The Rowan’s expression mirrored the fearful tension Jeff could feel in mind and body. “We’re so far from Deneb . . .” the Rowan began defensively. Abruptly she gave a sharp poke in the diaphragm that made him grunt: her look altered as she jabbed him again, harder. “You devious, unrepentant dork! That was all pretense about shifting T-ratings. You had this in mind all along! You’re no better than Reidinger, now you’re Earth Prime. The Callisto Station runs best through me . . . even when I’m spewing my guts with morning sickness.”

Jeff coughed delicately. “Actually, the highest efficiencies and throughput were achieved when
I
was Prime.” The Rowan glared at him, words unneeded. Jeff shrugged. “Well, you could run Earth!”

“Jeff!” she growled, launching herself on top of him. The Rowan broke off the ensuing play fight with a groan. She pushed herself away from him.

“Are you okay?” Jeff asked solicitously, for her complexion had turned an odd gray.

The Rowan nodded raggedly. “Uh, our little one decided to join in the fun.”

“I’m calling Elizara,” Jeff said in tones that brooked no argument. “And the children are going to Deneb.” When the Rowan started to protest, he held up a hand. “This pregnancy is not proceeding normally and I won’t risk losing you.”

Elizara arrived so promptly that, despite the Rowan’s protestations that Jeff was being overprotective, she was alarmed. Elizara immediately reassured both parents that the child was not under any stress.

“You are,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at the Rowan. “I’ve checked, and double-checked, the lab reports of your latest tests. You have developed what’s known as gestational diabetes, Rowan.”

“Diabetes?” Jeff sat down heavily on the bed beside his
wife, drawing her into his arms as if his protection would mitigate the illness.

“It’s not uncommon in pregnancies, though it usually manifests itself in the first or second. The condition passes when the baby is born.” She was readying a hypo-spray as she spoke. “This injection should balance your glucose levels.”

“But I’ve always been so healthy. I’ve had three easy pregnancies . . .” The Rowan was stunned.

Elizara nodded. “So you have. This time you’re not. You will have to watch your diet and your workload. Stress must be reduced or you can do yourself, and the child, serious harm.” She turned to Jeff. “I know that Callisto Station is a vital link in the FT&T network, but I have to insist that the Rowan’s schedule be lightened.”

“As of right now,” Jeff said, and he ’pathed through the restriction to Afra and Brian Ackerman.

Elizara caught and held the Rowan’s gaze. “Right now, Rowan?”

She nodded, no longer able to deny the consuming weariness she had struggled to ignore. She lay back on the pillows and wanted to weep. “Oh, Jeff. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry? What for?” Jeff enfolded her in his arms, alarmed to see tears streaming down her face. “Not your fault, luv, that your body’s done gone and let you down. Mind you, there’re not many pregnant women who could hold a megaton freighter in sheer determination not to let it drop forever out of sight. Not to mention all the other minor little crises you seem to deal with every day. Then, too,” and his grin turned to sheer mischief as he realized that sympathy was not helping, “if you’d allowed me to produce this embryo in the time-honored fashion . . .” He cocked his head, hoping that he’d taken just the right teasing note with her.

She stopped crying and glared at him. “You can’t blame the whole thing on
me!
Sperm’s sperm no matter how I acquired it.” Then she caught his expression and began to giggle. “Oh, all right. I did do this on my own and I’m paying for it! And it is my fault. But you wouldn’t help
me. Damia is such a caring child. Look how she treats Rascal and the Coonies . . .”

“Paints them pretty colors . . .”

“But she cleaned them up. She just wants what Jeran and Cera already have: a sibling to care for and play with.”

“And you’re having your own way, and now we’ll take over,” he said, squeezing her affectionately and rubbing his cheek against hers. “But we’ll get you sorted out. We’ll make sure that you get lots of rest, all the best exercise”—he sniggered suggestively—“and no hassles.”

“The children?” she asked almost fearfully, though she “felt” that he had also taken that decision from her.

“Are going to Deneb. I’ve already talked with Mother and she’s got some ideas that ought to solve her problems and our problems. And,” he paused significantly, pulling back enough to catch her eyes with his, “you’ll agree to give yourself a long break before you ask me—politely and in the normal fashion—for another baby.” He eyed her sternly.

“Oh, I will!” the Rowan replied, earnestly wide-eyed. “I will!”

*   *   *

Afra caught up with Jeff Raven. Brian Ackerman was right behind him. “She
will
be all right, won’t she?”

“Elizara told you everything?” Jeff asked, allowing Afra to “see” the concern he had kept from the Rowan. “She must keep her metabolism balanced. Elizara had a private word with me before she went back to her Clinic. Rowan did not wait long enough between pregnancies to get her metabolism back to normal. If we keep her occupied with a decent work load, less than she does normally but enough to keep her pride intact, and if we keep her emotions in check—you know better than I, perhaps, how unstable her emotions have been in this pregnancy . . .” He grinned as Afra rolled his eyes expressively and Brian exhaled a long and hard-used sigh. “. . . then she should be fine.”

“What’ll happen next time?” Ackerman asked skeptically.

Jeff nodded. “Elizara has hopes. Nothing can be done now, but afterwards there are treatments which can prevent a recurrence.”

Ackerman looked dubious. “I thought that another pregnancy would
always
cause permanent diabetes.”

“Used to be,” Jeff said. “But Elizara assures me that this is no longer so.” He regarded them thoughtfully. “The children are going to Deneb. We’ll have to do that quickly.” He looked directly at Afra.

“If it’s to be done, ’twere better swiftly done,” Afra said, agreeing and forcing a grin from Jeff at the quotation. “Today. Brian and I can organize transport.”

“Sure, sure thing,” Brian answered, wondering why he was being seconded to an unenviable chore, but Afra would have his own reasons.

“I’m not sure what tack to take in breaking the news to Damia,” Jeff said, twisting his mouth in dismay. “The poor little thing’s been so subdued lately.”

“I’d be surprised if she wasn’t,” Afra said. “How did you get the Rowan to capitulate to send the children away?”

“That freighter debacle helped almost as much as realizing she’s risking the baby if she doesn’t take care,” Jeff said. “I just don’t want Damia connecting her disobedience with her summary exile.”

“Why will she? If Jeran and Cera are to go with her,” Afra asked. “Emphasize that the Rowan’s sick—which Damia certainly senses already. Jeran and Cera probably do, too. They may be self-involved, but they’re not insensitive to their surroundings.”

“No, they’re not.” In fact, Tanya had told Jeff how agitated the pair had been following the freighter episode. And they had known that Damia had been in trouble. They’d even spontaneously involved her in more than one game in daycare. “When?” Jeff asked, his decision made.

“Today,” Afra responded immediately.

“Isn’t that precipitous?” Jeff worried about the Rowan’s
reaction to what seemed, even to him, like an almost indecent haste.

“Your mother is ready and waiting,” Afra added, giving Raven the distinct impression that Afra had been in private collusion with her.

Jeff Raven sighed, nodding and thinking of all the matters awaiting his attention back on Earth. “Very well. Let’s do it today, then.”

*   *   *

Damia had practiced very hard at being good for two whole days. Tanya collected her in the morning because Damia already knew that Mother was very tired and was resting all day in bed. Damia wondered if something was wrong with the Tower. Mother never stayed away from there for very long. So, because Daddy had said that Damia must be quiet, she expanded that request to include her hours at the daycare. Occasionally she would glance around to be sure that Tanya noticed how well she was behaving.

She had not
meant
to cause trouble; she had just got frightened when the ship lurched so suddenly.
Her
voyages had always gone smoothly. Then she had “felt” her mother involved in the lurching and she became afraid that Mommy was mad at her. So, she’d had to call Afra for help. She was sure that he would explain to Mommy and then everything would be all right. But everything was still not right; Damia suppressed a momentary surge of anger at Afra for not making everything better.

Damia?
someone “called” to her. Afra! It was Afra! She turned around. “Afra!” she called aloud, rising to run over to him. She knew she was not supposed to “call” rather than speak, but she could not help a little hopeful echo.
Afra?

Afra squatted down and hugged the small child.

“You’ve come to play with me because I’ve been very good and quiet,” she cried in happy expectation. She gave him a coy, beguiling look, blue eyes peering up through jet-black hair, trying to think which game she could involve Afra in.

“Tanya said you have indeed been quiet and well-mannered,” Afra replied. “So if we can play something while I talk with you . . .”

Happily Damia led him over to her corner, a small hand wrapped around a big finger. “We can play Station,” she decided, having discarded several other possibilities as they walked. “I’ll be the Prime and you be my twic.”

“Twic?”

“Two-I-C?” Damia tried again.

Afra chuckled. “Second-in-command! Certainly,” he gave her a mock bow from his cross-legged seat on the floor, “your wish is my command.”

Damia placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head at him irritably. “Afra!”

“What?”

Damia waggled a finger at him. “You know. Now play right.”

Afra obliged, working up a manifest of cows, cats, and clam chowder for their first load. They did three loads before Afra decided that she was sufficiently relaxed.

“Where’s the next load?” Damia asked, a pout at the ready.

“How would you like to be a load? A proper one, just like those you’ve seen leave the Station.”

Damia hesitated, not sure she really wanted to play in the pods right now. “You’ll have a proper carisak to take on board for your trip.”

“Trip?” Damia was not enthusiastic but she knew she could trust Afra. If he felt she should be a proper load . . .

“Jeran and Cera will be going, too.”

Damia was not happy about that. She’d rather do something that
they
didn’t. They were so mean about sharing with her, though they’d been much nicer the past two days.

“Are you?” she asked, looking up hopefully, but Afra shook his head. “Then I don’t want to.”

“Ah, but you see, your grandmother has especially invited you to come. You’ll like her.”

Suddenly sensing that Afra was
not
playing the sort of
game she liked, Damia threw herself at him, clutching his neck fiercely with her arms. “I want you!”

Afra gently disengaged her, his hands wrapped around her tiny waist, holding her from him so that he could keep eye contact as well as reinforce his words through touch. “Damia, you
need
to go on this trip,” he said in his gentlest, most persuasive tone. “Your grandmother has made such special arrangements for you.” He ignored her pout. “You’ll have cousins your own age . . . cousins who’ll include you in all their games. Indeed, knowing you, you’ll probably be leader.”

“I would?” Damia was captivated by that prospect. Being youngest, she wasn’t allowed to lead anything here.

“You’ll have a whole planet to play on, not a bunch of domes that restrict you to one measly play area and dank tunnels.”

“But I like the tunnels . . .”

“That’s only because you haven’t seen the wonders of a planet that your uncle Ian . . .”