Jenna Starborn (9 page)

The public buses that serviced the holdings near Thorrastone Park made the circuit between the properties three times daily, once very early in the morning, once near noon, and once late in the day. I was up with the dawn in order to catch the early bus, and I was waiting in the assigned area a good half hour before it was scheduled to appear. Each of the holdings (so I had been told) were equipped, like Thorrastone Park, with a small airlock which would allow buses and closed aeromobiles and any other vehicles to safely enter their environs. There was, naturally, no forcefield over the uninhabited roadways and regions of the world, so any vehicles traveling between settled points had to be equipped with their own closed atmospheric systems—even the local buses that only covered a few hundred miles at a stretch.

I was used to waiting, but I admit to feeling some impatience by the time the sleek silver airbus darted into view. It eased into the airlock with an interesting suck and exchange of gases, and then it was safe for me to board. Naturally, the two dozen or so other passengers were all strangers to me, but I gave the whole assembled ridership one quick, neutral glance before settling into an unoccupied seat near a window.

The ride in, to me at least, was fascinating, for I had not left Thorrastone Park since my arrival and I had not, on my first journey from the spaceport, paid much attention to the landscape. There had been rough attempts at terraforming the whole surface of Fieldstar, but such work had been only rudimentary in the areas that were not actually supporting human life. Thus the route we followed took us over terrain that bore little resemblance to the manor's thick lawn. The grasses were starved and pitiful, unlike the thick, coarse turf that formed our lawn; they, and the half-naked shrubbery, and the tall, twisted trees, were almost all of a uniform fawn color with no hints of our own familiar green. Against the gray rocky soil from which they sprang, even their fugitive color seemed gay, a vibrant contrast. I found myself wishing I had any skill with paint or pencil so I could catch that bleak and delicate beauty on paper.

The lights of town, when we arrived nearly two hours later, seemed garish and overbright in comparison, and for a moment I was reluctant to disembark from the bus. But soon enough I forgot the minimalist delights of the prairie landscape, and turned with some enthusiasm to the more hedonistic pleasures of commerce.

As I had noted before, Fieldstar's small spaceport was hardly a retailer's dream, but it offered more variety and opportunity than I had seen for a while, and I spent a happy day wandering under its high, glittering dome. I did not have a large number of credits at my disposal, so I spent more time looking than buying. I did eye an apricot-colored silk pantsuit with a great deal of longing, even going to the extent of trying it on and visiting it two more times during the course of the afternoon, but I could envision no possible occasion on which such attire would be appropriate for a half-cit technician in an out-of-the-way holding, and so I resisted. In the end, I contented myself with buying two new serviceable gray tunics, a pair of comfortable shoes, another pair of khaki coveralls, and a length of pink ribbon for Ameletta. I also treated myself to a somewhat expensive lunch, which included a fruit-tart dessert so delicious I almost could not resist ordering a second.

After the meal, I shopped some more, then spent some time viewing a new art show at the tiny museum. My packages, though not many, began to grow heavy, and I was just as glad when it was time for me to catch my bus back to Thorrastone. I waited for a little while in the airbus terminal till my bus arrived, then I climbed aboard and settled against the cushion with a sigh of satisfied exhaustion.

I was deposited at Thorrastone Park barely an hour before sundown—a time after which any reasonable person did not want to be out of doors. For the planet seemed to make one quick, violent rotation away from its distant sun, plunging the world into sudden and instant blackness; even the presence of artificial lighting strategically placed all over the grounds did not entirely counteract the total bleakness of the Fieldstar night. The airlock lay a little more than a mile from the doorway, a distance I could usually cover in less than half an hour, so I did not worry about being safely inside before total darkness descended. The airlock door closed behind me as I hefted my packages one more time and set off toward the house.

I had not taken five steps when there was a wild disturbance behind me, and a large shape careened through the outer door of the airlock. An awful sound of rending metal echoed through the small enclosure, a counterpoint to the
whoosh
and choke of air exploding outward, then being swiftly contained. I dropped my packages and whirled around in time to see a small aeromobile bounce against one nearly invisible wall, knock backward against another, then come shuddering to a halt on the stony floor of the lock. It did not move again.

For a moment I was motionless with stupefaction, but I soon realized there was probably at least one individual inside the downed car, very possibly seriously hurt. I ran back to the inner door, checked the gauge to make sure the atmosphere was breathable, then hurried into the airlock to see what assistance I could offer.

Even as I approached the craft, the bubble lid was being raised from within, and in seconds, a head and shoulders emerged. I had very little time to assess any particulars of the new arrival except that he was male, dark-complected, and sporting a trickle of blood across his forehead.

“Sir!” I exclaimed, reaching up to catch the weight of the lid with my own hand until I felt it click into place in its upright position. “You're hurt! Can you speak? Can you move? Shall I fetch help from the manor?”

I found myself fixed in the glare of a pair of dark eyes set in a very irate face. “Who the devil are you?” the newcomer growled. “And why would you be out prowling around at such an hour?”

I thought him extremely rude, though perhaps the accident had impaired his natural civility, but I was relieved to note that he at least appeared to have retained his senses. “I suppose anyone may walk around at any hour she pleases, assuming she has a right to be on the property in the first place,” I answered. “But tell me—how badly are you injured? There is some blood on your face. Have you sustained any hurt to your head?”

“I have sustained a great deal of hurt,” he replied, again in that impatient, rumbling voice. I presumed he meant his tone to sound forbidding, but to me he sounded cross and fretful, like one of my students at Lora Tech who had been balked in his plans because of some homework assignment I had distributed. “My head throbs with a remarkable sharpness, and my ribs feel as if they have each individually cracked and reknitted in a manner not conducive to easy breathing, and I am sure I have twisted my ankle. However, I am most injured in my pride, for only the stupidest, most inexperienced boy would so misjudge his landing speed and angle as to crash headlong into the forcefield. My only excuse is that I caught a glimpse of you heading across the lawn, and I was so amazed that I stared in the wrong direction.”

“And that's a poor excuse by any standard,” I said cheerfully, “for I have never before caused any vehicle to stutter from the sky nor any pilot to forget where he is going. I am afraid your car may have been damaged, but your rational conversation reassures me that
you
at least are not hurt beyond repair.”

He gave a short bark of laughter—not an infectious sound, but one that made me want to smile nonetheless. “Ha! If you consider this rational talk, I'm guessing you've had very little of it recently.”

“Not at all,” I answered serenely. “My own conversation is always supremely rational. Now, tell me: What can I do to help you? Shall I go to the manor? Or can you walk that far on your own? It will be dark very soon, and I don't think you want to be out here past sundown, tinkering with a disabled vehicle.”

“As to that, I don't think it is as disabled as it appears,” he said, ducking his head back inside. “There are no frantic lights flickering on my instrument boards. I think it is operational.”

“Your right wing is crumpled beyond use,” I pointed out. “You cannot fly.”

His head emerged again; he was grinning. The expression illuminated his rather grim face, for, now that I had a chance to study him without fearing for his life and sanity, I could form some opinion of his looks. He had bold, strong features, and extremely black hair; in this insufficient light, his eyes appeared to be nearly black as well. He was not a handsome man, but a compelling one. I felt the force of his personality even through the strangeness of our circumstances.

“Why,” I asked, “is it amusing to you to learn that you have broken your wing?”

“Because it does not matter,” he replied. “It's a convertible hover/land rover, and I can, by pulling a few levers, make it drivable, at least for a short trip to the manor house. There is only one slight problem.”

“What is that?”

“The lever requires some strength to engage, and I do not believe my ribs can withstand the effort. Could I ask you to add to your goodness—I was going to say, your officiousness, but since I need a favor, I don't want to offend you—and request you to pull the lever? I am afraid it is a task I cannot manage on my own.”

I thought it strange that he expressed a wish not to offend me when it seemed he had expended every effort to accomplish just such an end, but I did not say so. Indeed, I found his brisk, irritated, outspoken masculinity a rather refreshing change from all the considerate femininity I encountered on a daily basis.

“Certainly, sir,” I said, stepping forward again. “Show me what I must do.”

Groaning a bit, he shifted his position to allow me access to the gears and instruments inside the cockpit. I allowed myself to be distracted for a moment by the array of dials and gauges.

“Ah, a Vandeventer V convertible,” I said, for I had not recognized the make by its exterior markings. “A superior vehicle by all the reviews. It has not been available for commercial distribution very long.”

“No, I believe I have the first model on Fieldstar,” the injured man said, and I caught a note of amusement in his gruff voice. “But how do you come by an interest in short-range planetary vehicles? When it comes to that, how do you come to be at Thorrastone Park at all?”

To myself I thought,
I might well ask you the same question,
but it was not generally encouraged for half-cits to interrogate full citizens—which this man, with his arrogance and his expensive tastes, most assuredly was.

“I have a somewhat scientific turn of mind,” I said demurely. “I am employed at Thorrastone Park as a generator technician, but I do know a little about mechanics and machinery.”

He reared back as far as the confines of the seat would allow him. “The technician!” he exclaimed. “Of course! I knew there was one expected, but I would never have marked you for the role.”

“I do not believe I was hired for my appearance, sir,” I said blandly. “Now, may I get to that lever?”

Still watching me with some interest, he shifted cautiously in his seat to allow me the necessary access. He was right; it took a fair amount of strength to move the lever, and I could both feel and hear the wheels engage when I finally locked it in place. A series of dials turned from green to amber on his instrument panel.

“There you are, sir,” I said. “I believe you're all set now.”

“Thank you,” he said, adding, in an abrupt way, “Get in.”

“Sir?”

He was resettling himself on the driver's side of the vehicle. “I'll drop you off at the doorway. It's close to dark now, and you can't be looking forward to the hike across the lawn.”

In fact, he was right, but my concern for a fellow creature had made me overcome my dislike of roaming the grounds at night. I hesitated, however, for I knew nothing of this man except that he was careless with an aeromobile. How did I know I could trust him to take me where he promised?

He must have read my mind, for he was grinning again. “Come now, technician, you can't suppose I have any evil designs on your person. I scarcely have the strength to steer, let alone attempt assault. I think you're quite safe to travel a mile at my side.”

I felt a blush rise, for this was plainer speaking than I was used to, but he spoke nothing but the truth. “I do not want to take you out of your way,” I demurred, for I had come to the conclusion that he was headed toward the mining compound. He was an inspector of some sort, perhaps, or a consultant come to discuss efficiency with the engineering techs.

“Not at all,” he said. “Hop in.”

So I circled the convertible and clambered with less grace than I would have liked into the passenger's side. Detouring only to recover my dropped parcels, we made the brief trip in silence, for he made no effort to talk and I did not feel it was my place to initiate a conversation. He pulled up before the doors with no other mishaps.

“Here you are, technician,” he said. “Despite what you may think, I do appreciate your help. I still blame you,” he added, though that note of amusement was back in his voice, “but I thank you nonetheless.”

I climbed out of the car and retrieved my packages. “Then you are very welcome. I hope you manage to avoid similar accidents in the future.”

He laughed. “So do I! Good evening, my friend.” And so saying, he drove away.

I stood for a moment or two, watching the Vandeventer speed off in the direction of the mines.
My friend.
An odd thing to call a chance-met stranger on the strength of twenty minutes' acquaintance. Odder still was the little warm glow it gave me, to be so named by such a man.