Nimisha's Ship (15 page)

“How many can she sleep?” Jonagren asked.

“Six singles, but sleeping platforms extend to double size,” she said, feeling an unexpected rush of blood to her face. Fortunately she was leading and hoped no one noticed. “Two washrooms but, as you saw, each cabin has a separate head unit.”

“A real toilet, Casper said,” Timmy said in a chirp. “Not like the head on the shuttle—but we can’t use that anymore.”

She showed them the various storage units and then the upper deck hydroponics garden that featured the usual broadleaf plants that were essential to a space-going vessel’s air health.

“Some of these are Terran varieties,” Jonagren said, and named pumpkin, squash, and the ti plant. “Do I see carrot tops?”

“You do. Good for eyesight,” Nimisha said.

“And gravelot from Vega, if I don’t miss my guess,” Jonagren said, fingering the furry silvery leaf of the plant. “That’s hardy enough to last even when air temp’s down to near freezing. Saved many a crew from carbon-dioxide poisoning.”

“That’s why it’s included,” Nimisha said. “We’ve a second hydro unit on the lower deck.”

They spent more time, as she had expected, looking around in engineering, asking all kinds of questions that showed their own expertise and Fleet experience.

“I’ve manuals for every aspect of the Fiver if you’d like to see them.”

“I certainly would,” Jonagren said, rising from a crouch by the drive console, his knees cracking.

“You need more oil in your diet,” Doc said, surprising them.

“Does he listen in to everything?”

“Everything that happens to be even vaguely medical,” Nimisha said. “I can shut him off if you like.”

“What? And risk annoying the medic?” Casper made his eyes wide with dismay at the mere thought, while Jonagren dismissed the idea with quick gestures of both hands.

“If you knew how good it is to hear different voices . . .” he said. “This is some sweet ship, ma’am.”

“Nimisha,” she corrected him.

Jonagren nodded acceptance. “You’re quite a designer, but you called it the Fiver, so it’s not your first?”

“No, the first four have gone into production, smaller than this, as personal transport yachts for the First Families who need or want the prestige of possessing their own spaceships or as transports for corporate executives. But useful as experiments. And with some utility for the Fleet. The fourth was . . . nearly what I wanted, but I didn’t have the space I decided is optimum for its purpose.”

“So, just what differences did you incorporate in this prototype?” Jonagren asked.

“Let’s get back to the main cabin. I’ve wide screens there and I’d be more than happy to show you.”

Casper just chuckled as he took Timmy’s hand to lead him forward.

Nimisha was still explaining the rationale behind some of the improvements when the chime sounded and the medic unit released Syrona.

Casper was beside her in an instant, wrapping her in a sheet, helping her sit up, reassuring her. Her appearance had also been enormously improved by Doc’s ministrations. Jonagren smiled, cocking his head in appreciation, but as she watched Casper help Syrona dress, it became obvious to Nimisha that he was definitely Syrona’s mate, not Jonagren.

“D’you want a bath? There’s a real tub, Syrie,” Casper began.

Sitting up, Syrona immediately looked for Timmy, relaxing with relief when she saw him. “May I get out now, Doc?”

“Of course,” Doc said with grave condescension. “You’ll find that leg is working properly. You might experience a twinge or two while the muscles learn to stay where I’ve put them, but you can walk soundly.”

She took a few trial steps and the relief and joy brought tears to her eyes. She tried to stem them, biting her lip.

Nimisha went to her, pushing a dithering Casper out of the way, and embraced the woman. “Now, now, it’s all right. Crying’s good therapy, you know. The bravest men and women know its healing power.”

Syrona Lester-Pitt indulged herself in that luxury, allowing Nimisha to lead her to the nearest couch and settling them both so Syrona could weep in more comfort.

“Tea?” Casper exclaimed, swiveling his body toward Cater.

“Milk or lemon, sir?” Cater asked.

“Lemon?” Syrona managed to gulp in surprise through her tears.

“Lemon, I’d say,” Nimisha told Cater, and had to deal with a new outburst of tears from Syrona. She glared up at the two men, both of whom seemed perplexed, and Timmy, who looked worried. Nimisha smiled reassurance at him over Syrona’s head and continued to pat and hug the woman.

“With extra sugar,” Doc added.

When Casper brought this to Syrona she reached eagerly for the cup. Nimisha tactfully balanced the cup in the shaky hands that Syrona lifted to her mouth. She managed one sip, then wept a few more tears, sniffled, and rubbed at a runny nose. Jonagren took a napkin from the table and passed it over to her. Nimisha held the cup while Syrona blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Then Syrona took back her cup and gave everyone a watery smile.

“Even a cup of tea,” she said in an unsteady voice. “You don’t know what this means.” She held the cup up as if voicing some inner toast.

“I think I do,” Nimisha said gently. “Would you like something to eat, too?” she asked when the cup had been drained. Timmy had nestled in close to Syrona on the other side while the two men had pulled chairs closer, offering moral support and sympathy by their proximity.

“I ate a burger, Syrie,” Timmy said, grinning impishly. “And drank milk!”

“Milk?” Syrona swallowed. Sniffing again, she was about to use the make-do handkerchief when she stopped. “I can
smell
burger. Oh, my word!” And she closed her eyes, hands tight against her lips to prevent another outburst of tears.

“I would prescribe food,” Doc said.

“How do you like your burger?” Nimisha asked.

“Medium rare,” Syrona said as if this was almost too wonderful to be believed.

“Medium rare, coming up,” Cater said. “And did you wish ketchup on it, ma’am?”

“Ketchup?” Syrona’s eyes shot wide in amazement. Shaking her head and laughing weakly, she commented, “Why am I surprised that this ship would have such a sauce? Even Fleet units do. But it’s been so long . . .”

“Too long,” Casper said, retrieving the burger, smothered with ketchup. “Some foods simply cannot fade from continuous use. The burger is universally a favorite. Yours, ma’am.” With plate balanced on one hand, he made a bow to bring it to Syrona’s hands.

They watched her as she tried not to bolt the food. After three quick bites, she slowed down, smiling hesitantly around.

“Good, isn’t it?” Timmy asked, nodding his head to give her a clue to the necessary response.

“Nimisha’s given us a tour of the ship while you were otherwise occupied,” Jonagren said, relaxing again. “She’s the chief designer at Rondymense Ship Yard. We’re on the Fiver, and if it took no damage after its trip through that fragging wormhole, then it’s definitely better designed than the old
Poolbeg
was.”

“Wait’ll you see the cabins, Syrie. Your own head and a bathtub like you told me about, and soft covers that aren’t fur,” Timmy rattled on. “And all kinds of growing things that don’t try to attach to you and—and—”

“Easy, lad,” Casper said, laughing.

“If that burger will stay your hunger,” Nimisha said, for the food had disappeared quickly in spite of the small bites Syrona had taken, “perhaps a bath and clean clothes will restore you completely.”

“A bath sounds like heaven.”

“I cleaned you up quite well,” Doc said, sounding miffed.

“Yes, of course, sir,” Syrona replied and then stopped, realizing that it was an AI she was talking to.

“Doc tends to be cheeky,” Nimisha said by way of explanation and apology.

“I’d love a bath, with hot water, and proper cleansing gel and—” Syrona paused. “Any fragrant oils on board?”

Nimisha chuckled. “I have a respectable inventory. You’ve only to look at the dispenser menu and dial the one, or ones, you want.”

Syrona stood, and both men leaped forward to offer a hand each to their crewmate.

“I can get up myself now,” she said in an almost haughty tone and proved it. A teary smile crossed her face and she firmly held back more tears. “And that’s a
real
pleasure. Thank you so much, Doc,” she added, turning toward the medical unit.

“My pleasure, I assure you.”

“This way, Ensign Lester-Pitt,” Nimisha said, formally gesturing the way for Syrona. “The com equipment is standard for reportage, Captain,” she told Svangel, nodding her head in the direction of the bridge. “And Casper, I think we also have tape entertainment suitable for Tim. Just check with the library.”

“Great! We didn’t have much on the shuttle unit, mainly manuals.”

“I can read,” Timmy said, puffing out his chest.

Nimisha was following Syrona’s proud gait—nearly a strut—to the living accommodations. She knew the library included some younger child entertainment tapes, because Cuiva had mentioned old favorites she wouldn’t mind seeing again when she was traveling with her mother. No one saw the pang that thought gave Nimisha.

She stayed with Syrona at the ensign’s request.

“It’s so good to see another woman,” Syrona said apologetically. “It’s not that Casper and Jon haven’t been solicitous and reassuring. They’ve been wonderful . . . but—” She paused with a wry smile. “—there’s something about having a member of your own sex around. And I’m sorry to have wept all over you . . .”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Syrona,” Nimisha said, assuming a mock scowl. “Now what had you in mind for fragrance?”

“Sandalwood,” Syrona said, stripping off a uniform that was thin to transparent in places. “And lots of bath foam . . .”

The water was pouring into the deep tub that would accommodate any size human body. There was a shelf to sit on in its circle. The steam rose, carrying with it the aroma of sandalwood. Syrona inhaled deeply and took the two steps up to insert herself down into the hot bath. She, too, was terribly thin, her pregnancy apparent as an abdominal bulge between gaunt pelvic bones. Her skin was now free of the scrapes, bruises, and dry patches she’d arrived with. The injured leg, still slightly pink from the medic unit’s ministrations, showed a straight line of tibia.

“Oh, this is heavenly.”

“Your sandalwood soap, ma’am, and a sponge. A Lytherian sponge—they’re softest.”

“Expensive, too,” Syrona remarked as she dipped the delicate bath accessory into the water. “Oh, I’ve dreamed of this!”

The water was deep enough for her to be buoyant and, sitting on the ledge, she fitted her head into the appropriate concavity in the wall of the bath, her eyes closed, steam rising gently in aromatic waves. Nimisha sat on the slip bench, quite pleased with the effect the amenities of the Fiver were having on this survivor.

With her eyes closed, hot water bringing more color to her face, Syrona had the bone structure that would make her—once she was in better condition—a very attractive woman. Her dark hair began to curl about her face. It had been cut rather raggedly to just below the ears. Nimisha studied the resting face and saw the character in it, the lines made by the last years of struggle, perseverance, and repeated disappointments. She wondered how many children Syrona had had, and lost.

“Timmy’s Jon’s son,” Syrona said without opening her eyes. “The boy Casper and I had together died of a fever. I miscarried twice, and then they made me wait until they could build me up.” She gave a snort. “I don’t think the indigenous diet was good for any of us even if it was edible. We ran out of the supplements we took from the
Poolbeg’s
supplies. No vitamins, too few trace minerals; I think that’s why we had so many spontaneous abortions. But we hadn’t thought of increasing the population while we had
them.
Casper insisted that we’d be found before we had to start a colony.” Her eyebrows quirked in amusement. “That man’s the eternal optimist,” she added, her lips curling a trifle in a fond and loving smile. “Jon’s more of a realist, so the two balance each other.” She opened one eye, clear now and a pretty light green. “Jon’s a good man,” she said firmly.

“I’ve already decided that,” Nimisha remarked with a chuckle.

“It’s been harder on him when he knows how much Casper and I care for each other.”

“I should imagine so,” Nimisha replied casually. “While you were still being treated, I caught up on the basic facts of the expedition’s history. There are two other habitable planets within a reasonable distance.”

Syrona’s eyes flew open and she regarded Nimisha solemnly. “You’re First Family. None of us are, though my older sister is body-heir to my mother. But Jon’s family is longtime Fleet and he’s . . . he’s very good,” she finished in a rush. “Don’t—don’t—” Syrona flushed deeply and closed her lips tightly.

“I have no intention of denying him human rights, but,” Nimisha said with a little smile, “I think we both need to get to know each other a
little
better.”

“Oh, fraggit, Lady Nimisha,” Syrona said, squeezing her eyes closed with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean it to come out that way. Sounds like I’m pimping for Jon.”

Nimisha burst out laughing. “Is that how Fleet works out these partnerships for long-term voyages? A spokesperson to sound out the chosen?”

Syrona opened her eyes and regarded Nimisha squarely. “Well, it generally works out. Of course, there’s usually more choice available. But sometimes a crew member has to settle for what’s left over. Not that
I
would consider Jonagren a leftover.”

“That’s encouraging.”

“It’s just that Casper and I have been mates a much longer time. Peri was Jon’s.” A look of intense sorrow crossed Syrona’s face and she closed her eyes against painful memories. “She’s been dead a long time now.”

Her voice cracked a bit—partly the remembered loss and partly fatigue.

“I think you ought to rest by yourself, Syrona,” Nimisha said gently, touching her arm as it lay on the tub side. “Until the water cools. Good to soak and let the sandalwood soothe you.”

“I didn’t offend you, did I, Lady Nimisha?”