Sweet Starfire (2 page)

“I want the steak. Large size. And I want it cooked on the grill, not in a heater, understand? And when it gets to the table, I want it rare. Bloody in the middle. Rare.”

Cidra hid her dismay behind a serene expression. Severance went on to order two mugs of expensive Renaissance Rose ale before she could explain that she never drank it. Cidra knew that the distinctly dark and potent brew was distilled from the thorn of a flower that was lethal, and too much of the ale was also considered dangerous. She managed to maintain a look of contentment as the waiter bustled away, but once he was gone, she sighed.

“Feeling like a fraud?” Severance leaned back in the booth and stretching his booted feet out under the table.

He had been sprawling with the same rangy casualness when she had first seen him. Conscious of her own gracefully correct posture, Cidra wondered if Severance ever really sat properly in a chair. The close-fitting gray ship suit pulled taut across his shoulders, emphasizing his broad, hard chest. The suit itself was a standard pilot’s outfit, cut in a severe style with functional collar and cuffs that could be worn open for comfort or neatly clipped closed for a more formal look. Severance wore both open, the cuffs pushed up on his sinewy forearms. The trousers followed his long legs neatly and disappeared into the tops of his boots. Severance was built along lean, tight lines but had a sense of solid weight that strangely disturbed yet comforted Cidra. His black hair had recently received a short no-nonsense cut, and she guessed he’d had it trimmed as soon as he’d hit port after the long trip from Renaissance. In the soft light of the fluoroquartz lamp Cidra could see that the rantgan leather utility belt he wore had been hand wrought with an eye for exquisite detail. She wondered whether Severance had carved the tough leather himself and then shook herself out of her reverie and considered his question.

“Yes, I am feeling a fraud. Everyone seems to be jumping to the conclusion that I’m a Harmonic.”

“Let ‘em jump. It gets action, doesn’t it?”

“So it seems.” Cidra studied him a moment. “You knew right away I wasn’t a Harmonic, though, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t drunk when you approached me, and I had a chance to get a good look at your eyes before that brawl broke out. I’ll admit that I haven’t met many, but there’s something about a Saint’s eyes… something different.”

Cidra nodded. “I know.” She paused. “Harmonics hate that nickname, you know.”

Severance’s quick, humorless grin flashed, then faded. “Saints? Impossible. Harmonics are constitutionally incapable of hating anything, least of all something as unimportant as a nickname.”

“You’re right, of course. I should have said that they prefer not to be called Saints.”

“Then they shouldn’t be so damned perfect,” Severance told her blandly. He held up a hand as Cidra started to protest. “All right, all right, I withdraw the comment. I don’t want to argue with you. Not if you’re from Clementia and not if you’re serious about doing business.” He paused then for a minute, a strange look coming into his eyes. “You are from Clementia, aren’t you? Not just an actress or something?”

“I was born there,” Cidra stated, and immediately regretted the show of pride. A true Harmonic was above pride. “My parents are Harmonics,” she finished more quietly.

Severance eyed her with what could have been casual interest if not for the flicker of cold assessment in his gaze. “An aptitude for the Way is supposed to be hereditary.”

“There are exceptions to most things, Otan Severance. I’m afraid I’m one.”

“Obviously. If you weren’t, you would have fainted when some drunk miner got blood on your fancy dress.” Cidra cringed at the truth of his words. She had wanted to believe that she had remained relatively coherent because of her training but had to admit now that even the most rigorous discipline wouldn’t have protected a true Harmonic from the violence she had seen. “So,” Severance continued, “you’re an exception, but you are from Clementia. And you want to do business.”

“That is correct.”

“Suits me.” His glance shifted to the expensive fireberyl comb in her hair. “You look like the kind who pays her postage, and I’m always looking for patrons….” He broke off as the rich, dark Renaissance Rose ale was placed in front of them. Taking a long, obviously satisfying swallow, he met Cidra’s steady gaze over the rim of the mug. “What is it you want delivered?”

Cidra cleared her throat. “Myself.”

Severance put down his mug. “You’ll have to try it again. A little more slowly this time. I’m just a Wolf, remember? I’m not intuitive or telepathic. I’m not even wildly good at guessing games.”

“It’s simple enough, Otan Severance.”

“Teague.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He made an impatient movement with his hand. “My birth name is Teague. Severance is my chosen name. Use either one you like, but skip the formality. No one in my line of work uses Otan.”

Cidra nodded with grave politeness. “You’ll have to forgive me, Teague Severance. In my world formality is everything.”

Severance’s mouth twisted wryly. “I know. I’m sure it works just great in Clementia. Out in the real universe it tends to be a waste of time. Why don’t you finish explaining your business before we get sidetracked by a philosophical discussion on the role of the formalities.”

A faint flicker of amusement touched Cidra’s expression. “Are you capable of being sidetracked by such an esoteric discussion?”

“Sidetracked or bored. One of the two.”

“I see.” She drew a breath and went back to business. “As I said, I wish to mail myself.”

He considered her intent face. “To where?”

“Wherever it is you happen to be going. I have no single destination in mind, although Renaissance is high on my list. Postmen are famous for their unorthodox schedules. According to what I have read about your profession, you’ll go almost anywhere in the Stanza Nine system to pick up a package. Nor are you particular about where you deliver your cargo.”

“As long as someone’s willing to pay the postage,” he reminded her. Severance leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table. Even the gentle light of the lamp could not soften the hard lines of his face. “But we rarely carry passengers, except in emergencies. And we never take tourists.”

“I know it’s not common practice.”

“Do you know why?”

“I assume it has something to do with the fact that most postmen tend to be loners,” Cidra ventured. “Psychologically speaking, people in your profession are often temperamentally unsuited to close social contact.”

“It has to do with the fact that the ships are small and every spare centimeter has to be used as profitably as possible. Compared to packages and mail, passengers aren’t a paying proposition. For one thing, passengers tend to eat. That means extra food has to be put on board. Passengers tend to sleep. That requires bunk space. Passengers also tend to want to be entertained. That’s a damned nuisance. Pound for pound it’s cheaper, more profitable, and infinitely less wearing to carry the mail. Go buy a ticket on one of the regular freighters if you want to tour the system.”

Patiently Cidra shook her head. “The freighters only go to the main port towns on Renaissance and
QED
. From there I would have to find transportation to the various outposts. From what I understand that’s an uncertain matter at best. It’s also very expensive. And I don’t have a great deal of credit to spend. I can’t even afford extensive traveling here on Lovelady, let alone the other planets and their moons. Please don’t be deceived by my appearance. Most of what I am wearing is a gift from my parents.”

Severance stared at her. “Excuse me for being a little slow, but I seem to be missing something rather vital here. If you can’t afford commercial travel, how in a renegade’s hell did you expect to pay postage for the scenic route?”

Cidra smiled brilliantly as they reached the heart of her plan. “Actually, I intended to hire on as a member of the crew. I want to work my passage, Teague Severance.”

Whatever he would have said in response to that was lost for the moment as the waiter appeared with the heated trays of food. A still-smoking slab of meat was thrust in front of Severance, who eyed the Crosshatch grill marks with satisfaction. Cidra studiously avoided looking at the meat as she examined her own plate of vegetables. The waiter hovered anxiously until she glanced up and realized why he was hanging around.

“It’s lovely. Just what I wanted. Please thank the kitchen staff.”

The waiter beamed and disappeared without waiting to see how Teague Severance felt about the condition of his steak.

Severance didn’t mind; he was too busy slicing into the bloody heart of the meat. He was unaware that Cidra was swallowing uncomfortably as she tried to avert her eyes and struggled to control her stomach.

“Just right,” he declared, chewing a chunk with the thoughtful concentration Harmonics reserved for a glass of fine ether wine. “Like I said, lady, you do have your uses. Do you know how hard it is to get a place like this to use the grill instead of the heater?”

Cidra didn’t pay any attention. She was lost in her silent recitation of the chant that by Harmonic custom preceded the evening meal, a ritual that was also helping to take her mind off the bleeding carcass across the table on Teague’s plate. When she was finished, she hunted unobtrusively around the table for the proper vegetable-eating prongs. Failing to find them, she settled for the all-purpose bowled fork that was lying beside a sharp-edged blade near her plate. The sight of the knife gave her a start. The idea of a weapon at the table was unsettling. She was going to have to become familiar with the informal eating habits of Wolves.

“Are you going to finish your ale?” Severance asked.

Cidra glanced at the mug she had left untouched and shook her head. The famous brew didn’t look terribly appealing.

“I’ll finish it for you,” Severance said, reaching across the table to help himself to her mug.

“About my passage on board your ship, Severance, I want to make it clear that I am fully prepared to work. I am not proposing that you take me along as excess baggage.”

“Lady, mail ships are made to be operated by one person. They don’t require any extra crew.”

“But I’ve heard that mail pilots sometimes hire a crewmate,” she protested. “Surely there must be plenty of small tasks required on board.”

He stopped chewing long enough to give her a hard, steady look. “The kind of crew situations you’re talking about are generally called convenience contracts. I tried it once and it was a disaster.”

“Why was that?”

He stifled a muttered oath and went back to sawing on his meat. “Because the woman I contracted with nearly drove me crazy. She and I were at each other’s throats by the time we reached Renaissance. I had to put her off ship at Port Try Again with enough credit to buy a commercial ticket back to Lovelady. I decided after that experience that a little loneliness was probably good for the soul and a hell of a lot cheaper than companionship.”

Cidra smiled gently. “The one thing you would not have to fear is me going for your throat. I was raised in Clementia, remember?”

“Uh-huh. And what’s going to keep me from going for yours?”

Cidra blinked, unsure if he was teasing her. He didn’t look as if he was, but how could she really tell? Whatever sense of humor Severance had, it seemed to be on the savage side. “When I inquired into potential ships’ masters, I was told you were considered a reasonably honest man. Somewhat rough around the edges and basically a loner, as are most mail pilots, but generally honest. Insofar as it is possible for Wolves to trust each other, your acquaintances appear to trust you, Severance. Among Wolves, I understand, that is not a common occurrence.”

Severance drummed his fingers on the table. “Any Wolf dumb enough to completely trust another Wolf deserves what he or she gets. Just the opposite of how things work in Clementia, hmmm?”

Cidra’s eyes softened. “For obvious reasons.”

“Lady, you don’t know what you’re getting into with this plan of yours. Talk about being a Saint among Wolves!”

“Would you mind terribly calling me by my name? I would prefer it to ‘lady.’” She kept her tone rigidly polite.

“Far be it from me to annoy a near-Saint. What was your name? Cidra Something? I didn’t have time to catch it back in that tavern.”

“Cidra Rainforest.”

“Rainforest,” he repeated, tasting the word. “That’s your chosen name?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever seen a rain forest, Cidra?” Severance asked, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “A real rain forest?”

“No. This is my first time away from Clementia.”

“How did you come to choose the word as a name?”

Cidra wanted to point out that they were not here for purposes of casual conversation, but she was too fundamentally polite to say the censuring words. “I read about rain forests on Renaissance when I was fifteen. There were holotapes and slips of them in the Archives. They seemed so beautiful, so rich and full of life. Endless blooms and endless green. I suppose the forests were very much in my mind that year, and fifteen is the age at which Harmonics traditionally choose their names. I understand that among Wolves the age of choice varies.”

“You could say that. The truth is that we sometimes go through two or three names before settling on the right one. Occasionally a Wolf finds it very useful to select a new name quite frequently.” When she just looked at him with a puzzled expression, Severance abandoned the subject. “Never mind. Tell me what made you decide to go planet-hopping.”

“My reasons are personal, Severance.”

His eyebrows climbed. “Is that so?”

She flushed a little at his tone. “In Clementia privacy is greatly respected,” Cidra reminded him.

“Another good reason to abandon your idea of bunking down on a mail boat. There’s very little privacy available on one of those ships.”

“I am prepared to accommodate myself.”

“Oh, yeah? How far?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Those convenience contracts we just talked about? Do you know just what that entails?”