Gregory Benford - Jupiter Project

I shook myself. Come on Matt.

“Hey, isn’t that—hot damn, it is!” Zak cried, and then chuckled.

I looked toward the door. Yuri was standing there, halfway in. He was wearing some breeches that looked like leather, and a flowery, ruffled shirt, with cuffs that flared open. “Geez, what’s that?” I said in wonder.

Then I noticed that a slightly shorter man was gesturing for Yuri to come on in. Yuri’s father. I’d seen him around.

Zak said, “Looks like some costume from the Middle Ages.”

Yuri’s father called, “Dr. Matonin, I propose a new event for these Socials.” He smiled broadly and tugged Yuri through the hatchway. By now everybody had noticed Yuri’s getup and the whole room was quiet. “A traditional Ukrainian dance, the sava-bodnaya . I think the children will enjoy it just as much as your more western dances.”

Dr. Sagdaeff looked a little red in the nose and he was perspiring freely. I guessed maybe he’d had a little bit to drink. Yuri stood beside him, looking like he’d rather be a thousand klicks away. In fact, being dead wouldn’t be a bad alternative, either.

“Well, I suppose later we can try a few steps,” Dr, Matonin said diplomatically. “This is a social dancing occasion, but…”

“Yuri here, I had him put on the traditional costume. Brought all the way from the Ukraine, it is.”

“So I see.”

“It will help to get in the mood. Show her, Yuri.”

Yuri bit his lip. He stood frozen, the breeches too tight for him. His eyes raced around the room and his face was red. “Papa. I…”

“Yuri! Dance!” His father’s voice was suddenly harsh.

“Papa—”

“Come!” Dr. Sagdaeff began clapping loudly and stomping one foot a quarter-note off the claps. It made a pleasant contrapuntal effect. “Come!”

Yuri started to do a little jogging dance. The steps were intricate. The rhythm picked you up, though. It was a good dancing beat. I found my own foot tapping along.

It was fine as long as you didn’t look at Yuri. The big lug bounced around, feet busy, face rigid. You could tell he was embarrassed. On somebody smaller the costume would’ve looked odd, but interesting, and maybe exotic. On Yuri it just looked funny.

Jenny came over and gave me a sidelong glance, grimacing.

Zak whispered, “Good grief, it’s agonizing to watch.”

“Yes,” Jenny said. “How can a father make a public exhibit of his son that way?”

“He must have Yuri on pretty tight reins.” I murmured.

“Looks like it,” Jenny agreed. “That might explain a lot.”

I said, “Like what?”

“What makes Yuri run, Matt-o,” Zak put in.

“You mean his father?”

“Might be,” Jenny said. “Something’s driving Yuri to compete. A father who can force you to, well—”

Zak supplied, “Make a fool of yourself in public.”

“Yes. Well, a father like that can egg you on to succeed, win every contest, be the best on every test. This certainly fits the pattern and helps explain it.”

“Shrewd analysis,” Zak said.

I thought about it. It didn’t make Yuri any more likable, but maybe it did clear up some mystery about why he was always such a dorp. Parents can do you a lot of damage.

By now Yuri was grimacing and glaring around at everybody, as if daring them to say something. His father was gaily clapping and stomping, oblivious to it all. He probably was remembering some childhood dance of his own, back in the sunny-speckled wheat fields of the Ukraine. It didn’t seem to matter to him that Yuri didn’t share his fondness.

Jenny murmured, “That’s part of the Yuri riddle, all right. But, y’know, sometimes I think guys who are big bruisers act that way because that’s what we expect of them. There’s some truth to that, too.”

I frowned, trying to puzzle that one out. Jenny sees these things clearer than I do. Hell, I was beginning to think everybody did.

Dr. Matonin raised her voice. “Dr. Sagdaeff? Dr. Sagdaeff!” The clapping slowed and stopped. Yuri quit dancing with obvious relief. “I’m sure we would all be interested in learning such a dance…later, after we have had some social dancing. We thank you very much for the demonstration. If you could help us learn it later?” Then she smoothly guided some couples into a Latin American number as the canned music swelled up again.

Jenny said reflectively, “Actually, it is an interesting looking dance.”

“Kind of like square dancing,” I said, “but harder.”

“Ummmm,” she mused. “Look at Yuri. Does he look awkward.”

Yuri was standing around, looking at the couples. His peasant costume or whatever it was had looked okay while he danced and while he moved around. Standing still, he just looked silly. “Yeah,” I said.

“You know,” she said, “your smirk doesn’t have to be that superior.”

“C’mon, let’s dance,” I said. But she was right. It did feel good to gloat.

I got up early the next day and beat Jenny down to the vehicle bay. I fooled around, poking my nose into some other ships moored nearby, until I got a call over suit radio. I turned and saw her kicking off from the lock.

“My Captain cometh,” I said.

“Not me, kid. You’re in charge on this one.”

“What about Roadhog ? Is she fueled? He, I mean.”

“Don’t fight it. The Roadhog is a she. And of course she’s fueled. I’m not sloppy at maintenance.”

We coasted into Berth G, freed the lines, and Jenny gracefully swung into the pilot’s couch. She called in to the bridge and had an updated flight plan transmitted to the shuttle computer’s memory. Then I took over. I ran quickly through the standard checklist. Jenny sat on the flat bench next to the couch, buckled herself in and gave me the high sign.

I backed us cautiously out of the berth and brought the nose up to a point at the “top” of the Can. We still carried the angular velocity of the Can, so I gave the lateral jets a burst. We backed away from the Can’s inner wall. The Can appeared to spin faster and faster and I thumbed in more side thrust.

I gave Roadhog one burst of LOX through the rear jets and we coasted for the top of the Can in one long, clean line. We glided by the shadowy shapes of parked craft, safety neons splashing pools of light over them. The Can pinwheeled about us. Viewports passed, glowing softly. In one a woman looked up at her skylight and saw us. She waved. Jenny waved back. The interior of the Can, with its soft yellow glow, already seemed far away.

We passed the Sagan . Thick hoses sprouted from her water tanks and snaked into sockets on the Can’s axis. Above, the pancake sac of water reflected Jove’s amber light on its mottled plastic skin. As we reached the top of the Can I bled out a stream of air from the decelerating jets and we came to a halt.

The water shields are held by a few mooring lines, stationary above the Can itself. There’s about fifty meters clearance between the Can top and the pancake, enough for us to slip out. The shields are only moved to let out a big cruiser ship like the Sagan ; otherwise they sit there, blocking high energy electrons. I turned us so we pointed out, between the Can and the gray water-shield. Jupiter peeked over the rim as we cleared the top of the Can. It was a crescent; the Can was moving sunward in its orbit.

The shuttle shifted and murmured under me. The computer program was taking over. I punched the release button on the small control board and instantly felt a slight thrust. The ion engine had cut in. It made no noise; it’s a low-impulse system.

We went straight up, away from the Lab, as though the Can was a cannon and we had been shot out of it. I was looking at Jupiter through the spaces in the Roadhog ’s floor.