Damon Knight: Orbit 14

“Oh ... do you have any—brandy? It’s a wine, I think; nobody’s ever had any. But because it’s my name, I always ask.”

He frowned. “I don’t . . . hell, I do! Stay there.”

He returned with the impossible bottle, carefully wiped away its gray coat of years and laid it gleaming on the bar. Glintings of maroon speared their eyes. “All these years, it must have been waiting. That’s where I heard it . . . genuine vintage brandy, from Home.”

“From Terra—really? Oh, thank you!” She touched the bottle, touched his hand. “I’m going to be lucky.”

Curving glasses blossomed with wine; he placed one in her palm. "Ad astra.” She lifted the glass.

"Ad astra; to the stars.” He raised his own, adding silently, Tonight . . .

They were alone. Her breath came hard as they climbed up the newly cobbled streets to his home, up from the lower city where the fluorescent lamps were snuffing out one by one.

He stopped against a low stone wall. “Do you want to catch your breath?” Behind him in the empty lot a weedy garden patch wavered with the popping street lamp.

“Thank you.” She leaned downhill against him, against the wall. “I got lazy on my training ride. There’s not much to do on a ship; you’re supposed to exercise, but—” Her shoulder twitched under the quilted blue-silver. He absorbed her warmth.

Her hand pressed his lightly on the wall. “What’s your name? You haven’t told me, you know.”

“Everyone calls me Soldier.”

“But that’s not your name.” Her eyes searched his own, smiling.

He ducked his head, his hand caught and tightened around hers. “Oh . . . no, it’s not. It’s Maris.” He looked up. “That’s an old name, too. It means ‘soldier,’ consecrated to the god of war. I never liked it much.”

“From ‘Mars’? Sol’s fourth planet, the god of war.” She bent back her head and peered up into the darkness. Fog hid the stars.

“Yes.”

“Were you a soldier?”

“Yes. Everyone was a soldier—every man—where I came from. War was a way of life.”

“An attempt to reconcile the blow to the masculine ego?”

He looked at her.

She frowned in concentration. “ ‘After it was determined that men were physically unsuited to spacing, and women came to a new position of dominance as they monopolized this' critical area, the Terran cultural foundation underwent severe strain. As a result, many new and not always satisfactory cultural systems are evolving in the galaxy. . . . One of these is what might be termed a backlash of exaggerated machismo—’ ”

“ ‘—and the rebirth of the warrior/chattel tradition.’ ”

“You’ve read that book too.” She looked crestfallen.

“I read a lot. New Ways for Old, by Ebert Ntaka?”

“Sorry ... I guess I got carried away. But, I just read it—”

“No.” He grinned. “And I agree with old Ntaka, too. Glatte— what a sour name—was an unhealthy planet. But that’s why I’m here, not there.”

“Ow—!” She jerked loose from his hand. “Ohh, oh . . . God, you’re strong!” She put her fingers in her mouth.

He fell over apologies; but she shook her head, and shook her hand. “No, it’s all right . . . really, it just surprised me. Bad memories?”

He nodded, mouth tight.

She touched his shoulder, raised her fingers to his lips. “Kiss it, and make it well?” Gently he caught her hand, kissed it; she pressed against him. “It’s very late. We should finish climbing the hill . . . ?”

“No.” Hating himself, he set her back against the wall.

“No? But I thought—”

“I know you did. Your first space, I asked your name, you wanted me to; tradition says you lay the guy. But I’m a cyborg, Brandy. . . . It’s always good for a laugh on the poor greenie, they’ve pulled it a hundred times.”

“A cyborg?” The flickering gray eyes raked his body.

“It doesn’t show with my clothes on.”

“Oh ...” Pale lashes were beating very hard across the eyes now. She took a breath, held it. “Do—you always let it get this far? I mean—”

“No. Hell, I don’t know why I ... I owe you another apology. Usually I never ask the name. If I slip, I tell them right away; nobody’s ever held to it. I don’t count.” He smiled weakly.

“Well, why? You mean you can’t—”

“I’m not- all plastic.” He frowned, numb fingers rapping stone. “God, I’m not. Sometimes I wish I was, but I’m not.”

“No one? They never want to?”

“Branduin”—he faced the questioning eyes—“you’d better go back down. Get some sleep. Tomorrow laugh it off, and pick up some flashy Tail in the bar and have a good time. Come see me again in twenty-five years, when you’re back from space, and tell me what you saw.” Hesitating, he brushed her cheek with his true hand; instinctively she bent her head to the caress. “Good-bye.” He started up the hill.

“Maris—”

He stopped, trembling.

“Thank you for the brandy . . .” She came up beside him and caught his belt. “You’ll probably have to tow me up the hill.”

He pulled her to him and began to kiss her, hands touching her body incredulously.

“It’s getting—very, very late. Let’s hurry.”

Maris woke, confused, to the sound of banging shutters. Raising his head he was struck by the colors of dawn, and the shadow of Brandy standing bright-edged at the window. He left the rumpled bed and crossed cold tiles to join her. “What are you doing?” He yawned.

“I wanted to watch the sun rise, I haven’t seen anything but night for months. Look, the fog’s lifting already: the sun burns it up, it’s on fire, over the mountains—”

He smoothed her hair, pale gold under a corona of light. “And embers in the canyon.”

She looked down across ends of gray mist slowly reddening; then back. “Good morning.” She began to laugh. “I’m glad you don’t have any neighbors down there!” They were both naked.

He grinned, “That’s what I like about the place,” and put his arms around her. She moved close in the circle of coolness and warmth.

They watched the sunrise from the bed.

In the evening she came into the bar with the crew of the Kiss And Tell-736. They waved to him, nodded to her and drifted into blue shadows; she perched smiling before him. It struck him suddenly that nine hours was a long time.

“That’s the crew of my training ship. They want some white wine, please, any kind, in a bottle.”

He reached under the bar. “And one brandy, on the house?” He sent the tray off.

“Hi, Maris . . .”

“Hi, Brandy.”

“To misty mornings.” They drank together.

“By the way”—she glanced at him slyly—“I passed it around that people have been missing something. You.”

“Thank you,” meaning it. “But I doubt if it’ll change any minds.”

“Why not?”

“You read Ntaka—xenophobia; to most people in most cultures cyborgs are unnatural, the next thing up from a corpse. You’d have to be a necrophile—”

She frowned.

“—or extraordinary. You’re the first extraordinary person I’ve met in a hundred years.”

The smile formed, faded. “Maris—you’re not exactly twenty-five, are you? How old are you?”

“More like a hundred and fifteen.” He waited for the reaction.

She stared. “But, you look like twenty-five? You’re real, don’t you age?”

“I age. About five years for every hundred.” He shrugged. “The prosthetics slow the body’s aging. Perhaps it’s because only half my body needs constant regeneration; or it may be an effect of the antirejection treatment. Nobody really understands it. It just happens sometimes.”