Maya Bohnhoff - Pipe Dreams

She was watching his hand where it lay atop the keyboard, fingers just caressing the keys. “We’ll grab a quick bite at Giovanni’s and come home. That’ll give you about three hours to work on chapter one. Be in bed by eleven.” She left him alone to save his precious messages and read the rest of his mail, swaggering out of the room while swirling her orange juice in the rounded glass as if it were expensive brandy in a snifter. He noticed—he always did notice—how lithe she was, how long and catlike. She walked like a gunslinger. He, nerd, wondered how he had ever managed to snare a Marian.

The rest of the week was a blur of lectures and programming and anticipation. He got a lot of work done on the Pentagon Piece, as he called it, adding subtle and not-so-subtle nuances to his existing system. And he actually made a decent start on the “Bank Vault” program as well. Surprising, considering that in every spare moment he was noodling with the novel.

Marian’s business partner, Ruby, thought that was silly, “Considering,” she said, “that someone’s shown interest in the book as is.”

“He may want changes,” Beck told her.

“Mmhmm, but will he want the ones you’re making?”

That disconcerted him so much he spent Saturday and Sunday fully engaged in his programming with only half an afternoon out to go bike riding with Marian (his concession to her insistence on regular exercise) and start work on a short story which would no doubt end up in the same electronic file folder all his other unpublished short stories ended up in. He’d never had the temerity to publish even one of them on the Net. It wasn’t anonymous enough.

The Sheraton was corporately bland in its ostentatiousness; its foyer gleamed with brass that reflected only muted beiges and peaches. The potted foliage that decorated the place wasn’t real, nor was it intended to look real. It was intended to look alien. It didn’t. It looked like naked, airbrushed manzanita and cinchona spangled with tiny faux seed pearls, or draped with locks of gold and peach silk, that gave the impression of poodle-dyed Spanish Moss.

Beck eyed it with vague queasiness as he waited for the concierge to check him through to the elevator to the Tower suites. He was impressed in the extreme. He’d thought that the wealth in the publishing industry’ was invested in those who wrote, published or owned the movie rights to the latest multi-generational saga, horror classic or mucus-making romance. That Laurence Bourbon could afford such accommodation set him to musing about the differences between academic and commercial publishing. No textbook editor he knew could afford such luxury.

Bourbon was a tall man, Beck’s height or better, dapperly dressed in a suit with gleaming white shirt and red silk tie—an Ascot, not a Windsor. He was polished, urbane, even suave, yet his face seemed open friendly. Humor sparkled in his dark eyes. Beck liked him immediately and allowed his hopes to rise. More so when he saw a printed copy of his manuscript sitting in the middle of the round, glass-topped table at which Bourbon bid him seat himself.

“Dr. Hodge,” the publisher said expansively, sitting opposite him.

“Uh, Beckett, please… or Beck… whichever.”

There was a carafe of coffee on the table, Bourbon spoke as he poured. “Beckett, then. I’m very glad we could meet like this. And on such short notice.” He put down the carafe and laid both hands flat on the manuscript. “I don’t mind telling you, this is quite a book.”

Beck could feel his skin flushing. “I don’t mind hearing it. I’m surprised you actually wasted the paper to print it. Surely, a cyber reader—”

“False modesty, Beckett, seldom impresses an editor. This is a good book. Very solid. Exciting plot. Interesting characters. Especially Martin, your programmer/mage. Your knowledge of programming certainly comes through.”

Beck chuckled. “My textbook editor says I write like a programmer. He’s suggested to me that I should stick to academics and leave fiction to people with imagination.”

Bourbon shook his head. “I can only think he’s afraid of losing you to fiction. This novel shows a vivid imagination. At the same time, you apply your science extremely well. I’m impressed… obviously, or I wouldn’t be here. I hope you don’t mind my idle chatter, but I like to get to know my writers.”

His writers. Beck had the absurd desire to grin. He gave in to it and hid the grin in his coffee.

“Now, as to possible contracts,” Bourbon continued, then shot a glance at his watch. “I’ve an appointment shortly; could you drop by this evening… oh, around seven-ish? We could discuss terms…?” He spread his hands, leaving the ball in Beck’s court.

Beck was ready to jump at that, but remembered before he’d opened his mouth to accept that Marian had no idea what was going on. “Can we do it tomorrow? My wife and I have a rule. We never make last minute, solo plans without consulting each other—especially after hours.”

Bourbon’s brows twitched. “There’s the phone.”

“She’s on a buying expedition today. It… it wouldn’t be fair to spring this on her. She might have—er—plans for us this evening.” He flushed, hoping Bourbon wouldn’t inquire as to what kind of plans.

“A possessive woman, your wife?”

Beck had the impression the questioning tone was tacked on as an afterthought. “No, she’s not really. Well, I mean, she is —but we both are. It’s hard to explain, but we both have such hectic schedules and put in such long days; our time together is very precious to both of us. Tomorrow, maybe…” He trailed off, feeling vaguely idiotic—like a man who’s won the lottery only to balk at having to go down to the bank to pick up the check.

Bourbon’s smile was quick and bright. “Tomorrow’s fine. Some more coffee?”

Beck relaxed into the depths of his chair as they discussed some changes to the manuscript—all of which seemed impossibly minor. He left the Sheraton riding the crest of an adrenaline wave, eager to bring Bourbon a slightly reworked first chapter. He got home, had the house play an entire library of Vivaldi and Blue Oyster Cult, and worked on the book for what only seemed like minutes before Marian’s appearance at his office door interrupted him.

“What’re you doing home?” she asked, brow wrinkling. “Don’t you have classes this afternoon?”

He stared at her for a full two seconds before he realized she was right. He did have classes this afternoon—or rather, he would have had, if he’d remembered to go to them. Swift heat suffused his skin. “I…”

“Lost all track of time,” Marian finished for him. She laughed, leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Beck, honey, I think you’re halfway to discovering the secret of time travel.”

“What’s up?” The female voice came over Marian’s shoulder from the doorway.

Beck mumbled, “Hi, Ruby,” and tried to decide whether he should get up and race down to the campus in an attempt to retrieve his last class of the day, or to just call in and plead that he’d felt ill (cough, cough), taken a nap and… lost all track of time.

Marian’s partner, Ruby Wilson, sauntered into his office, arms folded across her substantial chest, and said, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Save file,” he told the computer. He looked up at her. “Are you having a secret meeting?”

The two women glanced at each other. “Yes,” said Ruby, “we’re part of a coven of cyber-witches and we’re having a ritual sacrifice this afternoon in your backyard.”

“No, no.” Marian shook her head. “That’s Tuesday. Today is the secret swearing-in ceremony for the new members and, of course—”