Элизабет Мун - Moon Flights

She was back in her office, reviewing the sensor records of the new collar’s performance, when a tap on her door brought her head up. “Yes?” she said, wondering who would be that formal.

Denial, anger—the first stages of grief, her education reminded her—but the woman in the doorway was still there, unscathed by her own emotion. The crisp dark hair, the lively dark eyes, the smooth unweathered skin… the expensive business suit and briefcase.

“Mother,” she managed finally.

“Surprised?” her mother asked. “I came in on the Perrymos from Baugarten; I’m en route to the Plarsis colonies. Sorry I didn’t have a chance to warn you, but they said one of the com channels was out—”

Peka flushed. It was out because the shuttle had knocked the dish awry. Her fault.

“—Some kind of accident, the communications officer said,” her mother went on. “I managed not to give him the family lecture.” She laughed; Peka couldn’t manage even a strangled chuckle.

“We have a two-day layover,” her mother said. “I’m sure you’re busy now, but I’d love to take you to dinner, or even breakfast, if you can make it.”

“Of course,” Peka said. She couldn’t say anything else.

“Here’s my shipboard number,” her mother said, holding out a scrap of card. Her own card, no doubt, with the number scribbled on the back of it. Peka got up from her chair, only then realizing she hadn’t made any move. Would her mother expect a hug? She couldn’t—but her mother held out only the one hand, and when Peka took the card, her mother was already turning away. “Give me a call when you’ve checked your schedule,” her mother said. “I’m free unless someone hires me.” She laughed again, over her shoulder, but turned away quickly enough that Peka didn’t have to answer.

It was the same card, the familiar name in the same style of lettering. Her mother didn’t need to list her degrees, her honors: alo attenvi, process quality ltd., consulting and the string of access numbers. Anyone who needed Attenvi’s expertise knew what process quality consulting was, knew that Leisha Attenvi had literally written the book—several of them. Had won the awards, had (even more important) saved one company after another from drowning in its own stupidity.

Peka turned the card over and over, and finally stuck it in the minder strip of her desk. She tried not to look around her office, but she knew too well what it was like, what her mother had seen in that brief visit. Automatically, her hands moved across surfaces, straightening everything into perfect alignment. Too late, but she couldn’t help it. Whether her mother said anything or not, she knew what could have been said. The professional does not confuse mess with decoration. Followed by the accusing finger pointing out this and that bit of disorder.

The headquarters of Process Quality Ltd. were of course decorated, by another professional, but her mother’s office (from which she had regular message cubes recorded for Peka) had no clutter, no personal touches. The pictures on the walls had been chosen for their effect on customers; the two photographs were of the Kaalin awards ceremonies.

“Peka…” That was Einos Skirados, the liaison from Traffic Control assigned to this project. She didn’t bother to flip on the visual; she already knew what he looked like, and right now she didn’t want anyone looking at her. Einos, in particular, would be distracting… something about the shape of his nose and the set of his eyes seemed to unhinge her logic processor.

“Yes?”

“The values on the second shuttle approach are nominal with the first—it’s looking good. Hal says they’ll have another done by the end of the shift, if there are no modifications.”

The second shuttle already? She glanced at the clock, and winced. Lamebraining wouldn’t work. She pulled the figures up onto her screen, and checked. Einos was good, but it was her responsibility. The computer’s own comparison showed no deviance.

“How much are the pilots complaining?” she asked.

“About what you’d expect,” Einos said. “But this was Kiis, who’s been in the low quartile, and if he could get it right—”

“We still haven’t had Beckwith,” Peka said. She meant it as a joke. Beckwith, whose shuttle had taken off the com dish, was off the schedule, and complaining bitterly about that.

“I can hardly wait,” Einos said. “I don’t know why they hire people like that.” He sounded priggish, but Peka didn’t mind. Einos never acted as if she were strange for being so careful about things, and she felt less guilty about being attracted to him. Perhaps it wasn’t an accident; perhaps it made sense.

“The numbers look good,” she told Einos, after rechecking the correspondence. “I’ll tell Hal to go ahead and finish the second.”

“Dinner at nineteen thirty?” Einos asked, in the tone that tweaked all her hormonal responses.

“Drat.” She’d forgotten completely. She flipped the video on and caught the startled expression on Einos’ face. “Einos, I’m so sorry—my mother just turned up—” That sounded lame, and worse than the “drat” before it. She was ready to explain that it didn’t matter, that she could still have dinner—her mother would be here for two days—but he interrupted.

“Your mother? The Alo Attenvi? Here?” He glanced around as if she might appear miraculously in his office.

The last twinge of guilt disappeared, swamped in anger and envy. Would anyone ever use that tone about her? “Yes, my mother… she came in on the Perrymos and she asked me to dinner—and I’m sorry, Einos, but I forgot that this was our night.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, releasing any claim on the evening. “You have to see her—I don’t suppose you’d introduce me… if it’s not too much trouble…”

“Maybe later in the visit,” Peka said. “Right now I need to call Hal.” Right now she needed to get far away from her mother. From everyone who hero-worshipped her mother. From the very concept of mothers. But she called Hal instead.

“Glad to hear it’s working well,” he said. “Thought it would—good clear design, and not hard to do the modifications.”

“Thanks,” Peka said.

“Listen—somebody said there’s an Attenvi listed as a passenger on that FTL that just docked… relative of yours?”

Station gossip, not just faster than light but faster than reality. “Yes,” Peka said, feeling helpless. Everyone would know, and everyone would tell her how she should feel about it. “My mother.”

“ The Attenvi,” Hal said. He whistled. “Huh. Must be difficult, after you’ve been the Attenvi on station.”

“She’s not staying,” Peka said, more sharply than she meant to.

“Just wants to check up on her little girl,” Hal said, making it almost a question.

“On her way somewhere else,” Peka said. “And I have to get going—we’re having dinner.” She hadn’t told her mother yet, but the way the gossip net worked, her mother would probably be waiting at the right table at the right time even without a formal invitation.

Jacobi Station had been designed to handle outsystem transport, offering more docking and storage space than Janus, the first-built primary station. Peka had arrived before any direct docking of FTL ships was possible. She’d had to travel from starship to station in a little twelve-person hopper, sweating in her p-suit and entirely too aware of the accident rate of near-station traffic in overcrowded situations.

Someday these wide corridors would bustle with traffic; the blank spaces on either side would be filled with shops, hotels, restaurants. Only one was out here now, a pioneer branch of Higg’s, the universal fast-food chain. The concentric blue, green, and purple circles promised that its limited bill of fare would be the same as—or at least reminiscent of—that in every other Higg’s. A bosonburger… an FTL float… Dirac dip… the names were so familiar they didn’t sound silly anymore, and only third graders got a kick out of realizing that they meant something else.