Элизабет Мун - Moon Flights

At Wheel Days, we “arrest” everyone who enters the central festival area without a wheel… a pin, a dangler, something in the shape of a wheel, a circle with spokes. Most people simply pin on one of the hundreds of free wheels tossed into the crowd at the opening ceremonies, or handed out by any of the Miss LaPorte-Centro-501 contestants. It’s true that no one is told what the wheels are for, but most people know (or find out quickly). We’re lenient—we let a Shakespeare-revival streetdancer get by with a ruff—but we make a sizeable donation to the Vacuum Victims Fund every year. Anyway, I hadn’t warned Ernest… and I knew his attitude towards “commercial junk.” He would be the last person to pin on a cheap plastic gilt wheel for the fun of it.

I really meant to call the Port, but even before I left the platform a long snaky arm in cerise, fringed with silver, had wrapped firmly around my shoulders. “We got a problem, son,” said the raspy voice of the Jinnits lead singer, just as the crowd realized who that was and started oohing. I hardly had time to gulp before the Jinnits, all of them, whisked me away and into the nearest doorway.

I don’t pretend to understand musicians. I like music, sure, and Peg and I love to dance. But the way musicians think is beyond me. Murray’s had us over when Conway was visiting, and I always felt a little uncomfortable, knowing that he’s never sat behind a desk from nine to five in his entire life. Now I was surrounded by them, strange-looking people in bright, shimmery suits, with gold and silver fringe on arms and shoulders and hips and ankles. Cerise male and female, tangerine male and female, caution-yellow male and midnight blue male. All bright-eyed, all very alert, and all very upset about something.

As it turned out, they had three problems. Someone had put only two porta-potties in the cubbyholes off Main Stage, and they needed at least four (three M, one F) because they’d brought along a whole new stage crew, much bigger than last year. I gave myself a pat on the back for sequestering one set in the Chamber offices, and said I’ve have someone bring the others right away. That got me a nod from the female in cerise and the male in tangerine, but the band leader didn’t budge.

There was this ship captain, he said. I had formerly heard all of this from the ship captain’s point of view; now I heard it from the band’s. Conway, they agreed (patting Conway, whom I hadn’t recognized with this year’s hair-color and a shimmering yellow catsuit) had gone a little overboard with Zetta (the ex-wife), but it was mostly Zetta’s fault. She’d threatened to leave him for a fat-cat management type at Central Belt Mining & Exploration, who was going to get her a permanent position there. So Conway had put the moves on a corporate wife, being hurt and lonesome and willing to make some CBM&E husband unhappy in return, and then Zetta had had a row with her new lover and come tearing in to find Conway embracing what’shername. Some brunette with plenty of miles, the cerise female said admiringly, but a lot of horsepower under the hood. Conway nodded, at this point, and said she was made for more than a middle manager’s wife. No one said a word about the corporate wife’s husband. I thought of Peg, who in a hotsuit and hood could pass for twenty, and decided to keep her far away from Conway.

Zetta had already filed for divorce, but apparently she still considered Conway her property, because she had sent the brunette away in tears. Then on the voyage across, she had started a row with Conway in the ship’s bar, expressed herself in highly colored terms on the subject of his ancestry, his anatomy, and his eventual destination, and finally had thrown his own drink in his face. That’s when he hit her, but actually it was Shareen (the tangerine female) who blacked her eyes, because Zetta had elbowed Shareen in sensitive places and said “nasty things” about Shareen’s lover, who worked backstage. “Zetta deserved it,” said the band leader, and everyone else nodded.

“I was drunk,” said Conway, sadly.

“She deserved it anyway,” said the band leader, and everyone nodded again. “But this damn captain…” Seems the captain, as a Neo-Feminist, considered any female who wouldn’t file charges when assaulted to be in need of protection at best and permanent reeducation at most. She wouldn’t believe that Shareen had blacked Zetta’s eyes, and assumed that Shareen was another of Conway’s lovers, trying to take the rap for him. Zetta didn’t like being hit, but she liked even less being treated like a nincompoop. Shareen was furious because she’d never had an affair with Conway—she was gay, and proud of it. And now the captain was going around LaPorte-Centro-501, telling everyone that the Jinnits were a sexist band that no self-respecting Neo-Feminist would listen to, and the band was under a peace bond order (guaranteed by the Chamber, as their employer) and couldn’t fight back.

“I could kill that bitch,” said Shareen, looking me straight into the eye until I nodded agreement. “But it would break the bond, and our contract both, and you’d have no lead band, and we’d have no gig.”

And besides (third problem) there was Conway, who was depressed and miserable, and needed a girl to cheer him up so he could do his best. Nothing else would do, and brunette was preferable. Somebody (they all looked at me, intently) had to do something to stop that captain from ruining their reputation and their business, and somebody had to get Conway cheered up so he could play. Then they patted my arms and told me they’d be in their suite when I got it all straightened out.

I started by calling the Chamber offices and arranging to have the porta-potties moved. The captain hadn’t sounded very understanding on the radio, and I wasn’t at all sure how I could deal with her. We do have laws about libel, and also about inciting a riot, but what with the way colonies depend on spacers, you just can’t afford to alienate the people who run the ships. And for all I knew she’d claim it fell under religious freedom or something. I looked up Sarah Jolly Hollinshead, the Chamber’s top lawyer, on the schedule. She had volunteered to handle Campground registration this year. This was too important for a call: I’d have to go myself.

The Campground was already filling up. Colorful bubbletents sprouted from the storage bay floor. Sarah had a line maybe seven families long, and I knew better than to break in, even though she caught my eye and nodded to me. Justice must be seen to be done, as she keeps telling us. I stood there catching my breath after the droptube ride, and admired Sarah’s organization. She had two gofers with her, and really kept things moving along without seeming to hurry anyone. I moved up behind the family in front of me (by their T-shirt designs, recently from Teacup 311’s “Tea for Two Days”).

It wasn’t until I heard Joyce’s voice that I realized she was two families ahead of me in the line. I peeked. There was the back of her smooth dark head, looking very much as I remembered the back of her head looking, and there were the three kids (one niece, two nephews), some inches taller. They all held small travel bags. She was asking Sarah where to find Aisle 26, Lot X, as they had a reservation (which Sarah checked, before handing them a map), and then she asked where she could find me.

“Mr. Carruthers?” asked Sarah, as if she hadn’t heard that name before, but she said it loud enough for me to hear, in case I wanted to.

“My brother-in-law,” said Joyce. I started to back up and bumped into someone behind me, someone who turned out to be large and solid.

“Andrew Carruthers?” asked Sarah. I think she was trying to give me time to escape.