Shooting the Rift - eARC (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

I
n which I find myself in pressing need of a drink.

The rest of Tinkie’s visit passed off as uneventfully as they ever did, although for the most part my sister’s presence in the house barely registered with me; she spent most of her time roaming the estate in search of small game or young men to amuse herself with, while I was so absorbed in the process of cramming for the Academy that I hardly noticed her periodic returns with a specimen or two of whichever she’d found. Competition for entry was fierce, commissions in the armed forces of the Commonwealth being a traditional means of keeping the daughters of the gentry unsuited by temperament for academe, politics or the church occupied until they were too old to embarrass their families, and I was well aware that there would be three or four candidates competing for every available place.

On the plus side, unlike most other Commonwealth institutions, wealth and social status would have very little bearing on the results: the Armed Forces took their responsibility for the defense of the realm seriously, and competence would be the only criterion considered in an applicant. Which should have worked in my favor, and probably would; but my gender most certainly wouldn’t. The Academy might have to accept men these days whether it wanted to or not, but it would certainly take the lowest number it could get away with: to be in with any chance at all, I had to be more than just good enough, I had to be outstanding.

Which meant I spent most of my sister’s visit immersed in the datasphere, memorizing as much as I could, while the best summer we’d had in years drifted lazily by without me.

“You should go outside,” Dad told me, appearing at my shoulder with a cheese sandwich and a mug of tea, both of which he deposited carefully on the far end of the chaise. Since embarking on my studies in earnest, I seemed to have made the conservatory my bolt-hole of choice without consciously realizing it. Possibly because its glass walls kept me tenuously connected to the rest of the estate, where life rolled gently on without me, despite my best efforts to ignore it.

“I’ll take a walk later,” I said, accepting the snack gratefully. It wasn’t until I took my first sip of tea that I realized how dry my mouth had become.

Dad sighed, and shook his head. “That’s what you said yesterday.”

“I meant I’d go today,” I lied.

Dad meshed into my ‘sphere, his attention glancing off an array of exercises in orbital dynamics.
I don’t see why you have to memorize all this,
he sent,
when you can just pull it out of the nearest node.

“Because there might not be a node,” I replied verbally. “Data systems are usually the first things to go down in a rift bounce, and if you don’t already know what to do, you can’t look it up.”

“I see,” he said, in the tones of a man who didn’t, and went on gathering up the handful of mugs surrounding me, the contents of most having gone cold before I’d even got halfway through them. “Try not to forget we’ve got guests coming tonight.”

“Have we?” I said, calling up the household social calendar. My spirits fell. “Oh God, the Devraies are on the list.”

“They’re not that bad,” Dad said, as though contemplating a minor ailment. “And your mother likes them.”

“Likes their connections, more like,” I said sourly. From what I’d gathered over the years, Mother and Alice Devraie had been locked in quiet but unrelenting competition since their first day as classmates at the Academy, resenting one another’s successes almost as much as they relished their own. Currently Alice was ahead on points, having recently been promoted to the command of a capital ship, which made her a Captain in rank, as well as position. (Though Mother was Captain of the
Revenge
, and usually addressed as such, it was merely a courtesy title, her actual rank remaining at Commander.) But Sherman Devraie, Alice’s husband, was the cousin of someone in the Admiralty who was supposed to have influence over the promotions board, and who might, perhaps, be induced to put in a good word on Mother’s behalf if Sherman asked nicely. Personally, I doubted that he ever would, even if his wife let him; he was a crashing snob, who thought us jumped-up parvenus because our estates had been purchased with Great-Grandmother’s share of the prize money from a Guild privateer her ship had been lucky enough to cut off from the rift point before it could get away with whatever it had been contracted to steal.

“You might very well think that,” Dad said, meaning he did too, “but your mother wants them all here, so we’ll just have to put up with them.”

“All of them?” I checked the invitation list a little more carefully. Sure enough, their daughter was on it too. “If Carenza’s coming, I’m having a headache. Or pleurisy. Or gangrene.”

Dad sighed. “Please don’t be difficult, Si. Your mother wants to give Tinkie a decent send-off.”

“Then why hasn’t she invited any of Tinkie’s friends?” I asked, already knowing the answer to that. Whatever the ostensible reason, these soirees only had one real objective; a Darwinian struggle for social position among everyone who attended. Everyone who mattered, anyway; husbands and offspring were there merely as tactical auxilia.

Dad didn’t waste any time answering a rhetorical question. “If Carenza bothers you that much, just ignore her,” he said instead. Which wasn’t the point at all.

“But she won’t ignore
me
, Dad, and she’s an octopus. The last time we were on a dance floor together I couldn’t sit down for days.”

“Then don’t dance with her,” Dad said, in a “problem solved” voice, which gave me no confidence whatsoever.

I nodded glumly. “I’ll do my best,” I said, resolving to stick as close to my sister as I could.

The evening got off to a slow start, which was fine by me. The first few grav sleds arrived at dusk, silhouetted against the sunset as they drifted down to hover an inch or so above the lawn, before disgorging family members and a few close friends. These always arrived early, ostensibly to provide help and support to the hostess (although Dad had done most of the actual organizing); I strongly suspected, however, the real reason was to hide the fact that they couldn’t afford a chauffeuse from the more well-heeled guests.

“Simon!” My spirits lifted in spite of themselves as Aunt Jenny clambered out of her battered utility sled, easily distinguishable from the highly polished sedans surrounding it by the primered replacement panel over the secondary emitters that she still hadn’t got round to getting painted, and plodded towards me. “How’s my favorite nephew?”

“A lot better for seeing you,” I admitted, bending down for a peck on the cheek. Somehow, I always felt, Aunt Jenny’s perception of me had crossed the event horizon over a decade ago, leaving me permanently etched in her mind at the age of eleven.

“Call that a greeting?” She tilted her head back, frowning in mock outrage, and drew me into a hug almost as rib-cracking as one of Tinkie’s, heedless of the creases she was adding to her already disheveled dress uniform. She’d obviously tried to smarten up for the occasion, but the plumes on her tricorn were beginning to droop, and a few strands of graying hair hung randomly about her face, escaping from beneath the brim. Breaking free of the embrace, she tried shoving them back for a moment, then tutted impatiently. “Stuff this for a game of dirtsloggers.” Whipping the hat from her head, she lobbed it casually through the open side window of her sled. “Where’s that good-for-nothing brother of mine?”

“Dad? Trying to smooth things over with the caterers, probably,” I said. I’d seen Mother heading for the kitchens about half an hour ago, and if she’d run true to form there’d be ruffled feelings to soothe and gratuities to disburse in her wake.

“More than likely,” Aunt Jenny said, knowing Mother of old. They didn’t exactly disapprove of one another, but Mother never bothered to hide the fact that she didn’t consider her sister-in-law’s duties with the Fleet Auxiliary quite Naval enough to be properly associated with the illustrious Forrester name, and Aunt Jenny never bothered to pretend that she gave the proverbial flying one what Mother thought about anything. Pretty much the only thing the two of them had in common was Dad, of whom, so far as I could tell, they were both genuinely fond.

“Let’s find the drinks,” I said, proffering my arm, and Aunt Jenny grinned, in a way that reminded me strongly of my sister.

“Best idea I’ve heard all day,” she agreed.

As the evening wore on, the number of guests increased, and I did my best to fade into whatever quiet corners I could find. Never for long, though; Mother wanted me on display, in case any suitably connected spinsters happened to mention in passing that they were in desperate need of a spouse, and kept hauling me out for inspection. Which meant that, despite my best intentions, when the Devraies turned up I was still stuck in the entrance hall, balancing a glass of wine and a plate of finger food, neither of which I wanted.

Alice and Mother greeted each other in the slightly overly effusive manner of people determined to mask their mutual antipathy, entirely unaware that they’d only succeeded in drawing attention to it. While they were braying insincere compliments at one another Sherman looked down his nose at me, which was a neat trick for someone almost a head shorter than I was, and Carenza smiled, regarding me the way Tinkie looked at something small and furry when she had a shotgun in her hands. I glanced round, hoping to see some sign of my sister, but she was on the far side of the room, surrounded by the sort of vapid young men whose heads were easily turned by the sight of a well-filled uniform, and was clearly enjoying herself far too much to come to my rescue.

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Carenza said, with a faintly arch smile. “I wasn’t expecting to see you before the Christmas vacation.”

“Summerhall and I agreed I wasn’t cut out for estate management,” I said easily, ditching the surplus
vol au vents
behind a convenient aspidistra.

“So we’d gathered,” Sherman put in, with a dismissive flap of his delicate lace cuffs. They were the height of fashion among those who cared about such things, which didn’t include me, and he took in my plain shirt and cravat with a barely concealed sneer. “But perhaps it’s just as well. We men should just stick to what we’re good at, and leave all the tedious stuff to the women.”

“Remind me again,” I said, “just what it is you
are
good at.”

Sherman bristled, but before he could come up with an adequate riposte Alice hooked his arm and hauled him away to make disparaging remarks about the array of refreshments on offer.

Which left me alone with Carenza. Not entirely, of course; the hallway was bustling with party-goers heading in towards the dance floor and the buffet, or outside for fresh air and the quiet exchange of confidences. Mother was only a few feet away, but too engrossed in the perpetual game of status chess with her guests to take any notice of me, and Dad had vanished entirely, for which I could hardly blame him.

“So what are your plans now?” Carenza asked, oozing uncomfortably into my personal space, and assaulting my nostrils with her cloyingly floral pomade.

I took a step back. “Get a fresh drink,” I said, gulping the contents of my glass, and turning away towards the salon.

“Capital notion,” she said, falling into step beside me, disingenuously steadying herself against the flow of the crowd with a hand on my backside as she did so. I twitched away irritably, and she grinned, daring me to comment. “I could do with one too.”

“Allow me,” I said, hoping the gritting of my teeth hadn’t become too audible over the cat-strangling sounds from the ceilidh band currently murdering “The Dashing White Sergeant.” The crush around the drinks table was greater than I’d expected, but surely not dense enough to push Carenza quite so close. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy close physical contact with the opposite sex as much as the next man (if he’s straight), but damn it all, a fellow likes to be asked first.

“Sparkling wine, if you’ve got a decent vintage,” Carenza said, draping herself around me, which she seemed to think essential to communicate clearly with the caterer standing a handful of inches the other side of my center line. The lad nodded, no doubt used to being addressed like a vending drone, and reached for a bottle. “And another for my companion.”

“I’ll have an apple brandy,” I said, irked at her presumption. And God knew, I could use it then.

“You’re not wasting any time,” Carenza said, a moue of amusement quirking her lips. She sipped at her wine, managing to convey that it was mildly disappointing but no worse than she’d expected, without saying or doing anything I could plausibly take sufficient offence at to leave.

Then the brownian motion of the circulating guests opened an unexpected gap at my elbow, into which I slipped, momentarily increasing the distance between us to something more comfortable; but a heartbeat later Carenza slithered into the space I’d just vacated, and immediately resumed her impression of a limpet. To hell with subtlety, I decided.

“I need some fresh air,” I said, forging my way through the crush towards the open terrace. “If you’ll excuse—”

“Good idea.” Carenza was one of those people who wouldn’t recognize a hint if it came gift-wrapped with HINT embossed on the ribbon. She dumped her suddenly empty glass on an occasional table by the door. “Let’s get a little privacy.”

At which point I realized I’d made a fundamental tactical error. The terrace was far less crowded than the salon, and full of shadowed corners between the rows of potted shrubs which had been placed out here to afford guests intent on discussing personal affairs (or in some cases conducting them) the privacy they required. No sooner had we gained the cool of the evening air than a tug on my elbow propelled us into a lurking rose arbor, effectively screening us from the house.

“Carenza, stop it.” I detached her hands from my posterior, juggling my drink to pry them free one by one, only to feel them clamp back into place again a second later. Her breasts compressed against my chest, and a wine-marinated tongue thrust itself between my teeth, choking off my automatic protest. The biomonitor embedded in my neuroware activated automatically as our saliva mingled, assuring me that she was free of any sexually transmitted diseases or significant genetic defects, but that was hardly the point at the moment.