chipped Ruvalian statue rested on a table in the corner, forgotten,
dull in the starlight.
Deneb sat in a chair over by the window,
staring out at the stars that wheeled around them in their continual, rather
beautiful dance. At night most of the crew lowered the shutters, which blocked out
any sunshine from nearby stars, but Deneb’s were still open, giving him a
panoramic view of the local system. Andi doubted that he was actually seeing
the constellations, however. She knew that look on his face and guessed that
his brain was seeing pictures drawn from memories rather than the scene before
him.
He didn’t look over as she entered. His
hand was resting on a glass of an amber liquid, and she saw the familiar bottle
of Lagavulin Islay malt whisky next to him on the floor, one of the many bottles
he had stolen from an Earth supplier before fleeing his home planet.
She leaned against the doorframe, watching
him for a moment, twisting inside to see the sad look on his face. She knew
without asking that he was thinking about her mother. He always looked like
that when he thought about her, and the whisky was always present in his hand
then, too.
“I’m going to bed,” she said eventually,
when she realized that he didn’t even know she was standing there.
He looked over. His hair was ruffled where
he had taken off his hat and hadn’t bothered to brush it, and he looked younger
than his thirty-seven years. “Goodnight,” he said. “I hope you sleep well.” He
didn’t rise to kiss her as usual and Andi’s bottom lip trembled in an
uncharacteristic display of emotion.
“Are you angry with me, Dad?”
He smiled then, the fierce, rather angry
look in his eyes dissipating, and he held his free arm out. She came over,
knelt beside his chair, and hugged him.
“Of course not, love. Why should I be angry
with you?”
“I know that you wanted to go and get the
Golden Star, and I said you shouldn’t.”
“It was only common sense, Andi. You were
right.”
“I suppose. I just don’t want anything to
happen to you.”
“I know.” He kissed her on the top of her
head.
She got to her feet and went back to the
door, turning once more to look at him before she left. She bit her lip, then
blurted out: “I miss her too, Dad.”
Deneb stared at her. “I know,” was all he
said.
Outside the window, Andi watched the
purple-blue orb of Thoume rise and begin to block out the starlight, and
Deneb’s face fell into shadow. He looked back out at the stars, his eyes
distant, and took a large swallow from the glass before raising the bottle to
pour out some more whisky.
For a moment she hesitated, wishing they
could share their loss because it might make it easier for both of them. But
she sensed that Deneb didn’t want to talk about his grief. For him it was still
too deep, too dark, to share.
Quietly, she left the room and let the door
slide shut.
*
Andi opened her eyes. It was still dark. She
checked the clock by the side of the bed. It was just after two a.m.,
ship-time. She knew that outside the shutters the Antiquarian would now
be in daylight, orbiting a short distance from Thoume on the side of its sun, but
the ship always ran on Earth time, and the Waiter had not yet lifted the
shutters that covered the Carbex windows. She raised her head from the pillow
and rubbed her eyes, yawning. What had awoken her?
She frowned, sitting up. Something had
definitely roused her. She swung her feet over the bed and put on her soft
shoes, then pulled her robe closely around her. Had the noise come from Deneb’s
quarters, just down the corridor? She remembered that he had been drinking when
she left him. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d woken her by throwing a bottle
at the wall and smashing it, angered, as always, by visions of the past that
plagued him.
She walked to her door and pressed the
green button to open it, then peered out. The corridor was quiet. There was no
sign of anyone. She ran down to Deneb’s
dull in the starlight.
Deneb sat in a chair over by the window,
staring out at the stars that wheeled around them in their continual, rather
beautiful dance. At night most of the crew lowered the shutters, which blocked out
any sunshine from nearby stars, but Deneb’s were still open, giving him a
panoramic view of the local system. Andi doubted that he was actually seeing
the constellations, however. She knew that look on his face and guessed that
his brain was seeing pictures drawn from memories rather than the scene before
him.
He didn’t look over as she entered. His
hand was resting on a glass of an amber liquid, and she saw the familiar bottle
of Lagavulin Islay malt whisky next to him on the floor, one of the many bottles
he had stolen from an Earth supplier before fleeing his home planet.
She leaned against the doorframe, watching
him for a moment, twisting inside to see the sad look on his face. She knew
without asking that he was thinking about her mother. He always looked like
that when he thought about her, and the whisky was always present in his hand
then, too.
“I’m going to bed,” she said eventually,
when she realized that he didn’t even know she was standing there.
He looked over. His hair was ruffled where
he had taken off his hat and hadn’t bothered to brush it, and he looked younger
than his thirty-seven years. “Goodnight,” he said. “I hope you sleep well.” He
didn’t rise to kiss her as usual and Andi’s bottom lip trembled in an
uncharacteristic display of emotion.
“Are you angry with me, Dad?”
He smiled then, the fierce, rather angry
look in his eyes dissipating, and he held his free arm out. She came over,
knelt beside his chair, and hugged him.
“Of course not, love. Why should I be angry
with you?”
“I know that you wanted to go and get the
Golden Star, and I said you shouldn’t.”
“It was only common sense, Andi. You were
right.”
“I suppose. I just don’t want anything to
happen to you.”
“I know.” He kissed her on the top of her
head.
She got to her feet and went back to the
door, turning once more to look at him before she left. She bit her lip, then
blurted out: “I miss her too, Dad.”
Deneb stared at her. “I know,” was all he
said.
Outside the window, Andi watched the
purple-blue orb of Thoume rise and begin to block out the starlight, and
Deneb’s face fell into shadow. He looked back out at the stars, his eyes
distant, and took a large swallow from the glass before raising the bottle to
pour out some more whisky.
For a moment she hesitated, wishing they
could share their loss because it might make it easier for both of them. But
she sensed that Deneb didn’t want to talk about his grief. For him it was still
too deep, too dark, to share.
Quietly, she left the room and let the door
slide shut.
*
Andi opened her eyes. It was still dark. She
checked the clock by the side of the bed. It was just after two a.m.,
ship-time. She knew that outside the shutters the Antiquarian would now
be in daylight, orbiting a short distance from Thoume on the side of its sun, but
the ship always ran on Earth time, and the Waiter had not yet lifted the
shutters that covered the Carbex windows. She raised her head from the pillow
and rubbed her eyes, yawning. What had awoken her?
She frowned, sitting up. Something had
definitely roused her. She swung her feet over the bed and put on her soft
shoes, then pulled her robe closely around her. Had the noise come from Deneb’s
quarters, just down the corridor? She remembered that he had been drinking when
she left him. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d woken her by throwing a bottle
at the wall and smashing it, angered, as always, by visions of the past that
plagued him.
She walked to her door and pressed the
green button to open it, then peered out. The corridor was quiet. There was no
sign of anyone. She ran down to Deneb’s
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