Chapter Thirty-Three
Spin One
Naliryiz glanced at the candles, smiled over the quivering tongues of flame at Murphy, who was still chuckling. She smiled and, looking into his steady eyes, realized she no longer felt awkward after what had been a most embarrassing faux pas.
Rodger Murphy’s invitation to dinner had come as a surprise, given his apparent desire to avoid her except when she was the mandatory witness at his debriefing of a Kulsian. However, as they only occurred when there was new intelligence, the intervals between seeing each other were highly irregular. One time, there had only been a two day gap; at another point, they did not see each other for twenty-one days. Not that she was counting.
So when his dinner invitation arrived without any change in the frequency or nature of their contact, she had hardly known what to make of it. So she did what any forthright, logical, and dominative member of the Otlethes Family would do: she secretly contacted the human female who was her de facto sister-in-law, Mara Lee.
However, Lee herself was increasingly busy preparing her helicopter crews for operations on R’Bak and had not been much in contact with Murphy herself except to provide him with brief updates. She had, however, shared an insight on the colonel’s multiple sclerosis, something of which Naliryiz, though a healer, had been unaware. After all, there had never been a documented case of the affliction among any SpinDogs, so their knowledge of the disease was quite limited.
That new insight and their long separation might have been why she was not entirely composed when she arrived at Murphy’s quarters. She greeted him affably . . . which elicited, of all things, a small, rueful grin. She also noticed a number of rather enticing aromas emanating from an array of pots and pans perched on his quarters’ small cooking unit. She looked around for plates and utensils . . . but discovered that they were already laid out on a table that had evidently been brought to his rooms for this purpose. There was a cloth—a bedsheet?—under them, which puzzled and even worried her. Why obstruct the presumably washable surface of the table with an easily stained expanse of linen? Was it some strange test of her ability with the decidedly impractical Terran utensils?
Of which, she had never seen so elaborate a collection—several sizes of spoon, two different forks and knives, and several different cups. Although puzzled, she leaned eagerly toward the cooking smells while politely admiring the items arrayed on the table. Whatever else that signified, the arrangement had required time and precision to lay out. She decided that was a positive sign and remained standing where she was.
Only then did she realize that Murphy had left her to attend to one of the pots on the cooking unit. She wondered where the cook, presumably an orderly, had gone. Surely Murphy, Sko’Belm (or, increasingly, Commander) of the Lost Soldiers was not responsible for tending to the meal in his orderly’s absence! When she inquired after that matter, he stared at her for a moment before explaining, with a small but reassuringly warm smile, that no, he had prepared the meal himself.
She hardly knew what to say. It was not merely peculiar, but somewhat arresting. She was surprised she had not noticed such a strange custom before, but then again, the only times they had shared meals or beverages were public occasions. And of course, meals with Mara were no different from meals with her family—except they were far more boisterous, and even amusingly bawdy.
When the food was ready, Murphy did not call her over to the cooking unit but, instead, brought several pots and pans to the table, from which he drew small portions that he placed on the smaller plates. She managed not to frown; it was a strange ritual, that a leader should behave like the lowest of servants. But even so, she was not prepared when he invited her to sit and then quickly moved to stand behind the chair she had selected. Presuming she had misunderstood—that the chair was, in fact, his—she hastily moved to the other chair. But he followed, indicating that now, she should stay where she was. Smiling, he drew forth the chair, and still holding it, bade her sit.
She was so confused that she did the only logical thing she could: she complied. Whereupon he sat and they began eating not the main meal, but small rations of other foods.
It was between the strange delicacies he called cashews and the ones that succeeded them—olives—that she realized that none of his preparations or solicitude was some strange shedding of dominion. Nor was it one of the rare circumstances in which a far more powerful person took ritual steps to put an inferior guest at their ease. No, this was simply his culture’s way of showing esteem and, possibly, appreciation that she had accepted his invitation to dinner. Or what he had called a “home-cooked meal.” On reflection, that alone should have warned her how strange this dinner would be; after all, where else would one cook a meal but at home?
However, her greatest disorientation—and abashment—occurred when she finally thought herself oriented. After a pleasant conversation regarding their respective siblings, Murphy rose, opened a bottle of wine, and served the main course: an unusually symmetric block of blended meats served with a sauce rendered from R’Bak citrus fruits. Perhaps it was the heady aroma—part salt, part spice—that distracted her just enough to step wrong.
Leaning over, he brought forth the small igniter the Lost Soldiers called a Zippo lighter and lit two low candles she had not noticed until that moment.
Naliryiz gasped. “I am sorry. I had not heard! I did not know this was a commemorative feast!”
“A what?” Murphy asked, a small frown curving down toward his small smile.
“A death feast. Who died?” She gestured toward the candles.
Murphy stared at her, then at the candles, and then burst out laughing.
Naliryiz was so confused that she was only fully aware of one thing: she did not like being laughed at by Rodger Murphy. Not that she enjoyed anyone laughing at her, but certainly not him. She was preparing to stand and depart, when he reached out and squeezed the wick of first one candle and then the other. She blinked as wisps of smoke rose from them; was he disavowing honored dead? What could it mean?
His next words were her answer. “No one has died—although you haven’t eaten my cooking, yet.” He chuckled; she frowned and looked at him sideways. It sounded like a quip, but—
He waved away his words and her faux pas. “Among my people, most cultures use dim light—candles especially—to signify that they are defining the space within the glow as their own. That they wish privacy so they can get to know each other better.”
“This is—this is an invitation to intimacy? Rather than thoughts of grieving?”
Murphy considered. “Well, in some cultures, candles could be present in either situation. But when it’s just two people, we usually understand it as . . . well, yes, an invitation to intimacy.”
Naliryiz felt herself mentally step back from the misunderstanding, and almost laughed. “I am sorry, but this was . . . quite amusing, in a way.”
Rodger Murphy smiled widely; his teeth were every bit as straight as the most Elevated SpinDog. “I found it amusing, too. Now, would you like some wine? I’m told that 1939 was a very good year for Bordeaux.”
“I do not know what that means,” Naliryiz replied as the ruby red liquid began filling her glass.
“Actually,” Murphy said, smile still wider, “neither do I. Let’s eat.”
* * *
“This wine—Bored Doe?—is the most wonderful libation I have ever tasted,” Naliryiz breathed toward Murphy. “And the meat—the Spam? What creatures is it made from?”
Murphy looked sideways. “I’m not entirely sure. And you wouldn’t have heard of them.”
“The sauce is agdajhay, is it not?”
“I don’t know that word, I’m afraid. It’s a fruit my soldiers have nicknamed jalapineapple. It’s pretty spicy.”
“Delightfully so!” she exclaimed, surprised at how loud and voluble she had become. She leaned away until her spine touched the back of her chair. “Murphy . . . ” she started—and then did not know how to continue.
“Yes?”
Well, that’s not a very helpful response, Rodger Murphy. She sighed. “I am from a plain-spoken people so I lack the art of approaching a matter sideways—obliquely, is your word?” He nodded. “Then here is what I must ask: I do not understand why you must be present on R’Bak for the battles there. Certainly Tapper could do what you intend to. Assuming that Moorefield and Cutter are not sufficient.”
Murphy looked slightly surprised. “Yes, but if anything goes wrong, either dirtside or spaceside, Tapper, second only to Mara, is the Lost Soldier most respected by all the Families, both SpinDog and RockHound. And, between the two of them and Kevin Bowden, they have the knowledge and skills most needed by my people—and yours—for surviving whatever might follow.”
“You think like a primus.” She sighed. “Better than them, actually.” Although right now, I would welcome impetuosity! She pushed that thought away. “More like a Matriarch.”
He smiled. “I don’t have the legs for a dress.”
She frowned, then understood. “Ah. No, I make the comparison to matriarchs because they do not have the luxury of indulging their spleen when making decisions. Nor do you. Nor is it so firmly embedded in how your culture seems to raise males.”
He tipped his wineglass toward her. “There’s actually a lot of variability in that regard. But no, very few of us are raised the way your, er, males are.”
She nodded, studied the wine. It was safer than his eyes. “Murphy.”
He smiled. “Yes?”
“I regret having caused you to extinguish the candles. Would it be an imposition to ask you to relight them?”
He did so before replying, “Not. At. All.”
Naliryiz studied the tongues of flame through the wine; they made it look like blood. Not the blood of a kill, but of hearts, of life . . . “I miss the light, Murphy. Down on R’Bak. I miss going there as a liaison.”
He nodded. “Yes, the lights on Spin One are a bit cold. I expected they’d be different in the hydroponics core, more like what the plants would receive in their natural environment.”
“The scientists say it is optimal for them. Better than the sun’s own rays.” She sighed, resisting the strange urge to pout. “And here in the corridors, the lights are optimized for activating vitamin D, maintaining alertness, preventing depression, and of course, lowering costs.” She smiled at the candles. “But I like the flame. It is warmer. It is not so predictable. And your people are right: it seems to radiate as much intimacy as light.” She rushed on before she could think the better of mentioning what Mara had revealed to her. “I think that a major part of intimacy is truth . . . so may I share a truth with you, Rodger Murphy?”
He seemed unable to speak, as if he was staring at her and had not quite heard her words. “I would be honored if you would share a truth with me, Naliryiz.”
Well, we shall see if you do. “I have spoken with my adoptive sister-in-law, Mara.”
Murphy smiled. “You speak with her quite a lot, I’m told.”
“I do. And about all things. Such as you.”
Murphy sat slightly straighter. He did not appear disturbed, but possibly a bit wary. “I’m not sure what to say.” He smiled. “Should I be flattered or embarrassed?”
“Neither, for I am in earnest.” She leaned far over the table. “Your disease, what you call multiple sclerosis: you know we have never seen it. So I have been unaware of . . . of many of its symptoms. Its consequences. Upon the most intimate parts of your life.”
Murphy’s smile didn’t so much fade as it changed; it was sad, but also . . . relieved?
Naliryiz wished the table was not a hundred kilometers across. “Rodger Murphy, know this. I understand that this may trouble you. A great deal. That it might keep you from . . . from expressing all your feelings. But know this as well: it does not trouble me. Not in the slightest.” She leaned back. “That is the truth I have wanted to speak . . . for a very long time.” She had no idea what would happen next, which seemed to be why she was having trouble drawing each breath that punctuated the silence that followed.
He looked down for a few moments, and when he looked up again, his eyes were bright and very clear. “Naliryiz, this is a very important conversation for me. It is probably the most important personal conversation I can imagine, sitting right here, right now.”
Her heart felt like it was rising up in her chest.
“It is so important that I cannot imagine having it in the shadow of all the unknowns before us.” He drew a great breath and released it as a long sigh. “We have to get through this time, first. There is so much that will happen, so much that could change all our lives forever, in the next two weeks. And almost none of the outcomes, or their consequences, can be foreseen.”
Naliryiz lifted her chin and spoke another truth: the truth that made it possible for her to remain where she was, neither running out the hatch nor to the other side of the table. “I presumed you would say this, Murphy. You are a Sko’Belm and yes, a Commander. You could do no less.”
He leaned toward her. “I won’t—can’t—say all the things I’m feeling right now, Naliryiz. If I did . . . Well, here’s what I do know: right now, what we do, how we behave toward each other, is scrutinized. Many among your people would use it to tear apart the fragile bonds of cooperation and trust that have been forged between the SpinDogs and the RockHounds. We cannot risk that. I cannot risk that. However much I might want to—and damn, do I want to.”
He leaned back sharply, as if he’d surprised—even scared—himself. Then his expression became hard with focus, determination. “Naliryiz, once we have control of R’Bak, where beyond the lands we’ve already searched would it be best to seek healers or shamans who might know more about the cure that’s mentioned in your archives?”
Her heart may have missed a beat. “I do not know, and I cannot ask the older healers, or those of other Families, for they would readily guess the reason for my inquiry. But I can ask to access their archives. And it is also likely that the healers—the ones who call themselves alchemists—on R’Bak will have better records.” She shook her head. “I am sorry, very sorry, that I am not more knowledgeable.”
“No, no, that’s fine.” Murphy reached across the table and took her hand for a moment, then let his fingers slip aside. “That’s a good start. And it’s something I can . . . I can hope for.” He raised his glass toward her. “To the future, whatever it may hold. May it be what we wish.”
She raised her glass, smiling, but wondered if his smile was so wide that it was forced. “Promise me that you will be careful, Murphy.”
His smile became calmer, warmer. “I promise. And here’s another promise: when I return, things will be different.” He paused, and his eyes grew shiny. “One way or the other.”