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Carlton Locatelli Tower,

City of Landing,

Planet Manticore,

Star Kingdom of Manticore,

Manticore Binary System,

August 1858.


“Something smells good!”

Commander Alfred Harrington inhaled deeply as he stepped into the apartment, and Dr. Allison Harrington, wearing an anachronistic white apron, poked her head out of the kitchen.

“Don’t you dare set one foot into the dining room!”

“What?” Alfred blinked. “Why not?”

“Mostly because I’ll hurt you,” she said sweetly. “The reason that’s true, I will leave to your imagination.”

She disappeared back into the kitchen, and Alfred chuckled as he crossed the comfortable living room and looked out through the programmable crystoplast wall. His recent promotion to full commander, coupled with his appointment as the executive officer for Bassingford’s Department of Neurology and Neurosurgery, entitled them to a very nice apartment on the hundred and twelfth floor of Carlton Locatelli Tower, overlooking the beautifully landscaped Bassingford campus. Since Bassingford was adjacent—sort of—to Queen Elizabeth’s Hospital, the location was incredibly convenient for both of them.

He’d been assigned to Neurology and Neurosurgery as a senior staff physician immediately after HMS Scepter’s return from Silesia. In many ways, he’d hated to leave the ship, and he’d formed a dozen close friendships over the course of his four-T-year deployment. On the other hand, she’d returned to Manticore exactly six times during it, and his longest leave had been only three T-weeks. Coming home to Allison every night—well, every night when competing schedules permitted—was heaven, and BuPers had promised they wouldn’t reassign him to shipboard duty anytime soon.

He’d discovered they meant that when Captain Dunlevy, Neurology and Neurosurgery’s longtime CO, stepped down and Commander Isadora Machowska, Dunlevy’s exec, was named to replace him. Everyone had seen that coming for a while. Dunlevy was one of the best doctors Alfred had ever met, but he was over seventy, and he’d never received prolong. And it had been equally obvious that Machowska would succeed him. What Alfred hadn’t seen coming—hadn’t even remotely expected—was that he might be named as Machowska’s replacement. There were at least two other neurosurgeons at Bassingford senior to him . . . until they bumped him to full commander out of the zone, despite the glacial pace of peacetime promotions.

The only person who hadn’t been surprised—or claimed she hadn’t been, anyway—by the Navy’s clear declaration that it approved of him was Allison.

The new apartment was a really nice perk, he thought, gazing down into the gathering evening as the lights came up in the green belts and water features around the Bassingford towers’ feet, but the sheer satisfaction of his new duties was an even deeper one. The only true fly in his ointment was that he was a much better administrator than he’d thought he was, and he dreaded the day BuPers figured that out and tried to pull him out of the clinical side and turn him into another manager.

“What if I promise to keep my eyes closed?” he called through the arch to the kitchen. “I could just walk across to my chair—you could lead me by the hand, actually—and then I could just sit there, eyes closed, smelling all those delicious baking smells, until you told me to look.”

“Suuuuuure you could.”

Allison didn’t even poke her head out this time, and he grinned.

“But I’m hungry!”

“You’re always hungry. You’re a Harrington.”

“So are you.”

“But not genetically. Thank God. Trying to feed just one Meyerdahl metabolism’s bad enough!”

“You didn’t seem to think it would be so bad back on Beowulf.”

“That was the optimism of ignorance. Now I know better.”

Alfred laughed and plopped down in the big armchair. It adjusted smoothly under him and he tapped the armrest touchscreen to bring the smart wall online, then skipped through the menu to his favorite newsfeed.

“Don’t get too buried in that,” Allison said. “Dinner is almost ready.”

“You know I’d be happy to help you finish it up,” Alfred offered hopefully.

“Forget it.”

He shook his head. Given their schedules—Allison had become Department Head in Genetics at Queen Elizabeth’s two T-months ago—they found themselves using the auto chef a lot more than either of them liked. Jacques wasn’t all that far wrong when he called them “foodie fanatics,” Alfred supposed. On the other hand, there was an almost sensual pleasure in selecting ingredients and then turning them into a meal the old-fashioned way. Not that he had any desire to start building fires. Except for the occasional cookout, that was.

They’d made it a hard and fast rule to cater to their “fanaticism” and cook supper by hand at least twice a T-week. They alternated planning and preparing the meal, and whoever was cooking took pains to surprise the other with that night’s menu. Despite which, it was unusual for even Allison to be as adamant about that as she was tonight.

“I know that’s a triple chocolate torte I smell! Not going to surprise me with it. So why can’t I come sit at the table where I can talk to you while you finish up?”

“You’re talking to me just fine. Watch your news. I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

“Tyrant.”

You were lots worse than this last week.”

“But that was because I was fixing hóngshāo niúpá and I didn’t want you figuring it out. I’ve already figured out what you’re baking.”

“Oh? And what other savory concoctions’ aroma might I have concealed under the scent of your favorite dessert in all the world?”

“That’s cheating!”

“Sue me.”

Alfred laughed again and returned his attention to the smart wall.

Allison, minus the apron, stepped into the living room barely fifteen minutes later. Even seated, he was almost as tall as she was, and she crossed to his chair and leaned close for a lingering kiss.

“All right,” she said then, straightening and running one hand through his hair. “Come and get it, Spacer!”

“Do we really have to eat right now?” he asked with a smile. “I mean, after that kiss and all . . .”

“Supper first!” The twinkle in her eye undermined the sternness of her tone. “Besides, you’ll need your strength.”

“Ooooh! A challenge! I love challenges!”

“Shut up and come eat, doof!” she said with a giggle, and held out a helpful hand as he hauled himself out of the armchair’s sinfully comfortable embrace.

She tucked her elbow through his, leaning her head against his upper arm, as they crossed to the dining room, and he paused, eyebrows rising, in the archway.

No wonder she hadn’t wanted him seeing the table early, he thought, looking at the snowy tablecloth, glittering “special occasion” dishes, and the bottle of Delacorte in the traditional wine chiller.

Both his and Allison’s plates were covered, and there was a single temperature-controlled covered platter at the center of the table, flanked by a bowl of tossed salad and one of baby potatoes in butter and herbs. His eyes lit at the sight, and she lifted the cover from the platter with a flourish.

“Ta-da!”

“You made Beef Wellington without using the auto chef?”

“Yep.”

“That takes hours! I thought you were stuck in the office all afternoon.”

“I had one appointment this morning, and after that, I said the hell with it and took the rest of the day off.” She shrugged. “I’ve been putting in enough hours nobody at Queen Elizabeth’s is going to complain.”

He looked at her, then back at the table, and then back at her. That sort of attitude towards her professional schedule was very un-Allison-like.

“So what’s the special occasion?” he asked a bit suspiciously.

“I can’t just want to share one of my beloved husband’s favorite meals with him?”

“Sure you can,” he said in a very unconvinced sort of tone.

“Just go ahead and sit down,” she scolded.

“It really does look delicious, Honey,” he said as he obeyed her. “And you’re right, without the baking smells to cover it up, I would have guessed what you were up to.”

“You think so? What if you’re wrong about that?” She gave him a lurking smile, and he raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead and check your plate,” she told him.

He chuckled and lifted the cover from his plate. Then paused.

“What,” he asked, “is that?”

“That, love of my life,” Allison said, much more softly, “is a baby bottle.”

“A baby bottle,” he repeated very carefully as she put an arm around his neck and leaned against him.

“Yes.” She pulled back enough to look into his eyes. “I did say I had an appointment this morning. I just didn’t mention it was over in OB/GYN.”

“You’re pregnant?!”

“Why, yes,” she told him. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

And she leaned close to kiss him again.

Several hours later, Alfred leaned back in the outsized recliner on the outdoor balcony. Allison lay curled beside him like a contented cat, and the breeze tickled his cheek with loose strands of her hair.

“You’re pregnant,” he said again, softly, in the tone of someone who couldn’t quite believe what he was saying.

“Actually, I prefer to think of it as a case of we’re pregnant,” she replied with a dimpled smile. “You do realize I’m not going to be the only one changing diapers, Commander Harrington?”

“Trust me, that’s one thing I do realize,” he chuckled.

“I’m already scheduled to be off this Saturday. Do you think you could clear that day, too? I thought we’d make a quick hop to Sphinx to tell your mom and dad in person.”

“Trust me, I will make that happen.”

“Good. And we’ve got to tell Jacques, too. Although that’s going to take a letter, assuming we can figure out where to send it.”

“Well, right now he’s back in Grendel. I understand he’ll be heading back to Silesia through the Junction in a couple of T-months, though.”

“Maybe we could just tell him in person, then,” Allison said thoughtfully. “I mean, there’s not that much rush. I’m second-generation prolong, so we’re—or at least, I’m—looking at a fourteen-month pregnancy.” She grimaced. “I have to say, that’s the one aspect of this that doesn’t fill me with total joy.”

“I suppose even the worthless male responsible for your condition can understand that.”

“I suppose the worthless male had better understand that. I intend to be totally unreasonable for the last, oh, three or four months, you understand. I’m positive I’ll develop more than enough cravings to drive you absolutely crazy.”

“I’m sure,” he said dryly, wrapping his arms about her. But his expression had turned serious, and she turned her head to look at him as she sensed his mood shift.

“What?”

“I’m really looking forward to telling Mom and Dad,” he said. “But what about your parents, Alley?”

Her lips tightened and he hugged her more tightly, as she stiffened in the circle of his arms.

“I’m sorry, Honey. But we’re going to have to decide about that.”

“I know.”

Allison sighed and pressed her face into his shoulder.

She hadn’t seen her mother, hadn’t spoken to her, in over twelve T-years, and she really, really didn’t want to revisit that. Reopen the wound.

“We have to tell them,” Alfred said gently. “Both of them. It would kill your dad if we didn’t tell him. You know that. And however tempting it might be, could we really justify not telling your mother?”

Allison’s mouth tightened. She knew how painful Alfred found the breach between her and her mother. She could feel it over the link between them, just as she knew the reason he felt that way was the way that same link carried him her own deep, lingering pain. She could go days, weeks—even months—without admitting that pain to herself, yet she could never hide it from him, and he was hardwired to fix things. But this wasn’t something he could fix. In fact, it wasn’t something anyone could “fix.”

“All right,” she said finally. “We’ll tell her. There’s a part of me that’s really tempted to let you record the letter, though, Alfred. I know it’s cowardly, but . . .”

“That would be . . . a very bad idea,” he observed, and she managed an actual giggle. It wasn’t much of a giggle, but it still surprised her.

“Do you want to invite—” he began in a cautious tone.

“No.”

She cut him off, firmly, far more flatly than she normally spoke to him, and shook her head against his shoulder.

“No,” she repeated, and if her tone wasn’t quite as flat, it was no more yielding. “Alfred, she’s had a standing invitation to visit us any time she wanted to from the day we were married. Hell, we invited her to the wedding—remember? And we must have repeated that invitation a dozen times in the first five or six T-years! She never accepted it. She never even acknowledged it.” She shook her head again. “I know—I know—how much you want to heal this breach, bridge the chasm, but there’s only so far I can go. I mean, literally. I all but begged her to come to Manticore for a visit for the first couple of T-years. I’m not going to do it again. If she wants to come, if she wants to take advantage of those invitations—hell, they’re still open!—that’s one thing. But that’s as far as I can go, Sweetheart. Really. It is.”

“And your dad?” he asked softly.

“He’s got the same standing invitation. I know why he hasn’t accepted it, and I can’t really blame him, I suppose. It hurts, but I don’t think anyone could expect him to break that openly with Mom. It’s probably painful enough that he and I send so many letters back and forth while Mom and I never do. If he decides to come, I’ll be overjoyed to see him, but I won’t put him in the position of having to choose between Mom and an explicit, new invitation from me.”

“All right.” He kissed the top of her head and squeezed her tightly. “All right. I wish I could find a way to fix this, Alley. I really, really do.”

“I wish you could, too,” she said sadly. “But you’re a neurosurgeon, love. A very good one, but still a neurosurgeon and not a wizard.”


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