Starliner(31)

IN TRANSIT:

EARTH TO NEVASA

It was barely ship's midnight, but more than half the celebrants had melted away in pairs and larger gatherings from the whirl of First Night. Ran Colville had danced two numbers out of every three, chatted to a circle of passengers—mostly female—during every break; and turned down at least a dozen propositions, ranging from the subtle to the extremely direct, also mostly involving women.

This was the first chance he'd had to draw a deep breath. He did so, standing beside the holographic facade of the Aemillian Basilica, as he looked over the double ring of tables and out onto the center of the huge room cleared for dancing.

The gaiety in the Social Hall wasn't far removed from the orgies of delight at the end of a major war. In the course of a voyage, a starliner became a solid and permanent world by implication. At the first undocking, though—no matter how experienced the traveler—there was a pang as the planet vanished, leaving the passengers with only the work of human hands between themselves and the void.

First Night was an affirmation of life regained. Strait-laced passengers abandoned caution for one night, while those who looked for thrills of every persuasion found rich pickings.

"Sighting in on one for later?" Wanda Holly asked unexpectedly from beside Ran's shoulder.

"Nope," he answered with a slow smile that began before his head turned to meet the gaze of his fellow officer. "Just wondering how long I need to keep this up. After all, it's not my regular watch."

He cleared his throat. "And I don't know what you may have heard, but I don't mix business and pleasure. Right now, I'm an officer of the Empress."

Ran looked back at the dance floor. Commander Kneale was there, with a woman of twice his age and girth . . . and very possibly enough money to buy the Empress, had Trident Starlines been willing to sell. Several Rialvans watched stolidly from the fringes, and a pair of K'Chitkans danced with exaggerated sways of their bodies.

If Ran was correct about the K'Chitkans' crests, both dancers were male. He didn't even want to guess what that meant.

Many of the human passengers wore period garb or more exotic costumes. A Terran female was draped in leaves like a medieval Wild Woman, and three male mining engineers from Hobilo wore suits suggesting carnivorous bipedal reptiles from their homeworld. The reptiles, at least as reproduced by the costumes, had prominent genitals.

Brief masks were common. Passengers couldn't really hide their identities from one another, but the pretense of anonymity made it easier for some to get into the spirit of First Night.

"For afterwards, then," Wanda prodded. She sounded amused. "When we're off duty on the ground."

Ran sighed inwardly. A ship the size of the Empress of Earth was bound to have crewmen who'd served with Ran Colville in the past, and he supposed he did have something of a reputation. Still, it wasn't as though he'd ever made a set at a passenger. Not infrequently it worked the other way . . . and occasionally there'd been contact on the ground when he was off duty, that was true.

But he didn't see it was anybody's business save his and the lady's. Not Lieutenant Holly's business, at any rate. He'd never so much as patted her hand!

Aloud, Ran said, "You make it sound like a job that you have to work at, Wanda. If I felt that way about it, I'd . . . watch foot-racing instead."

"Ah, Captain?" said a voice from behind the two officers. They both turned, uncertain whether the speaker was a throaty woman or a high-voiced man.

A man, dressed as a Roman soldier: quite young, and quite obviously nervous,

Wanda peeled off expertly to field him while Ran nodded and moved away. The Second Officer's cheerful "Welcome to First Night, sir," blended with the passenger's, "I was just wondering how often you've been shipwrecked?"

Hard to tell whether the poor guy was worried, or if he thought a shipwreck was romantic. It wasn't romantic, though if a starliner's systems failed in the sidereal universe, there was at least a chance the lifeboats would save the people aboard her . . . .

There was a stir from the entrance directly across the Social Hall where a party of Szgranians had appeared. The clan mistress, Lady Scour, was accompanied by four females of her entourage.

Commander Kneale was walking his dance partner back to the table where her husband waited. Ran saw the commander miss a step, then regain his composure when he realized that no Szgranian warriors were present. They had a right to use any of the First Class facilities as they chose, but the potential for trouble that posed in the loose atmosphere of First Night was terrifying to anybody who felt responsible for the consequences.

The orchestra was eleven pieces and live. Music synthesized by an artificial intelligence could be proven to be better by any number of objective criteria—but enjoyment was a subjective reaction, and the humans who made up the majority of the Empress's First Class passengers overwhelmingly preferred live performers on authentic instruments.