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Back in my childhood bedroom, I lay on the bed and stare blankly at the space-light. How could I have forgotten to get a Christmas gift for O’Neill? My brain spins as I try to come up with a suitable gift. What do you get for the guy who might be your boyfriend? A tiny voice in my head suggests I ask Scott, but I squash it back down.
A vibration from my holo-ring wakes me from a light doze. The facial recognition app has found a match! I flick the icon and pull up the file.
Match: Scott Calvin.
THAT’S ALL IT SAYS.
No catalog of pictures and videos from cams around the station. No information about planet of origin, occupation, education, nothing. No financial links. None of the information this app normally presents. Just to test, I take a selfie and run it through the system. Within minutes, it pulls up both my names, my certification from the TechnoInst, my current occupation, my station clearances, random pics and vid of me in the public parts of the station, everything.
I pull pics of friends and family from my personal files and run them through the system. R’ger takes the longest, since he’s the oldest, yet newest to the station, but eventually it pulls even his date and location of birth. Zark, he’s OLD!
I drum my fingers on the bedspread, totally flummoxed. How can the system identify his name but nothing else?
A call on my holo wakes me again. I smile—it’s Ty.
“Hey,” I say, brilliantly.
“Hey, yourself,” he replies with that smile that sends a heat-wave through my chest. “Sorry to call so late, but I figured on a Friday night you’d be asleep on the sofa after watching Ancient Tēvē.”
“Close, but no.” I flip the holo up onto the ceiling and lay back on the bed, looking up at him. “I’m up on 83, laying on my bed, not watching Ancient Tēvē.”
Ty stares. “Really? Of your own volition? Blink twice if I need to come break you out.”
“Like she could keep me here.” I laugh, then sober. “No, there’s some weird stuff going on.” I give him the run-down on Scott Calvin.
“So, you didn’t have a clue who he was, but let Rafe pass him through to 83?” Ty asks, his voice sounding strangled. “You know you’re going to give me a heart attack.”
“Better check if they have a defibrillator down there. But I figured Rafe must know who he was. In fact, I let him come up because I figured the board sec system would identify him.” I rub my eyes. “Does it do this often?”
“Allow unknown interlopers access to the chair of the board? No.” His face is hard. Zark, he’s mad at me.
“No, I mean identify someone as a VIP but completely hide the data used to make that decision.” I hope so.
“You wish.” But he looks thoughtful. “Although, there are certain individuals who might trigger that kind of secure approval, at least at the guard station. But you have access to everything I do—you should be able to access his details.”
“Maybe it’s above your pay grade,” I joke.
He gives me a look. “Maybe. Look, I just want to know you’re safe. Then I won’t worry.”
“I’ve got motion detectors set outside his room,” I reassure him. “And if his magic cam-scrambling effect turns off those detectors, the scrambling itself will activate an alarm.” I pull up the cam files. “He hasn’t moved from his room. Unless he can sneak out through the spacelight.” I laugh.
“Not even undocumented VIPs can do that,” he replies, relaxing. “Still, you could just go stay at my place.”
“And leave Mother up here alone with him? I brought him up—he’s my responsibility.” I grin fiendishly. “More importantly, I want to get in on Dav’s waffles in the morning.”
“Ah ha! I knew there was a real reason,” he says.
We chat a few more minutes, but he starts yawning. “Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
» «
The waffles exceed expectations, as always. And, yes, I know that’s implausible, but so are Dav’s waffles. Light and fluffy, sweet or savory, topped with fruit, syrups, whipped cream, fried eggs, sautéed vegetables, anything you can imagine. Dav’s food never disappoints.
“Please, Ser Calvin— Scott. Stay and enjoy for as long as you like,” Mother says, patting her lips with a linen napkin and rising. “Unfortunately, I have meetings to attend, so I must depart. Annabelle, please bring Ser Calvin by my office before you leave.” She sails away toward her office.
As soon as she’s safely behind closed doors, Dav emerges from the kitchen. “That woman is driving me crazy!” he hisses.
I stare at Dav in surprise. Dav never refers to his employer in that tone. “Is she demanding miniature ice sculptures again?”
When I was a kid, she insisted on having a tiny carved ice sculpture at each place setting. Of course, mini-ice sculptures become puddles about twenty minutes after you put them out, but Mother insisted. Dav’s final solution involved a specially built table with tiny temperature fields by each plate. The table cost a fortune and was never used again.
Dav blinks at me. “No, no, of course not. I wish. We still have that stupid table in storage. No, I was talking about her.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
“Who? Did you hire an assistant? Heaven knows you could use one for the holiday season.” I peer beyond him, but the door to the kitchen is closed.
Scott leans back in his seat and watches us silently.
“She’s an intern,” he growls. “She’s done a half year at the Culinary Institute of Kaku, and she’s here between terms. She thinks she knows everything.”
“Why don’t you fire her?” I ask.
“She’s Don Huatang’s granddaughter,” Dav whispers.
I groan. “Gloria is interning in your kitchen? She didn’t attend the Culinary Institute! She’s been here on station all year.”
“It’s a virtual program, specifically developed for top-lev students who can’t commit to a long period in one location.” Dav pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Virtual culinary school?” Scott asks. “That’s a thing?”
“It’s a thing for top-levs who will never work in the field and just want to accrue degrees. Most of them never get through the first year because it requires too much effort.” My lip curls. That very program was one of the reasons I ran away and changed my name. I wanted a real degree, not a gold-leaf embossed virtual sheepskin.
“Talk to Mother,” I tell Dav. “She’d love a reason to stick it to Don Huatang’s family. I can’t believe she even allowed Gloria in her home.”
Dav drops his head into his hands. “I didn’t tell her it was Gloria. An old friend from the CIK begged me to take her on, and I was afraid Dame Morgan would say no. So, I just asked her if I could bring in an intern. I didn’t mention who it was. And Dame Morgan didn’t care, as long as she passed the security checks, which, of course Gloria didn’t even need.”
A crash and a screech ring out from the kitchen. Dav leaps to his feet. “Oh Holy Night, what is she doing now?” he cries. “I have two hundred figgy puddings steaming in there!” He lunges to the kitchen door.
Before he reaches it, the door slides open. Gloria appears in the doorway, steam billowing out around her. She’s wearing traditional chef’s garb of black and white checked pants and a pristine white coat with a tiny red CIK logo on the shoulder. The jacket has been altered to fit tight to her torso, with a very low-cut, scoop neckline to show off her enormous boobs. “Oh, Chef, you might want to check your equipment. It appears to be malfunctioning.”
With a growl, Dav pushes past her out of the room, while Gloria saunters toward us. She smiles at me, her hair a wild, red halo around her head. “I thought this look was appropriate for the help,” she says, gently tugging a strand.
I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to push my own naturally red curls out of my eyes. “Don’t you have some dishes to wash, Gloria?”
She ignores me, transferring her attention to Scott. “Good morning, sexy! If I’d known you were here, I would have volunteered to serve breakfast.” She practically purrs as she sashays to him, hips swaying. She leans over his shoulder, reaching forward to pick up the coffee pot. Her ample bosom rubs against his arm.
“Cream, two sugars,” Scott says, not looking at her. “And I’d like another bagel, thanks.” Without missing a beat, he smiles at me. “What are we doing today, Annabelle?”
Gloria’s teeth grind and she snaps upright. “Get your own coffee.” She stomps away.
“That was awesome,” I say after the kitchen door closes behind her. “If you can think of a way to get rid of her completely, I’m sure Dav would supply you with waffles for a lifetime. She’s probably in there sabotaging his entire menu.”
Scott shrugs. “It should be easy enough to engineer a catastrophic spill. There’s a reason chefs normally wear long sleeves and high necked jackets. Why doesn’t he do that?”
I shake my head. “Dav would never purposely sacrifice food. Think of something else.”
“I’ll work on it,” he says, rising to his feet. He holds out a hand to me. “Shall we escape this gilded cage?”
We say our farewells to Mother, after assuring her we will return that night for the Christmas party. I really don’t want to come, but Scott eagerly accepts, so I agree.
“You’re going to regret that,” I mutter as we step out into the Level 83 lobby. “SK’Corp parties are SO boring. Lots of corporate stooges kissing up to board members. It wouldn’t be too bad if you could drink enough to take the edge off, but Mother spikes the food with BuzzKill. Only Nicolai Bezos manages to drink enough to stay tipsy.” We cross to the float tubes.
“Hey, Ammabelle!” A slurred voice warbles. “You lookin’ for me?”
I spin around. Nicolai Bezos sprawls across one of the heavy couches, waving a mug at me. “Speak of the devil,” I mutter.
Nicolai sits up and holds out a flask. “Egg mog! You wan’ some?”
“Nick, it’s nine in the morning.” I take a few steps toward him. “Have you been drinking all night?” As I approach, a waft of alcohol, stale sweat, and a twinge of vomit assault my nose. Nick’s bloodshot eyes peer at me from between puffy lids. His clothes are wrinkled, stained, and stiff.
He shrugs. “All might, all day, whatever. It’sh Chrishmash! I love egg mog. Hoosh yer frien’?”
“That’s Scott. I don’t think he wants any eggnog, either. You should go home, Nick.”
Scott steps over and reaches out a hand. Nicolai bumps fists. With a twist of his wrist, Scott grips Nick’s hand and pops him up off the couch. Scott swings him around and gets a shoulder under his arm. “Let’s get you home, friend.”
I direct Scott to the Bezos’ door. Fortunately, Dame Bezos’ personal assistant answers the door. She takes one look at Nick and turns to us. “Thanks for bringing him home, Sera Morgan. He’s been drinking more and more since Bobby Putin left.”
I grimace and pass Nick off to her. “Can you handle him by yourself?”
“I’m fine,” Nick says, straightening up. “I just need to get some sleep. Long night, too much booze.”
We start at him. His face is a little green, but his voice is unslurred and he’s steady on his feet. I look at Scott. “Did you slip him some Buzzkill?”
Scott shakes his head. “Nope, don’t have any of that on me. Besides, I think it would have taken a whole bottle to sober him up.”
“Annabelle, Scott, thanks for bringing me home,” Nicolai says. “But I have a splitting headache. Keandra, would you get me a med pack?” And he disappears into the compartment.
We all shrug at each other and Keandra closes the door. Scott and I walk back toward the float tube. “That was weird.”
“Who’s Bobby?” Scott asks. “His boyfriend?”
“No. More like a twin brother. They were BFFs before—” I break off. “It was messy. But Bobby’s gone, Nick’s girlfriend moved dirt-side, and Nick’s alone. The usual sad, holiday story.”
