Seven

We’ve just reached the swanky shops on Level 67 when my holo-ring buzzes. The upper levels are even more frantic than the lower ones, with long lines and rabid shoppers ripping items from each other’s hands. The low-key jazz carols are nearly inaudible, drowned out by screeching and yelling. A layer of sweat and desperation mixes badly with the peppermint air freshener, leaving me a little queasy.

“I need to take this,” I tell Scott, stepping into a quiet radial.

Scott follows me down the hall to a bot duct, which I open, and we scoot inside. “This is much nicer than where we met,” Scott jokes. “Next time I get amnesia, I'm doing it up here.”

I roll my eyes and accept the call. The holo of a slender man with straight dark hair, almond-shaped eyes and a hooked nose pops up in my palm. “Good morning, Hy-Mi.”

“Is it?” Hy-Mi’s usually serene face sports a sheen of sweat, and his eyes are bloodshot and wild. “Is it a good morning, Sera? I wouldn’t know—I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks.”

I glance at Scott, then look back at my palm. I’ve never heard Hy-Mi sound so frantic. “What’s wrong?”

“That woman is going to drive me drink! Or out an airlock!” Hy-Mi breathes heavily.

“Is Gloria messing with you, too?” I ask.

“Gloria? The kitchen intern? She isn’t helping. But I meant your Mother!” He spits the words out like an unripe pestimmon.

“What did she do?” I exclaim. “I’ve never seen you so ruffled!”

“She’s never been so unreasonable. So capricious! So gauche.” His eyes flick off screen, then back. He leans in close. “This morning, she decided to change all the party favors. Two hundred of them. She does that all the time, although rarely so close to show time. But today she demanded,” he looks upward and drops his voice. “She demanded stockings.”

“Stockings?”

“Yes, red stockings with fuzzy white tops!” His lip curls as if he can smell Nicolai Bezos from across the level. “With ‘stuffers’ inside! I don’t even know what that means!”

Scott steps forward. “Uh, I think that might be my fault. When we were talking about Christmas traditions this morning, I mentioned stockings. Usually they’re hung by the chimney with care.”

I stare at Scott. “With care?”

He nods solemnly. “Yes, with care. But tiny ones would make fun party favors. Hy-Mi, why don’t you let me and Triana handle the stockings? I'm sure you have more pressing things to do.”

Hy-Mi draws himself up to his full height—which isn’t impressive and is truly adorable when viewed via a palm-sized holo—and bows. “Thank you, Ser Calvin. That is most generous of you. I’m so sorry to have troubled you.”

Scott waves a hand. “No problem at all! I’m a Christmas expert.”

After Hy-Mi signs off, I look at Scott. “Stockings? Where are we going to get those?”

He smiles. “It’s my superpower.”

» «

Three hours later, we’re back up on 83 with more bags and packages than we can carry. Station retailers delivered them to Rafe’s desk, but they can’t come up to 83. Scott and I make three trips up the lift tube.

We’ve laid everything out in Mother’s yoga studio. A pile of small red stockings lays in one corner. Scott found them in the back of a tiny store I didn’t even know existed down on Level 13. They had exactly two hundred of them. What kind of crazy luck is that?

A zillion different piles of tiny treasures encircle us. All of them are wrapped in bright Christmas paper. I don’t know how he convinced the vendors to wrap them, but they all happily complied. And none of them charged us for the extra work.

Scott hands me a detailed schematic, sketched out on a shopping bag. “If we stuff the stockings according to these plans, each one will contain a unique combination of gifts.”

I shake my head. “Christmas really is your superpower.”

» «

Like all of Mother’s parties, this one sparkles. Wealthy people in designer clothing, drinking exclusive cocktails, nibbling exotic foods. The silver and green theme of the living room extends through the formal parlor and the dining room. The holographic flames of long silver candles reflect off brilliant white china, silver, and crystal covering the tables. The red stockings in the center of each place setting provide a splash of contrasting color, and the effect is stunning.

“Your stockings look fabulous, Ser Calvin,” Hy-Mi says, straightening one. His formal tunic matches the dark green and silver of the room. “You are a miracle worker.”

I laugh. “You don’t believe in miracles, Hy-Mi.”

Hy-Mi glares at me. Scott smiles and bows in reply. He looks fantastic in an old-fashioned black tuxedo with a red tie and vest. I’m wearing a close-fitting, full-length black gown with a moderate neckline and a slit up to my mid-thigh. I haven’t worn anything so slinky in a long time.

The guests circulate through the room, ooh-ing and ah-ing about the tiny gifts spilling out of each stocking. Mother will live on this triumph for weeks.

“Bogie at ten o’clock,” I whisper to Hy-Mi.

“What’s a bogie?” Scott asks. “And it’s only eight.”

“It’s an ancient Earth military thing. It means, ‘look out, there’s a bad guy.’ I’m not sure what the time has to do with it.” I jerk my chin at the front room.

Nicolai Bezos has just entered the room. He’s accompanied by one of the Zuckerberg twins—I’m not sure which one since they’re identical. I give Hy-Mi a nod and steer Scott out of the dining room on an intercept course.

“Nick has a history of arriving completely blotto. He drinks so much, the Buzzkill in the food can’t come close to compensating.”

But today Nick looks sober. His gait is steady, his eyes are clear, his smile is pleasant. And the Zuckerbergs are both serious, studious, non-partying girls. The fact that one of them came with Nick is unprecedented.

Nick spots us and heads our direction. “Ser Calvin,” he says as they approach. “I’d like you to meet my companion, Zerina Zuckerberg.” He clears his throat. “I owe you a sincere thank you. I don’t know what you did, but—” he breaks off. “This sounds so stupid, but I think you fixed me. When we met in the lobby I was trashed, and by the time you got me home, I’d decided to make a change. I haven’t had a drink all day, which is a miracle for me.”

Scott waves him off. “I didn’t do anything except get you home. It’s all you, my friend. I hope you stay clean.” He claps Nick on the shoulder and smiles at his date as they move away to greet the Buffets. Scott pulls my arm through his, steering me toward the kitchen.

“There’s that word again,” I say. “Christmas miracles really are your business, apparently.”

Scott snorts. “How would I make a guy sober up? It’s all in his imagination.”

“Why are we going to the kitchen?” I ask.

“I’m not sure.” Scott waves the door open and we step in. “I just feel the need to be here.”

The door opens onto a butler’s pantry. We duck out of the way as men and women in formal attire stride in and out, like clockwork. They pick up trays of food and drink as they depart, and deposit empties when they return. The full trays slide out of automated doors above the counter. The empties go into a bin that disappears through another hatch when full.

We wait for a lull, then dart across the space and into the kitchen proper.

The noise is deafening. Pans and utensils clatter, people yell, pots boil. A dozen white-coated people work at stations around the room, stirring and dishing. An amazing aroma wafts around us—a mix of roasting meats, fresh bread, spiced cakes, rich sauces, and of course, chocolate. My stomach growls, loudly. Scott’s answers, and he chuckles.

Dav directs the controlled chaos, roaming the room, tasting, seasoning, rearranging. His usually clean white coat is smeared, and his hat sits precariously on his head. Someone drops something, and he whips around, assessing the damage.

I take a deep lungful of the delicious air and smile at Scott. “Looks pretty standard to me. I used to sneak down here during parties when I was young. Dav would always find a task for me and feed me dessert after the mad rush. This kitchen is one of my favorite places.”

We make ourselves as small as possible, standing against a wall near the door. Around the corner, a team arranges the hors-d'oeuvres on trays before they disappear through the delivery hatch. Gloria stands behind them, watching. One of the men demands over his shoulder, “I need another tray.”

Gloria grits her teeth and hands him a tray.

He hands it back. “That’s not clean. Get me another. And, wash this one.”

Gloria’s nostrils flare, but she bites back whatever was on the tip of her tongue and gets another tray. I can’t believe the restraint she’s showing. She must really hate being relegated to dishwashing. “Is that another of your Christmas miracles?” I ask Scott.

“How would I do that?” He puts his index fingers to his temples. “Mind control?”

We watched an old vid while we stuffed stockings earlier. The story featured a villain who could control others telepathically, and his eventual, fitting demise. Not really Christmas fare, but it was good fun.

“I hope not,” I say. “That never works out.”

Scott steps forward, picking up a small jar on the counter. “What’s this?” he asks, looking around the room. No one pays any attention. A short man next to him pounds something in a huge pot. On the far side of the counter, two more white-clad men roll and fold some kind of pastry dough. A distracted woman carrying a huge, gray tub of dirty dishes reaches out and takes the jar from Scott.

“De Meyer! What is that? Did you put something in the potatoes?” Dav’s voice rings across the room. He’s pointing at the woman. The mashing man turns to look, surprise on his face.

The woman freezes. “I didn’t touch the potatoes, Chef,” she says. “I’m just collecting dirty dishes for the intern to wash.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small movement. I turn quickly, zeroing in on Gloria, but she continues to wash dishes, completely focused on her task.

Which is totally suspicious. Gloria hard at work? Besides, she loves conflict. She’d normally be all over De Meyer. But, I swear I saw just the tiniest smirk on her lips. What has she done?

Dav grabs the jar and sniffs it. Then he looks into the pot on the counter. It’s full of creamy white mashed potatoes. He smells the potatoes, and his eyes narrow. He straightens up and stares around the room, watching. After a moment, his eyes snag on mine. He gives some low instructions to the man with the masher. The man questions, then agrees.

As Dav turns to us, the man behind him throws the masher into the pot and lugs it away.

Dav stops next to me, turning to face the room. His eyes travel around it, watching, weighing. Without looking my direction, he hands me the jar and mutters, “Do you still have that analyzer?”

I wrinkle my nose. When I was a teen, I created an app that scanned food for foreign particles. It was only marginally successful at doing its job. The project was spectacularly successful at inducing food poisoning, however, as I attempted to test my creation on unwary guests.

“I have a better option.” I pull up the surveillance cams and roll back in time. Sure enough, Gloria poured the contents of the jar into the potatoes. “Make her eat some.”

Dav looks scandalized. Scott bursts out laughing. His deep chuckles draw attention from the entire staff. I catch Gloria’s eyes and smile. Her eyes widen then narrow. She whips back around to the dish sink.

“Intern!” Dav roars.

Gloria straightens slowly and turns. “Yes, Chef?” A sweet smile is plastered on her face. With quick, graceful steps, she crosses the kitchen to us.

“Taste the potatoes,” he barks.

Color drains from her cheeks. “I, uh, I’m on a low carb diet.” Her eyes dart to the man approaching with the massive potato pot. “Even a tiny bite will throw me out of ketogenisis.”

“Ketosis,” Dav says.

“What?” Gloria asks, confused.

“What, Chef.” Dav snaps.

Gloria’s voice wavers. “What, Chef?”

“The word you’re looking for is ketosis. Which you’d know if you needed to follow that diet. Taste the potatoes.” His face is bland, but his voice is like iron.

Gloria stares at Dav for a full thirty seconds. Then she whips off her hat and throws it to the ground. “I don’t need this,” she sneers. “I’m sick of your orders, you pathetic, little man. You’ll pay for treating me like this!” She stomps on the hat. A gasp goes up around us.

Gloria shoves past Dav and runs into a brick wall. Or rather, a wall of chefs. “No one talks to Chef Dav like that,” De Meyer says. The wall takes a step forward.

“The help leaves through the back,” the potato man says, pointing to the staff exit. “Dame Morgan insists.”

Gloria’s eyes narrow down to mean little slits, but the white wall of chefs takes another step forward, blocking access to the dining room.

“You’ll be sorry! You’ll all be sorry,” Gloria hisses. She flings herself across the room, grabbing the handle of a large saucepan.

Iron fingers close around her wrist. “I wouldn’t do that,” Scott says pleasantly. “Allow me to escort you out.” He leans down and whispers something in her ear.

Gloria looks up at Scott, and her eyes widen. She straightens her shoulders. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I can find my way out.” She pulls her arm from his grasp and stalks across the floor.

As the door can shuts behind her, a cheer goes up throughout the kitchen. Dav allows his staff to whoop for a few seconds, then claps his hands. “Back to work! We have a meal to prepare.” He turns back to me and Scott. “Thank you, both. Sera Annabelle, would you check your cams to make sure she didn’t taint anything else?” I nod, and he rushes away shouting orders.

Gloria is a one-trick pony—she only adulterated the potatoes. I scroll back carefully, but the chefs were canny enough to keep her away from the rest of the food. She must have messed with enough dishes over the last few weeks to make them all wary. Even the temporary staff seem to have her number. It’s a wonder she managed to get to the potatoes.

“I’m going to take this jar down to medical and see if they can tell us what was in it,” I tell Scott. “Maybe I can take a scoop of the potatoes, too.” We locate the little man emptying the big pot at the rear of the room. I scoop some into the jar and almost lick my finger, it smells so good.

Scott lays a hand on my arm. “Bad idea. Let’s go back to the party.”

Dav zips over and takes the jar from me. “I’ll put this in my office for later. Thanks for saving the party, Sera.” He hands me a small plate with a couple confections on it. This man knows me well.

I offer one of the candies to Scott and pop the other in my mouth. My eyes widen. “You’re a genius,” I whisper through the sweet, creamy, intense flavor. “I love you.”

Dav smiles and shoos us out of his kitchen.

“Now you know my kryptonite,” I say to Scott.

“I’m no super villain—I use my powers only for good.”

I look at him, considering. “How did you know we needed to go into the kitchen at that exact moment?”

He shrugs. “I told you, I had a feeling we should go in there. I’ve been worried about her since yesterday. Tonight would have been a perfect opportunity to sabotage so many things.”

“What did you say to her? It really seemed to scare her,” I dodge a waiter with an empty tray and step back out into the dining room.

Scott follows me, laughing. “I just told her bad girls and boys don’t get any Christmas presents.”

The rest of the party proceeds normally. Which is to say, it’s spectacular, like all Mother’s events. The food is fantastic, and Dav even managed to replace the tainted potatoes. Tiny, crispy works of art, piped from potatoes and browned to perfection, grace each plate. The man is another miracle worker.

A waiter offers dozens of desserts. Guests can choose as many as they wish. I order a tasting plate of everything. Gold-dusted chocolate cake, five flavors of pie, tiramisu, flan, custard, cookies, chocolates, cheesecake—a huge tray covered in bite-sized plates arrives at my place and I dig in.

Scott moves a spoon toward the tiny pink mochi. I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t even think about it, Christmas boy. You have your own.”

Scott gazes at me with those huge blue eyes then looks down at his empty plate. “But it’s all gone,” he whispers.

I relent. “But only half. I want to taste everything.”

After tasting the mochi, Scott leans back in his chair while I finish off my desserts. “Where is everyone?”

“What do you mean?” I lick chocolate mousse off a spoon and look around the table. “This is everyone. Well, everyone except Gloria, and she couldn’t come because she was ‘working’.” I make air quotes with my free hand.

“We stuffed two hundred stockings. And yesterday Dav said he was making two hundred figgy puddings. Which I haven’t seen yet, by the way.” He gestures to the table. “There are only thirty people here.”

I snort and dig into an apple tart. “These are the cream of SK’Corp. The board of directors and their favored few. The other hundred and seventy employees of the station have their own parties. Mother made a brief appearance at each one earlier tonight. But she doesn’t allow the rabble up here.” I shrug. “To be fair, there isn’t room for everyone. And some of them are still on duty anyway. We can hit the Ops party later if you want. It will be way more fun. But the food isn’t as good.”

Scott waves a lazy hand. “I leave it up to you. You’re the expert.”