STARLINER by David Drake

Fewer problems, though, than running a party of hot-tempered Szgranians—not human, and not civilized by human standards—through a mass of people, some of whom were certainly arrogant enough to gawp and laugh. During most of the voyage, Lady Scour’s party could be expected to stay within the wing blocked off for their use. Commander Kneale was determined to avoid insults—and retribution—during boarding and disembarking. If he’d had to cleara First Class corridor, he’d have done so.

Lady Scour offered her lower right arm. Szgranians used their various pairs of arms for socially distinct purposes. No doubt she was making a statement regarding their relative rank, but that was her affair. Kneale had only to keep her happy. He crooked the arm in his and stepped through the automatically opened inner doorway.

Kneale’s two ratings, Bechtel and Blavatsky, had manually draped the portion of the gangway beyond into a red velvet tunnel. Kneale strode up it with Lady Scour beside him. Her entourage, except for the aide with the gong who marched alone, followed the leaders in double column.

“How did you get along with Rawsl?” Lady Scour asked. “My chief aide?”

“Hmm?” said Kneale. Szgranian hearing was within human parameters, though biased toward slightly higher pitches. Rawsl could certainly listen to diem. “Quite well, madam. He appeared very—” Professional? Alert? “—gallant.”

“I rather fancied him at one time,” the clan mistress said coolly. “Indeed, he’s quite well born, and I was thinking of adding him to my lovers—until one of my maids mentioned that she thought Rawsl was handsome. Don’t you find that things are terribly denied by the appreciation of the lower orders, Commander?”

“Umm,” said Kneale. “That’s a—an understandable attitude, madam.”

Maybe somebody understood it. Kneale wasn’t sure he wanted to meet that person, though.

Their feet touched the firm resilience of the Empress of Earth’s deck. Lady Scour’s fine legs flexed like a cat’s.

“Welcome to the finest ship in the galaxy, Lady Scour,” Kneale said, glad to be able to change the subject.

The bulkhead at the head of the gangway was mirrored. In its reflection, Commander Kneale saw that Rawsl’s fists were clenched, all six of them.

* * *

Abraham Chekoumian looked at the Social Hall’s bandstand—a copy of the Rostra, complete with projecting bronze rams like those the Romans had taken from captured Carthaginian ships. Holographic temples cloaked the wall beyond. Chekoumian thrust his hands in his pockets, flaring the skirt of his magenta jacket, and laughed loudly.

“Pardon, sir?” asked a female crewman passing at that moment. She was attractively short and plump, with shingled black hair that contrasted nicely with her brilliantly white uniform.

“Oh, I—”Chekoumian said. He grinned broadly. “I’m very happy, you see. I’m here in this—”he took out one hand and pointed, waggling the index finger in a circle “—this luxury, I who worked my passage from Tblisi five years ago in the hold of a tramp freighter as a baggage handler. And—”

He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a pack of letters in durable spacemail envelopes. Chekoumian’s garments were cut and styled to the moment. His trousers were pale pink, while his shirt and shoes were identical shades of teal—the Now Neutral, according the arbiters of Terran fashion. The slight shimmer at the seams came from threads of metallic gold used in the stitching.

“—I’m going to be married!” he cried. “Do you know what these are, ah—Blavatsky! But what is your real name?” He waved at her nametag. It rested at a slant on the rating’s breast because of the swell of the bosom beneath it. “Your given name?”

“Well, Marie, sir,” Blavatsky admitted, “but I think Commander Kneale would prefer that with passengers—”

“Poof, Commander Kneale!” Chekoumian said with a theatrical flourish of his letters. “When you have the same name as my beloved Marie, I should call you ‘Blavatsky’ as if you were some cargo pusher in my warehouse? And I am Abraham Chekoumian, but you must call me Abraham.”

“Well, I certainly wish you and your fiancee every happiness, Mr. Chekoumian,” Blavatsky replied. She’d come to the conclusion that the passenger was simply very happy, as he’d said, rather than a madman about to erupt; but it was her job to check dining table assignments with the Chief Steward in three minutes, and she couldn’t dismiss Commander Kneale with the aplomb of a First Class passenger.

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