Page 8 of Ward

“Aldric,” he said.

She nodded, cheerful, unblinking. “Got it.”

She had already turned back to her line, calling something to the four-armed cook about tomorrow’s greens, before he could determine what, precisely, he would have said next. There was nothing to say next. He knew a completed maneuver when he stood in the middle of one.

He walked out of the dining hall into the corridor’s cooler air, and stood for a moment, and looked at the card in his hand.

MATCHED: TISHA. STATION CHEF, LIBRA STATION.

Thirty days. Twenty-four remaining. He squared his shoulders and went to file what could be filed, which tonight was nothing.

The message from Falkin arrived before he had cleared the commons level, which meant the story had crossed the station faster than a man could walk out of the building it happened in.

THE CHEF

THE DATABASE HAS TASTE.

He did not reply.

The second message arrived ninety seconds later.

I’M TOLD YOU ATTEMPTED TO REJECT IT IN FRONT OF A FULL DINNER SERVICE AND WERE DEFEATED BY POLICY.

He did not reply.

The third message was shorter.

ERIC.

Aldric stood in the residence corridor and looked at his comm for a long moment, and composed, with care, the reply that twenty years of friendship had earned:

To the Honored Falkin of Vorjan House, beloved of his elders and insufferable to his equals, greetings.

It is my formal wish, witnessed before the house, that you step into a lift shaft at your earliest convenience.

Take your time.

Fall the whole way.

He sent it under full formal header, which by house custom had to be received standing.

Let Falkin get up for it.

I STOOD,

Falkin sent back, radiant even in text.

I WANT YOU TO KNOW I STOOD.

BROOKLYN WATCHED ME DO IT AND HAS NOT STOPPED LAUGHING.

SHE SAYS THE CHEF IS THE BEST THING ON THE STATION. HER EXACT WORDS WERE 'HE DOESN'T DESERVE HER,' WHICH I FOUND HASTY.

I DEFENDED YOU. I SAID 'PROBABLY NOT.'

He did not reply to that either.

But behind his walls, something had registered the exact pitch of her voice saying the wrong name — light, precise, deliberate as a knife laid flat — and begun, without authorization, to listen for it.