Major Pieces, page 12
Tiber paused, hand stretched toward the genie.
“I know,” Vasiht’h said. “I’m more of a mess than I thought.”
Tiber shook his head minutely and focused on the genie, giving Vasiht’h the chance to examine his own headspace and find it… novel. Because he wasn’t upset. Or grieving. Or afraid. It was more as if everything in his head had been rearranged, or dumped off its neat shelves. He’d said as much to Jahir when they’d been on the Starsight… that they needed to integrate what they’d learned about themselves. The real question for him was… what had he learned?
Tiber set a plate on the table, and there were chocolate chip cookies on it, and they smelled divine. Vasiht’h stared at them, baffled. “Um…”
“I know the cookies-and-tea thing is more in your line than mine,” Tiber said, and sat on the rug beside him. “And these cookies probably don’t go with tea. But it’s my mother’s recipe, saved to my private genie list, and I think they’ll help.” He grinned crookedly. “They always helped me when I was a kid.”
Sarah, excited by the change in routine, wiggled until she could put her upper half in Tiber’s lap while leaving her lower half on Vasiht’h’s legs. He obligingly extended them for her so she wouldn’t have to contort herself around the table leg.
“I can’t say no to a family recipe,” Vasiht’h said, and took one. “Oh… oatmeal… and cinnamon?” He sniffed. “With chocolate chips? I usually see this with raisins.”
“I’ve got nothing against raisins,” Tiber said. “But oatmeal cookies should have chocolate. And pecans.”
Vasiht’h, trying a bite, said, “You’re absolutely right.” And then, tentatively, he started to talk. Leaving out the details he thought might be too revealing of the military situation, and the ones that would be too revealing of Eldritch secrets… it should have cored out the story, and yet it didn’t, because the part that mattered was what he’d felt about it. About war, and fighting, and loving someone who loved peace but was duty-bound to fight to protect it. About Fleet personnel, about the irony of it having been him who’d suggested they court Fleet clients when he was the one least comfortable with their mission. About how it had felt to be so close to dying, and not because of some impersonal natural force, but because someone had wanted to kill him, and all the people he cared about, and the people he was with. The things he’d left undone. The children he hadn’t had.
“Goddess, Allen. Life’s so short.” Vasiht’h covered his face and exhaled. He still wasn’t upset. What he felt… it was something like poetry, maybe. Like the things Jahir felt. This… epiphany about how ephemeral life was. How beautiful and how full of regret and sorrow. And burgeoning with joy all the same. His chest hurt. He couldn’t contain any of it, and it was going to pass from him, and then… he’d be himself again: down to earth, on all four paws. “I knew it, but I didn’t feel it until now. Not like this.”
“And?” Tiber said, gently.
“And I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“Sure about that?”
Vasiht’h glanced at him, and the human pushed the second to last cookie over. Taking it, he said, cautiously, “Shouldn’t I be?”
“You have a consistent habit of letting other people’s expectations trip you into second-guessing yourself,” Tiber said. “It doesn’t help that you’re a therapist because you’ve been trained to expect reactions to certain kinds of trauma, so you look for them in yourself. You’re looking really hard, Vasiht’h. Have you at all allowed for the possibility that you might not be damaged in the way you think you should be in order to conform to expectations?”
“Goddess! What a question!”
“That reaction would seem to suggest that it’s an interesting one.”
“How could I not be traumatized?”
“I don’t know,” Tiber said. “I have no doubt that you underwent a crucible, and that you’re still reeling from it. But you’re talking and acting like yourself, Vasiht’h. Just… even more so. It may be that this experience has made you more certain of who you are, not less, and your agitation has more to do with your fear that you’re overlooking something deeper.”
“How do you know I’m not??”
“I don’t,” Tiber said. “But I’ve known you for years now, arii.” He took the last cookie and tapped it on the plate to shake the crumbs off. “For the past half hour you’ve been doing what sounds a lot like trying to justify your lack of reaction.”
Had he? “I should be… I should be a mess.”
“You’re not,” Tiber said. “You’re spooked, yes. And it was upsetting. And your experience has made you ask questions about your priorities and needs, and whether you’re ready to move on with some goals you’ve put on hold. But I don’t think you hate yourself, and I don’t think you feel unsafe.” He glanced at the Glaseah, lifted a brow. “Which is what you’re really worried about.”
“Well, that and what I’m going to do if Jahir leaves for the front.”
“Mmm.” Tiber applied himself to the cookie, and the non-answer made Vasiht’h wonder if Tiber disagreed with him about that. But he really didn’t know what to do with the conundrum of Jahir’s probable involvement with the war to come. Did he?
Sehvi would have opinions about that. He should probably talk to her. And if Lisinthir sent for Jahir soon—and he would—then maybe Vasiht’h could take care of two things at once and see his sister on the way to Anseahla, and the temple. Those kits weren’t going to have themselves, and suddenly he wanted to see them, badly. As an affirmation of his commitment to the life he’d chosen.
“There, that’s better,” Tiber said. “Whatever you’re thinking, keep going.”
Startled, Vasiht’h glanced at him and chuckled. “And you were so against telepathy when we first met.”
Tiber declined to rise to the bait, but he was smiling. “I’ll say this. It’s not atypical for people with strong religious ties to handle difficulty better. You’re one of the most devout people I know, so if you need to justify your lack of misery—which, to be clear, you don’t, but if you feel you do—then you can look in that direction for a possible answer.”
“I think that’s a little too easy,” Vasiht’h said. “But… I don’t think you’re wrong either.” He sighed. “So do I get to ask you a personal question?”
Tiber snorted. “Maybe. Try me.”
“Would you fight the Chatcaava if they showed up on your doorstep with lasers?”
“I like to think I would,” Tiber said. “But none of us really know what we’ll do until we’re faced with a situation that we thought we understood as a hypothetical. And that’s not even accounting for when what we should do is different from what we’ve imagined everyone does, because it’s not always appropriate to fight. Sometimes it’s appropriate to retreat, or to help evacuate the wounded, or any number of necessary tasks.” He folded his napkin and set it on the plate. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I say that like a lot of people who understand the military poorly, you assume that war is nothing but jumping into a firefight and killing. But a war is more than the front line. It’s also the cooks who feed those soldiers, and the staff who keep their uniforms mended and clean, and the mechanics who inspect and service their equipment, and the intelligence agents who find out where the enemy is, and the pilots who fly personnel to and from their deployments, and the medical professionals who sew them up, or check their teeth.” He smiled. “Did you know aircraft carriers had barber shops? I toured one they turned into a museum. They reported doing 13,000 haircuts a month.”
Vasiht’h stared at him.
“A war needs more than fighters,” Tiber said. “It needs support too. You do the jobs you can; you’d be surprised how many jobs need to be done. So you don’t want to go hand-to-hand with shapeshifters? God, I don’t blame you. Cook the meals for the people who do.”
“I like cooking,” Vasiht’h blurted.
“Did you know the USS Midway served 13,500 meals a day?” Tiber asked, and at Vasiht’h’s expression grinned. “I could do ‘did you knows’ for hours. I even have a copy of their beef stew recipe. Yield is 2000 portions.”
“Did you program that into your genie recipe list?” Vasiht’h asked, ears sagging.
Tiber burst out laughing. “God, no. But that would be something, wouldn’t it. Do you want a copy?”
“No, but you can serve me your mom’s cookies anytime.” He looked down at the dog who had fallen asleep between them. If he bent toward her, he could just hear her snores. “I don’t think I’ve figured any of this out yet.”
“That’s fine,” Tiber said. “You didn’t come here to figure it out.” When Vasiht’h looked up, the human finished, “You came here to remove the obstacle between you and figuring it out, which was your belief that you need to be as badly afflicted by what happened as you think appropriate… for other people. But you’re not other people, arii. You’re Vasiht’h, and you’re as upset about this as you are, not as some textbook client.” He smiled and scratched behind Sarah’s ears, eliciting a sleepy twitch. “It’s all right to be you, you know.”
“I do,” Vasiht’h said. “I guess… I just had to hear it.” He sighed. “And I really did need to hear it, because you’re right. I can’t grapple with what this means to me until I stop trying to grapple with what I think it should.”
“There you go.”
“Have I ever told you how good you are at your job?”
Tiber chuckled. “Once or twice. I don’t ever mind hearing it, though.”
“You really are good at it.” Vasiht’h inched his paws out from under Sarah’s hindquarters and stood. “I think I’ll go work on the actual stuff that needs working on, so that when I see you next I’ll feel like I’ll have gotten somewhere.”
“You did get somewhere today, don’t forget.”
Vasiht’h chuckled. “Right. Out of my own way.”
“Exactly. And arii?”
Vasiht’h paused.
The human looked stern, or was trying. There was a little chagrin there in the eyes. “Let’s do less of the almost dying in the future. Twice in a lifetime is enough.”
“Tell me about it!” Vasiht’h exclaimed. “Trust me, Allen, I’m planning that to be the last time I have anything to do with Chatcaava, narrow escapes, and near death experiences. Although I guess it does make me the resident expert in counseling other people on their almost-dying, so… you know. If you ever need to unload after a misadventure of your own…”
Tiber laughed. “I’ll hold you to that. Two weeks, arii.”
“Two weeks,” Vasiht’h said.
Letting himself out of Tiber’s office, Vasiht’h stood out of the flow of people, watching them go by, and just… breathed. The nervous vibration had left his limbs, and he felt… if not at peace, then at least, no longer hobbled by the worry that he’d been repressing more trauma than he could sense. Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised; he’d told so many clients that fear of something was often worse than the thing itself, and that the best way to conquer those fears was to just… get it over with. And he’d certainly gotten his experience with conflict over with in the most definitive way possible…! He’d survived, he’d helped. He’d come out alive and… maybe a little proud of himself, which was the most surprising thing he’d been busy not staring at.
No, Tiber had been right. He’d needed to give up on what he should have been feeling, so he could get his arms around what he really felt, and what that meant for his priorities and his life in the future. His life, and Jahir’s… because he could sense the loose ends that needed tying.
They were in the middle of the story. Their story, anyway. It was time to figure out the next chapters. He rejoined the people heading out of the Wall, intent on the siv’t near his apartment. A little time praying in the quiet of the Goddess’s sanctuary, and then home to his beloved friend and partner and then… the future. Whatever they decided it should bring.
He could do this. And he would. “Aksivaht’h,” he whispered. “Guide our thoughts, and be with us to the end of our dream.”
In the Kitchen at Brooke’s
During Amulet Rampant, Chapter 3
One did not become the manager of one of the most exclusive restaurants in the Core of civilized space without a certain sangfroid, and Paylin Roy had been the manager of Brooke’s at Alpha for almost twelve years now. She prided herself on her composure, and on the poise and professionalism of her staff. When the outgoing manager had handed her the reins, he’d said, “Remember, alet: this restaurant has been in operation nearly as long as the Alliance. I give into your hands a tradition of excellence.” And she had assured him that Brooke’s reputation was safe with her, and that one day she would pass it to her successor with an unblemished record of culinary distinction.
And yet, somehow, after twelve years of deeply rewarding work serving every kind of luminary known to the Alliance, from magnates to politicians to media stars, she could still be completely dumbstruck.
“Say that again?”
Tamara, her executive hostess, repeated herself. “The six mark thirty reservation was for two Eldritch.”
Paylin’s ears twitched. “And two Eldritch walked in.”
For a moment, she thought Tamara would snap at her, but the Karaka’An paused as if replaying their conversation… and then startled them both by laughing. “All right, it does sound like the set-up for a joke, doesn’t it.”
“Actually, it sounds like the punchline of a joke,” Paylin said. She examined the solemn face of the woman she’d put in charge of all the restaurant’s hosts. “You’re really not jesting.”
“Not in the slightest. Holly seated them in pod three. Two men.” Tamara hesitated. “They… look the way they’re advertised.”
Which was when the situation fully sank in. “Speaker-singer,” Paylin breathed. She ran her hand through her hair, an old nervous habit she thought she’d broken herself of years ago. “Four Sisters preserve us. Has Shelly left yet?”
“I think she’s still in the kitchen, talking with Curtis. But she’s off the clock now—”
“Get her back in here,” Paylin said. “Tell her she’s about to earn some overtime.”
“Isn’t Marco on pod three this shift?”
“Yes, but we need Shelly.” At the sight of Tamara’s furrowed brow, she said, “It has nothing to do with how good they are at their jobs. Everyone here is good at their job. But if Shelly doesn’t have an eidetic memory, it’s pretty close.”
“Annnnd… we’ll have no peace unless someone spills,” Tamara said. “Ohhh. Yes.” She paused. “Within reason.”
“Of course we’ll tell her not to divulge their personal conversations to us. But the rest of it?” Paylin imagined Curtis’s reaction to their guests. “Goddess. If Shelly doesn’t report every detail of their reaction to the food…”
Tamara was already out the door.
“You want me to what!”
Paylin could tell how her next half hour was going to go. She patted the sommelier on the shoulder, let her hand glide down his arm until she could take his hand and squeeze it. Learning to manage a multicultural staff had been an interesting challenge, and Kiarash was homeworld Harat-Shariin to the bone: nothing brought him back to earth like a touch that would have been too familiar for some of her staff. On him it worked admirably, though, and he smiled weakly and squeezed her hand back. “I’m sorry. You caught me by surprise. Let me try that again. You’d like me to consult with Curtis over any changes there might be to the menu.”
“That’s right,” Paylin said. “I don’t know if what we’re offering will work for them.”
“For… Eldritch,” Kiarash repeated. He looked wistful. “Beautiful Eldritch?”
“Tamara says so.” Technically the hostess had only said they looked like advertised but… that was how they were advertised, wasn’t it? Paylin thought she should probably look at the take from the restaurant entrance. “Anyway, if we’re going to need to improvise wine selections, I’d like you to have as much time as possible.”
“You think they won’t like the prix fixe?”
“It’s not a matter of whether they’ll like it or not,” Paylin said. “I just don’t know if they have special dietary restrictions.”
Kiarash snorted. “And that is precisely how you had better put it to Curtis because if you suggest otherwise there won’t be anything left of the kitchen after his explosion.”
“I… yes.” She was about to say ‘I know that’ but instead she said, “Thank you for reminding me.”
“Do we get to see them?” Kiarash asked, hopeful.
“Not unless we’re there when they walk out,” Paylin said. “But don’t worry, I have Shelly on it.”
“Shelly!” Kiarash sighed. “Almost as good as being there ourselves, then. Thank you, Paylin.”
Bearding Curtis in his den could wait on Paylin’s more urgent task, because if she didn’t handle it immediately she might miss the chance to issue her briefing. Happily, she was in time to catch Shelly dressing in the staff restroom which, in keeping with Brooke’s commitment to excellence in every arena, was as sumptuous as the one for guests. Along with the private stalls, it included a luxurious shower stall and grooming products sourced from the best boutiques on the starbase, in an array of signature scents blended specifically for the restaurant. Part of the room had been furnished with plushly upholstered chairs for parents feeding infants, and an elaborately carved and painted screen allowed the staff who preferred privacy to change into uniform in comfort.
Shelly, one of the tallest Karaka’An felids Paylin had ever met, was indifferent to nudity, and after twelve years of management, any taboos Paylin might have carried into work had evaporated. Even had she maintained them, though, something about Shelly’s demeanor would have made them superfluous; the other woman carried herself with such effortless dignity that even her mistakes looked planned.
