Damia (16 page)

Damia greeted the suggestion with a delighted burble and held up her chubby arms to this new playmate.

*   *   *

“She’s much more articulate than either Jeran or Cera at the same age,” Afra told the Rowan one night two months later as he passed an evening in the Gwyn-Raven quarters. The two older children were happily doodling crayon scrawls on a large piece of paper spread across the floor. Damia was asleep, cradled in his lap.

“Articulate? She won’t talk for another six months!”

“But I can isolate definite concepts in her mind and hear sounds that are
almost
words,” Afra replied equably. “You know, like the shorthand speech Jeran and Cera have developed, not quite standard Basic but certainly real communication.”

The Rowan placed a hand lightly on his shoulder and chuckled. “This child of mine has bewitched you, Afra.” She shook her head. “When she starts to talk, even baby talk, I’ll know.” The Rowan frowned, wrinkled her nose with a dismayed sniff. “Sorry, I didn’t catch her in time and you’ve just been anointed.”

Afra looked down at the sleeping form, whose face took on the drowsy smile of a baby who has relieved an uncomfortable hydrostatic pressure.

“Won’t be the first time.”

The Rowan laughed, shaking her head. “You should be having children of your own, Afra.”

He cocked his head at her. “In my own time.”

“But you’d make such a marvelous father. You shouldn’t be limited to l.p.-ing. Just look at how Damia succumbs to your charm,” and the Rowan indicated her sleeping daughter. “I can’t get her to do that. You didn’t ‘encourage’ this nap, did you?” she said in a half-accusatory voice.

“Heavens no,” Afra replied, raising his hands to protest his innocence. Everyone in the Tower had been made aware of how the Rowan felt about any subtle mental control of her children. They were to grow up as normally as possible, with no mental tamperings, until Talent manifested itself in the due course of their development. That all three children were potentially high Talents had been
established at their births, but the Rowan didn’t want their abilities forced, as hers had been.

The Rowan gave him a suspicious glare.

“Honest, Rowan!” Candidly Afra thought that a little adroit mental control might minimize the problems she’d been having with Damia, but she was the parent. And Damia was definitely cut from a different mold than her older brother and sister. “You saw yourself how Rascal and the Coonies wore her out playing.”

The Rowan had to admit that. “Will they survive her, I wonder?”

“They survived Jeran and Cera. Actually, I think they have more fun with Damia. She’s more inventive.”

She had laughed as much at Damia chasing barque cat and Coonies as Afra had. Damia had been so intent on catching one or the other and all had eluded her until she’d collapsed in fatigue. Now the Rowan snorted in amusement at the recollection.

“Shhhh! You’ll wake her.” He peered down at the beautiful face of the sleeping child.

Jeff Raven ’ported himself into the room. Afra looked up in greeting while the Rowan gave him a frosty glare. The Rowan had definite views about Talent protocol.

“Use the door!” the Rowan said, reproving him.

“That would’ve roused the baby,” Jeff replied, unrebuked. “She
is
asleep, isn’t she?” When Afra nodded, he let out a sigh of relief. “This one’s worse than the other two, Aff: she has the uncanniest knack for waking up only on those nights we’re shagged.” Jeff looked at his lifemate. “Let’s take a breather after this one? Okay, love? We need sleep.”

The Rowan shook her head vigorously. “I want a big family, Jeff. I know what it’s like to be lonely.”

Jeff scowled in pretend horror. “What? Greedy? Three bonuses aren’t enough?” FT&T substantially rewarded Talents who produced offspring, in hopes of increasing the numbers of the Talented throughout the League.

Afra absorbed their repartee like a moth circling a candle: eager for the warmth but fearful of the flame. Within
this circle, he enjoyed family life—however vicariously—and coveted these evenings, secure in the affection of both the Rowan and Jeff: the sort of a family life that he had never had, never imagined was possible.

Jeran and Cera paused long enough in their mildly competitive application of color to blank paper to smile at their father. He patted them affectionately, for Jeff had no trouble being demonstrative with his children. Then he became the host, offering to top up glasses before he poured one for himself and settled next to the Rowan on the circular couch.

“Has David calmed his Administration down?” Rowan asked.

Jeff gave a shrug. “I sincerely hope so. Van Hygan and that Ordnance fellow proved—to me, at least—that the factories are working overtime to turn out the components, that the Fleet is scheduled to move as soon as they have sufficient units, so it’s only a matter of time before Betelgeuse, too, is securely ringed with early warning devices.”

“Which leaves Altair, Capella, and the all-systems in between still struggling?”

“That’s it,” Jeff said with a sigh, and he sipped his wine. “Not that there’s been a peep on any DEW unit.” His knee started jiggling, an indication of inner anxiety. The Rowan laid a hand on it and Jeff gave her a sheepish grin, instantly covering her hand with his.

Afra looked away, suffering a pang of jealousy for the bonding between his two best friends. Yet, if after long, lonely years and vicissitudes, these two had found each other, perhaps he shouldn’t give up hope. Kama had certainly indicated often enough her willingness to be more than bedmate and sometime confidante. He liked her, but his affection for her was a dull gleam beside the radiance that suffused Jeff and the Rowan. He stared down at Damia’s small face, trying to imagine the features older, the mind mature. Detachedly he wondered what her life would be like, who she would marry, which Tower she would run (for he was certain she had Prime potential), whether he would have the joy of bouncing her babies on
his knee. Would she be a handful like her mother or would she take after her father and be a biddable child like Cera and Jeran? Afra was willing to bet the former—with suitable individualized embellishments—but he was now deftly accustomed to handling the Rowan’s outbursts with a carefully controlled silence. But here now was this wondrous baby, just at the beginning of her life, and she was sleeping on
his
lap! Afra marveled that any soul could be so trusting of him. As he had told both Jeran and Cera, when they had been babies sleeping on his lap,
I love you, little darling!

“Afra!” The Rowan’s voice broke his reverie. For a moment he feared that she had “heard” him, but he gathered by her tone that, instead, she had been trying to gain his attention. She was standing, hands reaching down toward baby Damia. “I’ll take her. It’s time she was properly put to bed.”

Afra was reluctant to yield her. “If you pick her up, she’ll wake,” he said. “Then goodness knows how long it’ll be before you get her to sleep again with her batteries partly charged.” The Rowan wearily conceded his point. “Just this once, ’port her to bed.”

The Rowan’s expression altered and anger clouded her eyes.

“Afra, you know . . .”

“I think Afra’s right. Or have you forgotten how long it took you last night . . .”

“She had a touch of colic,” the Rowan said by way of excuse.

“She doesn’t tonight, and she’s asleep,” Afra said. “We’ve a heavy schedule tomorrow. She’s so soundly asleep she won’t even know she’s been shifted.”

The Rowan hesitated, torn between stated ethic and opportunity.

“Just this once?” And Jeff added his encouragement: the warm look in his eyes and the slightly sensual curve to his smile suggested to Afra, as well as the Rowan, what plans her husband had in mind for her. “And, appreciating your scruples in the matter, my love, I’ll ’port her.”

She wavered just long enough and suddenly the warm weight of the sleeping child was lifted from Afra’s lap as Jeff took advantage of her hesitation.

“I’d better make sure . . .” the Rowan said, and hurried from the room but, as Jeff and Afra grinned at each other, neither heard any loud protest from the ’ported sleeper.

Jeff clapped his hands together, attracting the attention of the older two. “C’mon, put your crayons away. Bedtime.”

Without protest, Jeran and Cera broke off their activity and began to stuff their colors back into the box. They were already dressed in their nightclothes and each with solemn expression held out a hand to their father to be led away to their cots.

“Say good night to Afra.”

“’Night, Afra,” the two chorused dutifully.

“Sleep well, Jeran, Cera,” he replied politely.

“Thanks, Unk,” Jeff said with a grin as he led his children off.

Afra finished his wine, somewhat regretting the absence of Damia on his lap. She was a great leg warmer. Sighing, he rose and made his way back to his own quarters. He treasured these evenings, for they anchored his soul and countered the depression he often felt for not being able to establish a similarly satisfying “marriage of true minds” for himself.

Over the years he had consoled himself with being the brother the Rowan had lost in that avalanche, keeping
philia
and
eros
separate. He had also come to recognize the unexpected reward of his upbringing on a methody world, despite its legacy of emotional control and detachment. Although he had learned to break out of the rigid, undemonstrative demeanour that his parents had instilled in him and could, on occasion, express his emotions, that early training kept his unrequited love for the lonely Rowan separate from his affection for Angharad Gwyn-Raven. The tense atmosphere of the busiest Tower in the League was no place for a person to act like a pressure vessel. So, with Kama for his sexual needs, the Rowan for
his intellectual comfort, and Gollee Gren for his still irrepressibly rebellious nature, Afra managed to keep himself balanced.

*   *   *

Afra could tell by the way the Rowan walked into the Tower that she’d had another bad night with Damia, who was teething. With Jeff on his annual Tower inspections throughout the Nine Star League, the Rowan was having a spate of unrelieved childcare. Some of her personnel, Afra included, devoutly hoped that this would certainly delay, if not deter her from considering, a fourth pregnancy, which was on her agenda, if not on Jeff’s. The Rowan’s first priority ought to be a smooth-functioning Callisto Tower.

“Bad night?” Afra asked sympathetically.

The Rowan rolled her eyes. “The other two weren’t like her at all,” she said, a hint of despair in her voice.

“My firstborn was like her,” Brian Ackerman added, handing Rowan the sheaf of flimsies for the morning’s outgoing traffic. “One night I caught myself holding Borrie at arm’s length and screaming at him to shut up.” Brian scratched behind his left ear, embarrassed to relate that reaction. “She’ll grow out of it, Rowan. You’ll see.”

“But when?” The Rowan’s tone was both wistful and rueful. “Will I last long enough?”

“Ah, it seems a long time when you have to go through it,” Brian said with the encouraging, slightly patronizing smile that the survivor will give the victim. “But it won’t be long now.”

“Why don’t you have Tanya cope with her tonight?” Afra asked. The very competent T-8 who managed the pre-school creche had established a good rapport with Damia, who napped quite easily when required to do so under her care. One of the other mothers had suggested, within Afra’s hearing, that perhaps the Rowan, being so high-strung, was unconsciously stimulating her daughter into these wakeful nights.

The Rowan rolled her eyes expressively. “I couldn’t do that, Afra. Tanya has to cope with her all day long. I can’t ask her to take night duty as well.”

“Ask,” suggested Afra. “She can only say ‘no.’”

“I don’t wish to make her feel she
has
to because I can’t cope.” There was a slightly hysterical edge to the Rowan’s voice.

“What about a pukha?” Afra suggested.

The Rowan stared as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “My daughter is
perfectly
normal. She is not the least bit traumatized.”

“I didn’t mean to imply she was,” Afra said at his calmest because he could see the dangerous glint in her eyes. “But pukhas do soothe the restless child.”

“She’s teething, I said.”

“Gotta better idea,” Brian said, hoping to divert the brewing of a Rowan-storm. “We don’t have any live traffic this morning. Nothing Afra and me can’t handle.” Somewhat gingerly, he took the Rowan by the arm and turned her back toward the Tower door. “Also, right now Damia’s Tanya’s responsibility, all legit, no favors required. So, you go get yourself six good hours of sacktime until the outer system stuff comes through. Right?”

Almost magically, the fury went out of the Rowan and she put her hand on Brian’s shoulder, expressing her heartfelt relief at his entirely sensible suggestion.

“Oh, could I?”

Quick to take advantage of her compliance, Afra made a shooing gesture, and ’pathed her a firm nudge, planting the image of her stretched out on her bed, her hands folded virginally across her chest.

“Don’t lay me out quite yet, please,” she replied with some asperity, but then she managed to grin.
Before I change my mind
, she added to Afra, and half-ran out of the Tower and down the link to her quarters.

Afra followed her mental touch until the door to her shielded house closed behind her, but he had no doubts that she made her way straight to her bed. He’d been maladroit to bring up the subject of a pukha for Damia, but he hated to see the Rowan so dragged out. She’d handled alien monsters with less strain. He set the remote alarm to
ring in her room in six hours and then went up to the Tower room to start the day’s business.

There was indeed nothing that he and Brian couldn’t handle with full gestalt and a little assistance from the higher T-ratings in the Tower. Sometimes he wondered why so many single cargo pods were routed. It’d take less time and effort to link same-destination packages together and flick ’em out in one lot. Afra made a note to suggest the idea to Jeff on his return to Earth.