[ 2.5 ]
Halfway through his research into the Mitchell uprisers, Serafin’s consistant chimes: you have a priority message.
“Ignore.”
It’s from Copernica 24.
Serafin closes his eyes. “Go ahead.”
“Good evening, Mister Serafin!” the booker chirps, his friendliness somewhat offset by the long pauses he takes to check his notes. “I just wanted to get in touch about your interview… next week. I have some exciting news for you… Alvin Lane is going to be in range, and he’d love to do your interview tomorrow!”
Alvin Lane is the host of Hardlight, one of the most popular certified news shows in the system. Coming to prominence as part of the team that broke the Zemlya-Kosmos Split back in the ‘40s, Lane has an established record of measured analysis, tough but fair conversations, and has interviewed presidents, prime ministers, executives, and chairmen from every major power. He had continued his broadcasts throughout the war despite being on the Iblis target list, although they did become necessarily more sporadic in order to maintain his safety.
It’s hard to think of anyone in the solar system who Serafin wants to speak with less.
Tomorrow?
“Everyone here is looking forward to giving you a chance to tell your side of the story. I’m sending along a schedule and a key for the C24 relay; don’t be concerned about transmit fees, we take care of all that. If you have any questions, or you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to get in touch!”
Serafin wants to throw up.
The recording put Serafin’s face out there. Talking to the media was always going to be a nightmare. But this? This could make him a proper celebrity.
He fires off a message to van Arden: surely this is a bit too much, isn’t it? Surely it would be better to reschedule, do the interview with someone less prominent, give the story more time to fade from public eye?
The response arrives in fifteen minutes, as fast as light can take it, straight text:
“Unfortunate. But interview needs to happen, sooner the better. Charlie Mike.”
“Charlie Mike,” Serafin grumbles.
I’m in the bleak, no tether, there’s a hole in my suit, and they’re going to tear it wide open—
Panic won’t help. Work the problem. What are the variables? Man and interview. He can’t escape the interview. His practice thus far has ranged from embarrassing to disastrous. But the boss says the interview needs to happen, so it’s going to happen.
Attention. Such an appalling concept. Serafin’s not like Maila—
Serafin laughs suddenly.
Of course! The answer has been staring him in the face this entire time. The PubComms machine has been trying to teach him how to talk like a machine — better to learn from a real human being with media experience. If he needs to learn how to speak to the swarm crawling underneath the rocks, who better to teach him than the king of the insects himself?
Unfortunately, when Serafin knocks on the door to the Schott’s cabin, he discovers Herman is in no fit state to share the secrets of public relations. Maila answers, clad in an ostentatious violet gown with shimmering consensus embroidery dancing down the length of her skirt.
“Look who it is!” she cries, ushering him into the bedroom. “Hermy, you have another visitor!”
In the bedroom, Herman is curled up in bed with a damp towel on his head, groaning softly. At his side, the ship’s doctor is waving a medicorder back and forth in the air like a priest with a thurible.
“Jimmy!” Herman says. “How’s it hanging?”
“Herman. What seems to be the problem?”
“We’re not quite sure, actually,” the doctor mutters, squinting at his readings. “Doesn’t appear airborne, at least.”
“I’m telling you,” Maila squeaks from the other side of the bed, “it was that yicky lobster thermidor! I told you it tasted funny! Why do you always have to be eating that disgusting stuff, anyway?”
“Again with this spacer nonsense!” Herman groans. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing wrong with sea food!”
“Any other symptoms I should know about, Mister Schott?” the doctor asks, scratching his beard.
“How many symptoms do I need?” Herman grumbles. He flops his head over, casting red, wet eyes at Serafin. “Jimbo, I’m glad you’re here. I could use your help.”
“What do you need?”
“This dinner with the captain — Maila’s been looking forward to it, chewing my ear off about it. You think you could do me a solid?”
“Well,” says Serafin.
“Oh, Hermy, I don’t want to go out! I need to stay here and take care of you!”
She’s an amazing dancer, but her acting skills leave something to be desired.
“I insist,” says Herman. “Dinner with the captain. It’s a big deal! You should take advantage!”
Serafin’s first impulse is to decline, if only because he has better things to do with his time.
But that’s not all. Something about this tableau — the sick man in his bed, the blankets and sheets carefully arranged and folded for rendering in bold crimsons; the anxious new wife and concerned new friend, ready for burnt sienna and raw umber — Serafin can’t quite put his finger on it, but it feels… unnatural, somehow, like it’s another routine. The feeling is all the more unsettling because he can’t quite figure out the angle.
“Gosh, Herman, I don’t know,” Serafin says. “I’ve got this interview tomorrow—”
“Aw, come on, Jim,” Herman says. “She’s been chewing my ear off about this the whole trip. I’d owe you big time.”
Think fast.
“I mean, such a fancy occasion, I don’t think I have the proper attire—”
“You can stop by the fabricators on the way!” Herman says. “They’ll print you up something nice, it’ll take ten minutes. I’ll spring for the whole thing!”
Not fast enough.
Serafin relents. He doesn’t want to. He knows something’s off. It’s never easy to distinguish between the harmless shadow and the tiger’s stripes — especially in these consensus days — but no one knows better the quiet echo that comes with premonitory instinct.
But still, he can’t say why. And without the why, he can’t see a way to wriggle out of this.
“Of course, pal.”
“Oh, thank you, Mister Serafin!” Maila says, blushing for some reason, before she awkwardly embraces him.
For a brief moment, Serafin allows himself the fantasy that everything’s alright: all he needs to do is surrender his evening, do a simple favor for a sick man, and that will be the end of it. But this delusion, like a virtual particle, only exists for the briefest moment before it pops out of existence.
“Wait, hold on!” Herman says, once they’ve said their goodbyes and are halfway out the door. From beneath the covers, he extracts a long flat black box. Inside is a garish pashmina, a roiling storm of clashing colors held together at the collar by an elaborate brooch studded with fat jewels.
And suddenly, everything becomes clear.
“Oh Hermy!” Maila says, running her hands across the cashmere before peppering her husband with kisses. “It’s sensational! It’s just what I wanted!”
“You deserve it, darling,” Herman groans.
Serafin smiles tightly. “Nothing for me?”
Herman chuckles, then coughs. “Have to settle for a fancy dinner, I guess!”
By the door, Serafin recalculates. He studies Maila carefully, who is doing her best to balance uxorial concern against incipient excitement. The brooch shimmers on her chest, fittingly dazzling and extravagant, and—
“Herman,” Serafin says, carefully. “Are you sure you don’t want to come along?”
Herman nods, lips settling into an honest to God pout, a poor choice for a man with such smooth, chubby cheeks, as it makes him look even more childish. “I’m sure. You take good care of her, you hear?”
Serafin’s measurements are already on file, so it’s simply a matter of choosing the style and fabric. Maila has a considerable amount of horrendous opinions on the matter, but they manage to agree on a dark blue side-cut sherwani that doesn’t entirely clash with her dress.
As they wait, Maila regales him with the tale of a fellow passenger who has embarked on a passionate affair with one of the crew-members, and isn’t that just so romantic? He does his best to nod and murmur when appropriate, but his mind keeps drifting; now that the Notion has grown from an irritating drip drip drip of little curiosities into a flood of ideas, it’s hard to not be pulled away.
It’s the abduction that’s slowing him down, he decides. He’s been avoiding it deliberately; he thought it best, out of concern he wouldn’t be able to remain objective. When van Arden visited Serafin in the ward, he said they were doing a thorough investigation, all hands on deck. If they’ve found anything, they certainly haven’t shared it.
Maybe there’s a reason for that?
But that doesn’t make sense. While Serafin was obliged to play nice with the locals, he wasn’t actually a part of the Churchill Branch — he was part of van Arden’s band of irregulars. So it won’t be Churchies running the investigation; it’ll be a team from Home Office. Whatever’s happening on Churchill shouldn’t make a difference. Unless—
“… don’t you think?”
Serafin gives his head a short sharp shake, realizing he’s let his ponderings take him too far and too deep. He tries to surreptitiously pull up the transcript to see what he missed, but Maila has already found him out.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”
“Apologies, my dear. I’m a little distracted. My interview, you know.”
“Oh, that’s alright!” Maila says. “I always get nervous before a big performance too. Getting some food in you should help! Although, really, you shouldn’t feel obligated to tag along if you don’t want to. I’ll be fine, honest! I’ll tell Hermy you were a perfect gentlemen.”
“What, and miss a chance to meet the captain?”
Maila appreciates the humor, but not as much as her husband.
“I’m very happy for your friend,” says Serafin, doing his best to paddle back to shore.
“You don’t think it’s inappropriate?”
He smiles. “Oh, the best romances always are.”
Maila doesn’t like this, for some reason. She looks away, nervously twisting at the edges of her new pashmina, before she finds the courage to speak.
“I ought to say, Mister Serafin… and please understand, I don’t mean to offend… but I hope you won’t take my husband’s absence as… some kind of invitation.”
Surprised, Serafin glances at Maila to see if she’s sincere, and she is; her eyes have fallen and her chin is pressed against her brooch, like she’s afraid of being disciplined.
He runs through the interpretations: the most obvious — she actually does hope he takes her husband’s absence as some kind of invitation — he dismisses immediately.
Another possibility would be genuine concern, which means she’s having trouble reading his intentions; not entirely surprising, given her age, and the fact that his career — and occasionally, his life — have depended on carefully keeping said intentions ambiguous.
But still, brave of her to say this out loud. Perhaps there’s more to her than he thought.
Tread carefully, he thinks.
“Not at all, my dear,” Serafin says, doing his best to sound his age. “I’m married.”
“Oh yes,” she says, in her pleasant sing-song. “Of course.”
She does a decent job of covering it up, but the stray inflection at the end that gives her away — not a semitone, not even a full cent — but enough that she might as well have scoffed in his face.
“Is there something you’d like to say?” Serafin asks, using the same gentle voice he heard so often in the ward.
She blushes. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be rude—”
“Maila, please — we’re both starborn. You can speak freely.”
“Well,” she says, pursing her lips. “It’s just… Herman and I got into a bit of a row yesterday. He saw us talking at breakfast and he, well, sort of got the wrong idea.”
“I see.”
“Honestly, I know I can be a bit of a flirt,” she says. “I just… I like the attention, that’s all. No harm in that. And it’s not like he’s any different! You’ve seen how he is!”
“I have. But that being the case, it does seem curious he would ask me to take you to dinner—”
“Oh no, it’s fine. I cleared the whole mess up. I said, ‘Hermy! I just wanted to ask about my family!’ And he got it. It’s fine. But… he really is fond of you, Mister Serafin.”
“He’s a lot of fun.”
“Mm, yes,” she says, struggling to figure out how to express herself. “But — I mean — you can be beastly with him, don’t you think? He doesn’t notice, but… it seems as though you’re always sniggering into your sleeve, whenever you’re with him.”
Serafin’s first instinct is denial, but he decides against it. The truth is, she’s got him dead to rights; he feels he should honor that, the perceptiveness and forthrightness both.
“I admit,” Serafin says, “I can find Herman a touch… Falstaffian, at times. But I am fond of him, truly! You have to understand, I was born on Collins — the dark side, and, well… there’s not many people like Herman, where I’m from.”
“There’s not many people like Herman, period!” she says brightly. Her shoulders have relaxed, and she’s finally willing to make eye contact again. “That’s why I love him so!”
“He’s certainly not dull.”
“Oh, there you go again!” She smacks him on the arm, then gives him a few more for good measure. “You do have a way of talking around a thing, don’t you?”
“You’re right,” Serafin chuckles, raising his hands. “You’re right! He’s fun! I yield!”
“I forgive you.” Maila giggles. “I suppose I’m just sensitive… people try to take advantage of him, you know. People see him, big bruiser he is, and they think he hasn’t got brains to go with it. Or they hear about the bugs, and they think he’s ka-maharaj. But he’s bound for great things, I assure you!”
“With you at his side, my dear,” says Serafin, “I have no doubt.”
Dinner turns out to be a rather elaborate production; Serafin and Maila are ushered up to a balcony overlooking the dining room, where the assembled guests are serenaded by a band. The walls and ceilings have been removed by overlay, making it appear as though they’re slowly floating through a series of colorful, swirling nebulae. As they make their way to their table, Maila nervously tugs at Serafin’s sleeve.
“This all looks so expensive!” she whispers.
“Relax,” says Serafin. “We were invited. It’s gratis.”
“What?”
“On the house.”
“Oh,” says Maila, visibly relieved.
In order to encourage conversation, couples are split apart and seated at different tables. Serafin finds himself trapped between a rather pompous preacher (evidently a celebrity, although Serafin had never heard of him) and a retired Earther engineer who has brought his own wine — a bottle of Millennium IX, which he insists everyone try.
“Are you old enough to drink?” Serafin calls down to Maila when she eagerly extends her glass for the pour.
“I am on Luna!” she titters.
While the captain isn’t present at the beginning — attending to an urgent matter on the bridge, allegedly — he turns up in between salad and soup.
“Good evening, good evening!” he booms, before launching into a brief speech equal parts platitudinous and stentorian.
While clearly a man of military bearing once upon a time, his posture and paunch indicate his warrior spirit has since abandoned him. He attempts to make up for this deficit by paying fastidious attention to his hair, beard, and uniform, which is the same green and gold as the rest of the crew, but taken to garish extremes, with epaulets and ribbons and even a sash. There’s an old adage about owners and pets coming to resemble one another over time; Serafin wonders if it isn’t true of captains and ships as well. When the speech is concluded, the captain takes his seat — next to Maila, who seems transfixed by his garish tinpot dictator chic.
Generally, the dinner has the soupçon of post-war jubilation, and Serafin does his best to surrender his worries and enjoy the occasion. After his unfortunate faux pas with Herman the other day, he’s determined to avoid any discussion of the goings-on at Marius Hills — so naturally, Marius Hills is the most popular topic of the night.
Fortunately, there’s enough food to keep his mouth full most of the evening. The best course is chicken liver and mushroom risotto with parmesan, a combination of ingredients Serafin previously couldn’t have imagined being enjoyable, but proves such a rousing success that the chef is called out from the kitchen for a round of applause, which grows all the louder when he mentions that this is the first voyage in five years he has been free to work without the limitations of rationing or shortages.
Over the next course, the conversation shifts — largely at the preacher’s insistence — to the Iblis decommissioning.
“I mean — excuse me, let me just say, just let me say this, and then I am done — we must do something!” the preacher exclaims. “There are over one hundred of these accursed machines near Ceres, that is enough to wipe out an entire colony in a few days—”
“But they are deactivated.”
“Are they? Let me just say, and I will say no more, how do you know that for sure? How can we even tell? Should we simply pretend everything is alright, that they will meekly bow their heads and submit to extermination? These agreements are a farce and Executive Dawson, Allah yarhamhu, would never have fallen for so obvious a ploy!”
“This all started on Dawson’s watch!” someone further down the table squawks.
“Mister Serafin, what do you think?” the preacher asks.
“Mm. Well, there’s a lot to consider, isn’t there?”
“You see? He agrees with me!” the preacher barks, seizing back the conversational reins.
There is some escape to be found in conversation with the old engineer, who is only interested in politics insofar as it impacts his travels. Unfortunately, he is only interested in his travels, which he describes in endless, exhausting detail.
“… after thaaat,” the engineer says — Serafin isn’t sure if the long, slow drawl is the result of alcohol, illness, or affectation — “we decided to go to the Jupiter colonies, on one of the new Apex models. Have you seen those? It was a verrry pleasant experience… mostly new components… and they’ve managed to reduce the size of the drive by almost fifteen percent in the newww series… so there’s a lot more room for amenities. The interface rooms are lovely… but there’s just something about a good game of tennis on a properrr court….”
“We’ve come a long way from pulsed fusion, haven’t we?”
“Oh, for sure! I remember, the year after I graduated high school, I took this little sloop to Luna….”
At the far end of the table, there’s a shriek that slides into a high-pitched laugh — the captain and Maila seem to be getting along quite well. It’s interesting, seeing her in company without Herman: while she’s always in high spirits, she’s louder now, less submissive. Her table manners are abysmal — she starts the next course by blowing on her soup and concludes by sipping straight from the bowl — but the men gathered around her seem to find this all quite endearing.
That said, not everyone is falling under her spell: in particular, there’s an older woman seated next to the captain who has been glaring at Maila for most of the evening. She seems eager to gain the captain’s attention, but her hopes are dashed when it turns out the captain is a dance aficionado, which leads to excited chattering about the industry with Maila that Serafin can’t quite follow from this distance.
“We did have a bit of excitement around Europa, though.”
“Is that so?”
The engineer nods. “They put out this announcement in the middle of the niiight, said we had to alter course and go on the float for a bit… emergency precautions. They pinged a null-flag, thought it might be pirates… I was in the casino at the time, and they made us get under the tables? Rather uncomfortable….”
“I can imagine.”
“Turned out to be a false alarm,” the engineer says, lest anyone fear the story might turn interesting. “My own fault, really… I usually don’t fly Kashabah Voyages, they tend to cut corners… but they were the only elite line still flying out there, of course, and they had this verrry nice package deal….”
“… they are war machines!” the preacher squawks. “Their very use debases a man. They are al-sharīrah, wicked by their very nature!”
“Whatever they are, they’re useful. The Reds don’t even believe in God! You really think they’d hesitate to drop a pack of Savagers on us if they had the chance? Has anybody else used nuclear weapons other than the Reds since the second world war?”
“The Irāniyy,” says Serafin, unable to help himself, but the debaters fortunately ignore him. He can almost hear Nasser: shut up and drink your wine, ghabi.
“There’s no reasoning with the Devil!” the preacher says. “What would such an alliance even look like? Do you want one of their dreadnoughts in orbit over your station? Shall we let Razors into our classrooms, to watch over our children?”
At the captain’s end of the table, the conversation has turned to Columbus Station.
“… obviously we should be doing everything we can,” says the purser, who appears to be trying to impress the older woman. “But the situation is really quite complex—”
“Is it?” the woman scoffs. “I mean, really, I don’t wish to be callous, but they did side with the enemy.”
“Under duress!” the preacher cries. “We cannot judge them too harshly for this. Think of Ammar ibn Yasir, who was tortured until he denounced the Prophet (peace be upon him), but kept the truth in his heart!”
“Whatever’s in their hearts, it didn’t exactly win them any brownie points with the rest of the system.”
“They weren’t under duress when Murthy left the Alliance,” someone interjects.
“You can’t just declare independence,” says the purser.
“There was talk of formal expulsion at the time, did that ever go through?”
“Why aren’t the russkiye doing more, do you think?”
“Why would they?” says the captain. “It’s not their station.”
“Got a decent amount of their people on board, though.”
“What in the last few hundred years,” the older woman says dryly, “gives you the impression the Reds are worried about the welfare of their people?”
“Well, what about the bhāratīy? It technically is their station.”
“Not much the Asian terrestrials can do until they can get their beanstalk up and running again.”
“Quite unfortunate,” says the purser. “The longer they wait, the more difficult it will be to fix the problem—”
“I visited Columbus in the ‘40s,” the engineer whispers to Serafin. “Excellent docks. Compleeetely automated… a very nice system….”
“… it’s a humanitarian concern.”
“It’s a boondoggle!”
“What do you think, Maila?” the older woman asks.
The table falls silent.
“Well,” Maila says, blushing.
You don’t need socializers to see Maila’s delighted by the attention. But Serafin’s a little concerned: the question is malicious; the woman’s trying to show her up. And while Serafin has grown fond of the girl, he’s also fairly sure she doesn’t even know what planet Columbus orbits around, let alone the complex politics of its declining orbit.
Should I intervene? he thinks, but no, too late, she’s already starting—
“There is so much going on right now, in the systems,” Maila says. “We’ve all lost so much, we’re all just trying to find our way back. I just feel so blessed to be here with all of you tonight, enjoying this wonderful food and this wonderful wine.”
“Yes,” the woman says firmly, “but what about Columbus, dear?”
“I think… after all of this sadness, all of this loss… I want to live!” Maila cries, rising from her chair. “I want to see the oceans of Earth! I want to make love in a habitat in Mercury, underneath the fire of the sun! I want to dance across the red sands of Mars! Why do we get so mixed up in the problems of other people, when the nightmare is over, and we can finally embrace life and be happy? You’re alive! I’m alive! We’re all alive! Isn’t that wonderful?”
Everyone is either clapping or pounding the table now — except the older woman — and Serafin raises his glass.
“To being alive!” he says, and everyone drinks.
Around eleven, Serafin politely excuses himself from the engineer’s exhaustive description of a refueling depot and heads to the front of the table, where the captain’s select are smoking and talking about some scandal the British ambassador has gotten caught up in.
“Captain,” says Serafin, shaking his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, but I think I’m going to call it a night.”
“I think I’ll stay a while,” Maila purrs.
“The missus has asked for a tour of the bridge,” the captain says, tugging on his sash.
“I think not,” says Serafin.
“It’s fine,” Maila says, more firmly than he’s seen from her before. “You go on ahead.”
He stops short. She hasn’t had that much alcohol, but the attention has definitely gone to her head.
Oh no.
“I don’t know, my dear,” says Serafin, allowing a note of warning to creep into his voice. “It is getting rather late. And I did give my word to your husband I’d keep an eye on you; I’d feel awful if I didn’t keep to that.”
“Oh, but Mister Serafin, I’m with the captain,” she says, patting the captain on his cuffs. “Really, could I be any safer? We trust him with our lives, after all.”
“Don’t you worry, sir,” the captain says, grinning in a way that worries Serafin rather a lot. “I’ll make sure she gets back safe and sound.”
How far does Serafin want to push this? He did promise, but she’s not exactly under attack. They’ve reached the point where any further protest will be viewed as escalation. Serafin’s certainly capable of escalation — of that, have no doubt — but he’s frankly exhausted, and still trying to keep a low profile.
“Maila—”
“Mister Serafin has a big interview tomorrow,” she says. “He’s going to be on c24!”
And now she’s broadcasting his business to the cosmos, the absolute brat.
“Is that so?” says the captain. “Goodness, we’ll have to tune in for that.”
Neither God, her husband, nor her father, Serafin reminds himself.
“Alright,” Serafin says, with a sigh. “Just don’t stay out too late. We wouldn’t want Herman to worry.”
“Oh, of course,” says Maila, giggling. “Of course.”
At the stairs, however, he can’t help but turn back.
“Captain,” says Serafin. “One… small thing.”
“Mm,” says the captain, not looking away from Maila. “Yes?”
“I’m afraid someone’s left a Fusionist marker on my deck. I’ve asked for it to be removed, but there doesn’t seem to have been any headway in the matter.”
This gets the captain’s attention, to Maila’s irritation. “A marker?”
“A Fusionist marker, yes.”
The captain sighs. He puts his hands on the edge of his chair, grasping it in several different ways, leaving Serafin with the impression he’s resisting the urge to toss it over the balcony.
“You know what I find most frustrating about my crew, Mister Serafin?” the captain says, finally. “They’re not incapable. When they’re being watched, they can accomplish a great deal, a great deal indeed. But every time I look away, they have constructed some vast new monument to incompetence in my absence. I keep petitioning the company to allow me to discipline them properly, but they won’t allow it, the cowards.”
“The great problem of our age,” says Serafin. “‘We’ve perfected our machines, but our men lag far behind.’”
“Fah! Isn’t that the truth!”
The captain starts to rise, but Serafin waves him off.
“I’d be happy to take care of this myself. If I just had the clearance….”
In his better days, the captain would have turned Serafin down, seen to the problem personally. But he glances back at Maila, and the temptation proves too great.
“Of course.” The captain taps his sleeve. “Starbuck: please grant Mister Serafin full crew consensus access, would you?” The captain struggles a little to get through the phrase.
“Access granted,” the ship chirps.
“I swear,” the captain grumbles, holding up a finger. “One. One flogging. That’s all it would take to restore order around here.”
Maila reminds him she exists by patting his arm. He smiles at her. “Tell me, my dear, have you ever seen a flogging?”
Serafin returns to the hallway, where the offending graffito remains. He calls up the controls to remove it, but he can’t — it’s not a single image at all, but rather a collection of millions of tiny layered images, all flagged essential to public safety with a variety of restrictions and classifications which make them more difficult to remove.
Pointillist vandalism. Will wonders never cease.
It would be easy enough to set the computer after it, but Serafin takes his handkerchief from his pocket, marks it as an eraser, and starts patiently scrubbing away.
As he scrubs, he thinks back to his conversation with Maila about how people perceive Herman. It’s an interesting question, after all: not just what do we see, but: what do we choose to see?
For example:
Serafin has set his own view to flag anomalous electromagnetic and radio frequencies — a basic gaze, typically used by electricians and technicians, but easy to use and cheap to purchase.
Most people don’t bother, of course. Most people wouldn’t know or care — why would you want more signals in a world so full of noise?
But Serafin has grown fond of it. The gaze allows him to pick up details others miss, telltale signs that can lead to hidden equipment or concealed rooms or any manner of subterfuge. You’d be shocked by how much is hiding in plain sight.
The faint electromagnetic signal emanating from Maila’s brooch, for example.
Serafin isn’t familiar with the model, but he’s come across similar examples before: surveillance gear. Consumer grade, but pricey, capable of recording full spectrum representations, possibly even broadcasting them as well.
Popular with private investigators and suspicious spouses.
His shoulder begins to complain, and he takes a step back to examine his work. Progress is being made, slowly but surely — in another ten minutes, the wall will be cleaner than it was when the ship was still in service. He wonders if a member of the crew might be responsible for the message — the layering and flagging is impressive, although not impossible for a talented amateur.
Should I have said something to Maila? he wonders.
Perhaps.
But he’s not sure he sees the point: whatever game Herman and Maila are playing at, it’s born of compulsion; they couldn’t stop even if they wanted to. It’s as inevitable as the conflict between freedom and communism, as reliable as the turn of the planets and stars.
She’s right, he decides. Best not to get involved.