Scene 5: Staff dining room.

  It’s no surprise when Rich leads the way downstairs to the staff dining room, where the boytoys and the mansion’s more fortunate employees are wont to eat in uncomfortable truce. It is a surprise when the man threads deftly amongst the tables, entirely ignores the serving window counter, and walks instead to the staff entrance to stroll casually forth into the kitchens themselves. As though he does this every morning—as though the cold and fiercely-guarded delineation between “house staff” and “boytoy” has never been drawn for him at all.

  Rafael hesitates at the door, breath coming short in his chest and something akin to panic prickling over his skin, and then glances around at the cafeteria, empty now of allies, curses softly to himself, and darts inside.

  The kitchens are a different universe, stainless steel and white tile, at least half a dozen men and women working busily to supply the morning meal for the whole compound’s staff. Rich cuts through the dense, noisy churn of activity like a great and graceful swan through a scrum of ducks.

  Rafael hurries along in his wake, sticking close to his elbow to avoid touching anything, braced for shouting. He realized quickly in his first frantic days of captivity that if he approached any of Carraway’s staff in his cuffs and collar, he would receive pitying discomfort at best and intent scorn at worst. Through Carraway and Sandgren’s efforts, even the unfortunates imprisoned together in his harem turn on each other; it must have been even easier to seed mistrust and enmity between servant and slave.

  Rafael understands the terrible arc of it, the ease with which the seeds took root. The harem lives only in idleness, and their only hard use is one of pleasure—their worst abuses live behind closed doors. Working men and women with Sandgren driving at their heels are fed envy and resentment at the appearance of hedonism, and by their very human nature, Carraway’s captives struggle and break in unlovely ways, destroying rooms in grief, lashing out in humiliation or resentment or despair. And so, the distance grows.

  Even for Sam, beloved by all, the divide had only slowly been lessening, and in his sudden cruel absence it had widened again to a painful chasm that none of his mourners saw cause to reach across. What good had it done him, after all? What good had it done any of them? And what a terrible request to make of any man, to demand he grant a measure of grace to men and women who see the collar at his throat and think him an idle lapdog.

  Rich doesn’t charm and entreat his way into the kitchen. He bulls in with the confident stride of a man who knows exactly where he’s going and what he intends to do there, as though it’s Carraway’s uniform he wears instead of a collar and cuffs, beaming brightly at any of the wary cooks who wish him good morning. The staff who watch him warily or look on him with distaste, he takes no note of, only crosses to a heavyset older Black woman who presides over the kitchen with the effortless authority of one of Rafael’s troupe aunties, and snaps a brisk and nautical salute.

  “Ms Lucille!” Rich says, and focuses at once on the mysterious and intimidatingly wiry appliance the woman is tinkering with. “What’s that, somethin’ break? How’s the dishwasher?”

  “It's washing just fine for now, sugar. This here’s a carousel rotisserie. Roasts ten chickens at a time, unless you try to cram a turkey into it.”

  “I said I was sorry!” a line cook shouts.

  “Anyway it's as clean as it's gonna get, if you wanna tinker some before maintenance gets here.”

  “Yeah, no, yeah, for sure. You're the best.”

  Rich picks the entire contraption up and cradles it in the crook of one enormous arm like a baby, then gives the woman another salute before heading for the far wall of the kitchen.

  He fetches up at an absolutely massive refrigerator, removes a bowl of pasta salad that Rafael could probably curl up in, and wedges it under his arm with the kitchen appliance. Then he snags a mesh bag of apples and turns around to see Rafael practically hugging his hip.

  “You like apples?” he asks. “It looks like there’s grapes in there too if you wanted.”

  “Apples are fine,” Rafael says tightly. A man in the brown, black and gold of Carraway’s mansion staff has paused in the act of whisking something to watch him with a familiar expression of distaste and disdain, and Rafael has no idea how he’s supposed to look, to respond, to act. The space around him is chaotic and utterly alien, and Rafael has never been allowed to be here before and is fairly sure he’s still not allowed. His heart is in his throat, pounding against the back of his gritted teeth. If they're caught making trouble…

  Rich only nods, finding Rafael’s opinion on apples acceptable, and finally heads back out of the kitchens. Rafael follows gratefully, and tries to compose himself once they’ve reached the comparative safety of the dining room.

  “You okay?” Rich asks, setting the bowl and apples and appliance down at one of the tables. “I forgot, it’s kinda loud in there.”

  Rafael nods, and Rich goes and gets silverware, a plate, and leans back over the order counter to retrieve a tea service on a tray with a steaming ceramic teapot and two mugs. The battered little toolkit between the spoons and the honey is, Rafael suspects, nonstandard.

  “You sure you're okay?” Rich asks, settling his bulk delicately down opposite Rafael.

  “Perfectly alright,” Rafael says. This time the look Rich gives him is even more doubtful, but it's at least brief. Then he's busy again, briskly and efficiently serving both of them fragrant jasmine tea, checking to see if Rafael takes honey and lemon. After that he piles an absurd mound of pasta salad from the serving bowl onto the plate, hands it to Rafael, then picks up his own spoon and starts eating in fast, ravenous bites directly out of the bowl.

  Rafael eats probably more this morning than he has for the past week: he never has much appetite, even when he works on tumbling routines all day. His weight is something he has to maintain carefully, or he wastes back down to bones and despair, and Carraway has even less use for ugly boys than boring ones. But he’s achieved an absurd number of orgasms in the past day, and the food just… it tastes good this morning in a way it hasn’t in years. Maybe because Rafael’s eating it with someone else, for once.

  He still doesn’t manage to clear even half of what Rich served him. He suspects, as he watches Rich eat what has to be several pounds of pasta salad and then four apples—making sure to push another two over to Rafael—that Rich has very little idea of what a normal serving size constitutes.

  Especially since when he’s done, Rich looks over at Rafael’s half-cleared plate and then up at his face and then goes, “You really okay, man?”

  “Yes?” says Rafael. “Yes. I—yes.” And then, because Rich is still frowning at him, concerned by his lack of appetite because Rafael can’t eat half his body-weight in pasta, “Do they have fresh coffee in there, do you suppose?”

  Rich brightens, like he’s encouraged just to hear Rafael ask for something. “Yeah! I always fetch Sol his portions with his coffee because otherwise he just has a cup of nasty bean juice for breakfast and calls it a day. New Yorkers don't eat for shit, it's ridiculous.” And then, grinning a little incredulously, “You’re on Team Coffee too, huh?”

  “Yes?” Rafael says again, feeling more off-balance by the minute. “Cream, no sugar?”

  “Ugh,” says Rich cheerfully. “You landsiders are all fuckin’ nuts for grandpa juice. But sure! Sit tight.”

  Rafael shovels the remainder of his own pasta back into Rich’s serving bowl while he’s gone, pushes one of the apples back over to his side of the table and settles in dutifully nibbling on the one left over. His stomach is as full as it's ever been, but he probably could use more food, and… and he doesn’t want to disappoint.

  He’s sitting there jittering about it when the door to the dining room is graced with a short, dark figure. Sol throws a challenging glance around the room, like he’s daring somebody to tell him he can’t be there, and then catches sight of Rafael and heads in his direction.

  Rafael isn’t sure how to handle that, so he freezes, back held very straight and eyes fixed on his plate.

  “Hey, Caro,” says Sol, and flicks an ear, turning his head briefly before frowning at the kitchen door. “What’s he still doing in there?”

  Just as he was yesterday, he's dressed impressively well, considering the wardrobe they have to work with: fitted slacks, a crisp white button-up lacking the uppermost buttons, and a vest, black satin with a black lace overlay. He's even found a white ribbon to tie his darkly iridescent hair back, and looks the very picture of a sleek, dapper patrician that one might see on the cover of a certain sort of sordid paperback. Clothes granting even a pale imitation of dignity were ever the spark of squabbling and petty grudges, when Rafael had a mind to care about such things—but with such a commanding attitude, it’s no wonder that Sol has managed to stake and defend his claim.

  “Rich is getting coffee,” says Rafael, after a breathless, awkward pause.

  “Oh, right,” Sol says, and comes and sits down at the table. He tugs the bowl of pasta salad over, examines it critically, and then leaves it alone, to Rafael’s profound relief: he’d have had no idea whatsoever how to stop him if he’d started eating Rich’s food.

  Rich comes back holding two mugs, a small carton of creamer, and a dainty little plate with two hard-boiled eggs, a wedge of cheese, and a small bunch of grapes. He goes and puts one mug and the little plate down neatly in front of Sol, because he was expecting Sol, because he and Sol know each other, because they’re already friends, because people who aren’t as profoundly dysfunctional as Rafael have friends.

  “You’re running a little late today, aren’t you?” Rich says, smiling softly down at the guy, and rubs one of his huge hands gently across Sol’s shoulders. Rafael knew he was big, he feels big, but it’s one thing to be touched by someone that size and it’s another to see him contrasted against someone else. Rich’s hand must span the entire breadth of Sol’s back.

  Sol rolls his eyes and takes his coffee, his long, pointed ears swept elegantly back, but he doesn’t look at all uncomfortable about the touch.

  “Yeah, I’ll be late for all my appointments,” he drawls, haughty New York disdain all the way through, and then grumbles in embarrassment and elbows at a massive chest as Rich laughs and drops a kiss to the shining crown of his hair.

  “Get your secretary to cancel a couple meetings!”

  Rafael, audience from the sole and single front-row seat, observes Signore King’s expression flicker rapidly from confusion to rueful tolerance. “Are you kidding?” he returns a moment late, playfulness entirely unpracticed and clumsy on his tongue. “That guy doesn’t do squat.”

  He’s rewarded, as he had clearly hoped, by a rumbling laugh, and Rich squeezes him once more and then settles back down in his seat, pressed comfortably arm to arm with the man.

  “And you pay him so much!”

  Sol gives a small, achingly beautiful smile, then buries it behind his coffee, looking very pleased with himself. Rich goes back to eating the rest of the pasta, equally content.

  Rafael tries a sip of his coffee, adds some cream, tries another sip and gives an involuntary sigh of pleasure. It’s hot and fresh, brewed perfectly, and it’s been a very long time since he’s bothered to have any. Caffeine on top of yet another empty, pointless day just led to despair in fast forward, and he’d given up on coffee fairly early on.

  The patrician is watching him, eyes sharp and ears tilted forward. “Didn’t know you drank coffee,” he says. “Thought you were, y’know, some kind of ascetic, bread and water, watching-your-weight kind of guy.”

  Rafael freezes. Opens his mouth, shuts it again, and then before he can stop himself, throws a wide-eyed, entreating look at Rich. He’s half hoping that Rich will jump in and distract his friend, call him off, and the other half willing to settle for a prompt line, but instead Rich just raises his thick red eyebrows in return and gives an encouraging nod.

  “I,” Rafael manages, and swallows. He has to say something. Charming, or, or perhaps sincere, demure. He works his hands on his cup, pressing against it hard enough it burns his palms. “Coffee is… a valuable trade good. It feels like drinking money. So I suppose I never got in the habit.”

  “You bet it’s valuable,” Sol says. “Why do you think I drink it by the liter?” He takes an exaggeratedly delicate sip, and Rafael can see him resisting the urge to glance aside to Rich for his reaction—one of his long ears tilts unsubtly. Rich has his mouth full of pasta again, but he gives a low, huffing laugh and rolls his eyes over at Sol, and Sol smirks triumphantly as he licks his lips. A man of his beauty and class, captive though he might be, and he likes this huge, strange soldier mod so blatantly.

  “Well, it’s…” Rafael chokes on his own voice as Sol looks back to him, fondness at once bundled away again and replaced with sharp expectation. Rafael quails beneath that look, and then presses his hands harder against the cup, grounding himself in the half-painful heat, and manages a mask of polite contrition. “I’m sorry, signore. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

  “Christ on his cross,” says Sol, more thoughtful than angry. “You’re a mess and a half, huh. What?”

  “I only meant to say, since any indulgence is at Carraway’s expense,” Rafael shrugs. “Perhaps it's past time to treat myself to a little of our lord’s generosity.”

  He winces as the words leave his mouth, as though he might feel a clawed hand seize him—a laughing, chiding growl—and then blinks when instead Rich almost chokes on his pasta salad and Sol gives a startled snort and starts laughing. It’s a raw, inelegant, somewhat nasal laugh, not the perfectly elegant chuckle some beautiful metropolitano lord should have. It's human, finally, unrehearsed and imperfect. Rafael finds a shy smile on his own face, unbidden, and hides it at once in his cup, cheeks warm and palms tingling from more than the heat of the drink.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  …It is damnably good coffee. Rafael sighs in satisfaction, opens his eyes and sees Rich watching him, smiling softly. He’s oddly becoming when he smiles like that. Human, too.

  “Are you sure you don’t want…?” Rafael says, and offers his cup.

  “What?” says Rich incredulously. “Oh, yeah, no, thanks. I’m good.” He raises his mug of jasmine tea in demonstration.

  “You really do prefer tea?” Rafael says, bemused. “Not even sweet tea, just… tea?” Rich is a huge young man, and he apparently once worked a busy job that was heavy on manual labor, so the concept of him sipping plain tea with no more than a little honey and lemon like some farm-bound hermit at the rump-end of nowhere where no one comes by to trade sugar and coffee… It's quaint.

  “Yeah, tea’s fine,” Rich says, and takes a deliberate sip from his glass, one enormous pinkie finger delicately extended. “I don't know about either of you, but we got good taste, where I’m from.”

  They stare at each other, and then Rich cracks a grin and Rafael can’t help but laugh, instinctively covering the smile with one hand as he covers every other piece of himself. Sol rolls his eyes at Rich and makes a big production out of picking himself up and heading off toward the window to the kitchen for another cup, and Rich goes back to scraping up the last of his pasta salad, still grinning.

  “So what's today's charity case?” Sol asks when he returns, and Rafael feels only the briefest moment of startled shame before he sees that Sol’s gaze is directed to the broken machinery sitting on the table by Rich’s elbow. “Looks a little small for a haunted dishwasher.”

  “Something that’s supposed to rotate but doesn't anymore,” Rich says, and sets aside his scraped-clean serving bowl to take up the little toolkit. “Everything out here seems to be made from plastic and pressed aluminum so I don't think I’ll get her up and running myself, but if I can find whatever gear got its teeth scraped off, I’ll send the specs to Toby in Maintenance to print off before he comes over here. He can get it all zipped back up…” As he speaks he's taking the complicated apparatus apart like a ring puzzle, twisting it capably back and forth to lay each piece in perfectly even ranks across the tabletop.

  Sol watches Rich at it with idle interest, as if this is a regular occurrence but still slightly more engaging than staring into space. He eventually starts to pick at his dainty little breakfast plate.

  “May I ask,” Rafael begins, then falters under the sudden weight of attention. “Ah. Well.”

  “You may, Caro,” Sol says, very dry.

  “This… dishwasher…?”

  “It wasn't actually haunted,” Rich says immediately. “As near as I can tell there aren't any ghosts worth worrying about here. Connor says they're all hanging around in the woods but he's full of shit.” He fits a single enormous finger into a delicate piece of machinery and begins to very carefully pry something loose. “Hey, are there plays about ghosts, too? Shakespeare’s got some of that stuff, right?”

  “Several,” says Rafael, hoping to any merciful presence that Rich isn’t about to prompt him to declaim in front of the entire hall. As brief and shining a moment as it was this morning, with Rich as his admiring audience, he’s sure that here and now, between the hostile mansion staff and Sol’s sharp, calculating eyes, he’d feel an absolute fool.

  “Raf’s got all the plays just logged to ROM,” Rich is blithely saying to Sol. “And all the parts! It’s pretty wild.”

  “What, Shakespeare?” says Sol, with a startled glance in Rafael’s direction.

  “Yeah, Raf, tell him!” Rich encourages, and Rafael chokes: it’s too much, the pressure of Rich’s smile and Sol’s dark eyes put together.

  “Well,” he says, a bare croak. “Ah.”

  Sol blinks, fine eyebrows creasing, and Rafael notes with detached agony that his ears pull back smoothly in sequence with his brows. Perhaps some efficient, necessary quirk of musculature, but it gives all of his expressions such a magnificent articulation. Frowning, Sol turns aside, knocks his sword-scarred knuckles against Rich’s snowy mountain of a shoulder, and snaps, “I know you’re allergic to enunciation, pal, but I’m pretty sure Rafael here’s got a proper name he doesn’t care to have butchered by your hick mouth. Bit Connor’s head off for trying, too.”

  Rich jolts all over, abruptly mortified. “Oh, uh, fuck—sorry, Raf. Rafael! Didn’t meanta get forward.”

  That Sol would recall Rafael’s correction from the previous night is absurd: that he would step in to correct Rich on Rafael’s behalf is deeply unnerving. And over so small a thing—a point of petty pride on their introduction, a flash of pointless temper.

  Besides, although Rafael has no inclination to say as much aloud, it makes very little difference on Rich’s tongue. While Sol sounds out each syllable of Rafael’s name with a thrilling musicality, Rich’s utterly ungraceful accent makes only the vaguest gesture towards the “L” and gives up halfway through. And after last night’s thrilling tenderness, it isn’t as though Rafael is disposed to reject any of the intimacy that comes attendant on informality.

  “It’s alright,” he says, instead of voicing any of that. When he smiles at Rich, Rich gives him that look again, searching deeper, anxious and thoughtful. Rafael holds his gaze, and after a moment Rich’s shoulders and the line between his brows both relax. “Truly. I should hope after last night we can trust one another with a little impropriety.”

  Sol makes a soundless sound, a sharp exhale that might be a scoff or even a derisive laugh—but Rich smiles a broad and utterly unguarded smile, relief so clear on his broad, open face it’s blinding. Rafael can’t help but reach across the table for one of those huge, careful hands, resting his fingertips on the reddened knuckles—

  Through the entrance of the dining hall behind Rich and Sol, a few beautiful young men in cuffs and collars make their way in. One of them looks immediately toward the table, noting Rich’s position with the tense wariness of a prey animal that doesn’t trust a hound’s chain, and then sees Rafael. Their eyes meet, and the man’s face goes through confusion and recognition to a look of deep and uncomprehending disappointment. As though Rafael’s chosen the wrong faction, the wrong side in some conflict, and the man is sad to write him off. As though, despite that sorrow, he has been written off at a glance.

  There’s no whispering or pointing, no poison glares, but that look of displeased resignation grips Rafael’s soul with a heavy chill. There’s no reason he should care for another prisoner’s disapproval—that man, whoever he is, has no power to pass judgment, no power to cause Rafael harm—but that single glance sits in his stomach like lead.

  He pulls his hand back, puts his head down and takes another sip of his coffee, crumpling instinctively back into motionless silence, as though he could go unseen sitting with a patrician and a mountainous Hastings.

  It’s pointless, and he knows it. If he’s to stay by Rich’s side from this point on—and he can’t imagine he’s wanted elsewhere, now that he’s been seen here—then he stands on the stage whether he’s learned the lines or not.

  Well, you’re never really ready for opening night, no matter how much you rehearse. Rafael’s going to have to handle that, and do his best to be helpful, and… well, he’s going to have to be what’s needed. That’s all there is to it. Pleasant company. Worthwhile.

  Everything that he isn’t, now, as the sudden, smothering fear of nothing and everything freezes him to his seat, barely breathing.

  Rich and Sol note his silence, and are generous enough in their conversation to take turns prompting him, looking at him, addressing him directly. Rafael can’t make himself respond. His throat is tight, a paralyzing emptiness taking the place of any clever words he could summon. He’s trying, he wants to be—charming, witty, clever, he used to be so good at this. But now he’s useless, locked away inside a shell that won’t protect him any longer.

  After a few tries to draw him out, Rich sighs. Rafael flinches, but the soldier mod only nudges his ankle under the table and gives him a taut, sad smile, and then turns his attention exclusively to Sol and allows Rafael his silence.

  Rafael is still working through his coffee by the time Rich finishes his tinkering, checks the time, and says goodbye to Sol. But he can’t hold Rich up, he can’t be a hindrance already. Rafael leaves his cup on the table and hurries off in Rich’s wake, sticking close to his elbow and keeping his head down. He feels Sol watching him as they go and doesn’t acknowledge the gaze, doesn’t say a word. Just follows.

  Rich pauses out in the empty hall, glances around and turns to Rafael, brow furrowed in concern. “You okay, man? Did Sol say something, or…? He can be a little much, he was kind of a high-class big deal sorta guy back in his hometown, I can talk to him if you want.”

  “No,” Rafael forces out, the words sticking in his throat. “He was fine. He was perfectly civil. Sorry. I'm, it's fine, really.”

  Rich doesn't look any less worried. He studies Rafael intently, and then says, “Hug?” and spreads his pylon arms invitingly.

  Like before, he doesn't sound embarrassed about it, like it's something he shouldn't offer or Rafael shouldn't need. It eases the indignity of being treated like a small child with a stubbed toe, and it's not as though Rafael would refuse anyway. After so long being ignored, the toy abandoned at the back of the cupboard, he's starved for any touch.

  He nods and Rich steps in close and wraps him up, holds him against that warm, massive chest, one hand gentle on the back of his head. Rafael’s head fits neatly under Rich’s chin, and he tucks his face against the thick neck and breathes.

  “Hey, man, it’s okay to be stressed out,” Rich murmurs quietly, the words thrumming against Rafael’s cheek. “New ship, new crew, new posting—takes a while, getting your legs under you. I get it.”

  An awful, confusing sensation rises in Rafael, something like a sob and a burst of laughter all at once, and he swallows. It’s painful, being talked to, sympathized with: known. He wishes Rich wouldn’t, but at the same time it feels so wretchedly good. He allows himself the shameful indulgence of clinging to Rich’s shirt, hiding his face between neck and shoulder, held close in those monumental arms. Then he gathers himself together and pushes back against them.

  Rich lets him go immediately, stepping back and peering down at him, expression still concerned.

  “I’m alright,” Rafael says, and his voice is under control again, properly measured. “I’m alright now, thank you. We should get to work, I didn't mean to hold you up.”

  “You sure?” Rich asks.

  “Yes.”

  Rich chews his lip, then sighs, nods, and turns away. “Okay, let’s get you some data rings from the quartermaster,” he says, and leads the way down the halls. His legs are long enough that Rafael has to jog to keep up. “Have you ever used—?”

  “No!” Rafael gasps, and Rich glances back at him and finally notices he’s leaving Rafael in the dust. He slows down to a stroll, and Rafael slows to a brisk walk, trying to catch his breath. “No, I—we had a tablet, it worked, and rings are such high technology. We didn’t need them, so…”

  “Huh,” says Rich, like this is a novel concept, and then he stops completely and knocks politely on a door. “Mx Sayegh? It’s Merrill, I need to talk to you for a second.”

  Rafael keeps from glancing up at Rich in startlement, and studies the quartermaster covertly when he—they, when they open the door. They're average height, only a little taller than Rafael, but somewhat fat, and their neatly-trimmed goatee led Rafael to assume they were male, the few times he's seen them before—not that he’s ever had cause or opportunity to speak to them before.

  “Hastings,” the quartermaster says, in apparent acknowledgement, and gives Rafael a narrow, suspicious look, then turns back to Rich. “What do you want? Do you have an order for it?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah,” says Rich. “This is Rafael, he’s gonna be helping me in Mr Carraway’s office, so I gotta get him some rings.”

  The quartermaster’s eyebrows rise, and then lower forbiddingly. “And you have an order?” they repeat.

  “Do I need any special form for office equipment?” Rich says, politely confused. “We don’t use a lot of data rings around here, right? If you got any spares—”

  “We have four pairs,” says the quartermaster with no hesitation or uncertainty. “And they're not for boytoys.”

  “Well, I’m Mr Carraway’s secretary now, so that's fine, and Rafael will need his own set for office work.”

  “You know what happened when that New Yorker got his hands on a set,” the quartermaster says.

  “Yeah, I was the one that cleaned up the mess, when I got here,” Rich says, in a tone of weary commiseration. “You don't have to tell me what happens when a guy tries to hack his way through an antimemetic partition with data rings, might as well expect a raccoon to fight her way out of a deep freezer. Raf isn't gonna be pulling any crazy stunts on my watch! I just wanna train him up on data management, interpretation, stuff like that. Cadet’s honor.”

  The quartermaster looks to Rafael, looks to Rich, and sighs explosively.

  “Mr Carraway's been pleased with your work,” they say grudgingly, “and you're a responsible kid. I’ll chain the second set through yours and it’ll be on you if he pokes around where he shouldn’t. Clear?”

  “Yes’sn,” says Rich obligingly, and for a confusing moment in his half-swallowed accent, Rafael thinks he means yes ma’am. Then a neuron sparks weakly, a distant memory of a joint production with the community troupe of a queer enclave in the Combinant Northeast Territory and a bewitchingly genderless individual whose characters took the address of “sen” over “sir” or “ma’am.”

  It’s not a widely-used address, from Rafael’s experience, but either Mx Sayegh prefers it as well or Rich has simply used it often enough since their meeting that the quartermaster no longer bats an eye. Indeed, they offer no acknowledgement at all, in favor of turning on their heel, stepping back into their office and closing the door in Rich’s face.

  “You really mustn’t go to all this trouble,” Rafael says weakly in the waiting quiet, and Rich looks down at him, bemused.

  “Well, you could just write stuff out by hand I guess,” he says, “but that’d be pretty inefficient, and a lot of the math is a waste of time to calculate with meat. Just ‘cause we’re landside doesn’t mean we gotta do stuff like cavemen.”

  “Are you sure?” Rafael says, confused but gamely attempting to contribute. “I’m told I make a very fetching stone handaxe.”

  Rich snorts and pats him on the back with meticulous care, not even swaying him. “Yeah, I bet that’s how you reel in all the fish,” he says. “Poems, old plays and all those fuckin’ axes you got all over your berth.”

  Rafael is saved from having to continue this baffling line of humor by the door sharply opening again, and Mx Sayegh coming out with a tablet and a few small boxes in their hands.

  “One pair of data rings,” they say with the noble resentment of a dragon forced to part with some treasure of their hoard. “You’re lucky, you know. If you had a real job here, these would come out of your salary, and you’d be making peanuts for the next five years. Mr Carraway’s footing the bill for them instead.”

  “Well, yeah,” Rich says, like this is obvious, instead of an alarming development in the ongoing farce of Rafael’s life. “What, is he gonna make Raf do all the math longhand?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” says Mx Sayegh, with no trace of humor. “Can’t rely on computers for everything. You’ll rot your brain like that.”

  “Oh,” says Rich, thick brows furrowing. “But—oh. Huh?”

  “Data rings,” Mx Sayegh says, disinterested in Rich’s confusion, and turns to Rafael. “What size?”

  The smallest they have, it transpires; Rafael is given white, black, and slate grey ceramic, and then finally a set of rings in terracotta red that fit snugly and send a strange, electric shudder through the bones of his hands as he slides the four rings on one by one.

  There’s a dizzying, disorienting moment when he looks down at his hands with the cool, heavy rings foreign on his fingers and feels with unutterable certainty, No. I can’t do this. He was well-used to shiny brass or plastic costume jewelry, and for years since then his hands have been bare, but this is neither freedom and beauty nor empty abandonment. These are… utility. Valuable, cool and dry and strong against his skin. To be useful, here, but only with skills he doesn’t yet possess: he doesn’t know his lines, his marks, his part.

  But there’s no direction at his feet except for onward. Rafael takes a deep breath, raises his hands and squeezes his hands into fists, like he’s seen Rich do, so that the two pairs of rings on his thumbs and forefingers click together. When he spreads his hands, half-expecting nothing at all, a blank white hologram screen flickers into being between them, like magic, made of light and dreamstuff. He turns the virtual screen over and over in his fingertips, marveling at the filmy tingle of something that doesn’t exactly exist. He can do this. He has to do it.

  “Okay, first things first,” says Rich, and gives that particular nautical salute of his to the quartermaster as they turn away with no further pleasantries, heading back into their office. “Let’s get started with the basics.”