All the Comforts of Home

Ubers ubers everywhere, and I can't afford to freak...

It gave him chicken skin on his soul, being surrounded by this many Niets. Hundreds of people in the halls of this ship, to use the term "people" loosely. Bland, curious, hostile, indifferent, watching him walk down the corridor escorted by a small contingent of their leader's bodyguard, the self proclaimed "Admiral" himself at the fore of their little wedge.

Harper clutched his few belongings tighter to his body, and tried to concentrate on breathing, and putting one foot in front of another. Hostage, he thought numbly. He hoped Brendan knew what the hell he was doing. He hoped he knew what the hell he was doing, since he'd actually agreed to this insane idea.

"Admiral" Tyr Anasazi stopped in front of a hatch, so abruptly, Harper nearly walked full tilt into the uber's broad back. A hand on his shoulder--one of the bodyguards--stopped him in his tracks. Anasazi looked amused. "These will be your quarters," he said, and keyed the hatch, which slid open without a sound.

Harper stared. Not what he was expecting. Big room, a bed that was actually a bed and not a bunk set in the wall, A table, a couple of chairs, another room that might be a washroom, a computer console desk with a monitor and keypad in the corner next to what looked like a small work station. "Holy shit..." he said in an undertone.

"Does it not meet your expectations, child?" Anasazi asked with considerable amusement. "I would have provided a lice infested pallet, and some manacles for atmosphere, but my first wife of course, vetoed my suggestions most firmly."

"Uh. Um. No, no this is fine, better than fine," Harper said quickly, feeling a little dazed. This room was big enough for a family of five to live in comfortably, and all five, mom, dad and kids, would have fit in the bed with room left over for two guests, if they were really friendly. He stepped into the room, and for lack of a better place to put his belongings, set them on the table. His beat up satchels looked grubby and out of place...he looked grubby and out of place in these quarters.

Anasazi entered the room, accompanied by one of his bodyguard, a tall, severe looking woman with light gold skin, short dark hair, and slight epicanthic folds in the corners of her eyes. "This is Eleanor Boleyn. She will be your bodyguard and guide. After you've...refreshed yourself, she'll give you a tour of the rest of the ship." Anasazi paused, looking even more amused. "You will be expected to present yourself for dinner in the officer's mess in five hours. Until then, Mr. Harper." The uber nodded slightly, a infintessimal tilt of his chin, then departed, accompanied by the rest of his bodyguard. The hatch whisked shut behind him.

Harper smiled weakly. "Um. Hi," he said.

The Niet--Eleanor--smiled slightly. "Hello," she said. "Feel free to make yourself comfortable--we have five hours, after all." She gave him brief a critical glance, but didn't make the half-expected comment about taking a bath. Not that a bath wouldn't be a good thing...Hot, clean water sounded pretty close to paradise right now, but...he glanced at his satchels, wondering if he could get away with taking them into the washroom with him.

Eleanor followed his glance, and looked amused. "I will be looking through your bags, sooner or later. It might as well be now." Eleanor walked over to the table where the satchels sat. She smiled again, a broader, more challenging look. Raise a fuss, go ahead, I dare you, she seemed to say.

"You won't find anything," Harper said quickly, then could have kicked himself at the tone of his voice. He sounded like a kid trying to get a piece of contraband past a older sister.

"If I don't find anything, I'll be very surprised," She said and started opening the nearest satchel.

Realizing he'd lost the battle, Harper retreated for the washroom. Lined up on a counter below the mirror and above the sink were five or six small bottles of what Harper recognized as various decon and delousing cleansers, sponges, a small red bag, a large blue plastic bag. Taped to the mirror were directions for their use, and instructions that included things like "Please place clothing and shoes in the blue bag, and all cleaning equipment and empty bottles in the red bag." Hanging on the towel bar was a pair of white pajama pants and shirt.

Grumbling under his breath, Harper followed the directions, and twenty minutes later, exited carrying the two bags. Eleanor was sitting at the table, reading a flexi. His satchels were nowhere in sight. "Whadidyoudowithmybags?" He asked in a angry rush.

Eleanor looked up. "I put them away," she said mildly. "Your tools and other odds and ends are in the closet. I sent your clothes down to the laundry, the chutes' over there," she nodded in their direction. "Red bag in the garbage chute, blue bag in the laundry chute."

"My clothes were clean!" He protested, but shoved the bags into their appropriate chutes. Then he went over to the closet, and made sure that his things were still in one piece.

"As compared to what?" Eleanor asked, looking amused.

"As compared to dirty clothes, which my clothes were not by the way."

"By your standards, perhaps they were," Eleanor said. "In any case, they still needed to be decontaminated. Just as you'll need to be vaccinated for anything you might come into contact with onboard the Andromeda." She smiled narrowly. "Just as anyone you might come in contact with has been vaccinated for any viruses you might be carrying."

He really couldn't argue with that, though he wanted to. Instead, he went over to the computer console, and did a little exploration, seeing what he could, and couldn't get into.

The console had limited access to the ship's com-net, something called "the public record cache" which turned out to be an archive of the personal and family histories of crew members. There was also a university's worth of courses in everything from molecular biology, to military history. He made a half-hearted attempt to hack into other areas, but the ship's AI shocked him as a "friendly warning to keep your hands to yourself," which caused Eleanor to snicker.

"If you have any questions, I'll answer them, if I can," Eleanor said after a while.

Harper looked up. "What are you reading?" It was the first question that popped into his head. Other, more serious questions, they could wait.

Eleanor looked up from her flexi. "The New Gilded Age by Mirsada Sidney, a activist from Lemuria. It's about the Long Night, and the events that led up to it." Brief smile. "It's a very controversial book, it's been banned in at least twenty polities."

"Activist, huh? What's she's active against?"

Instead of replying directly, Eleanor scrolled down the flexi, then read aloud. "'All nations, all peoples, all sentient beings have within their mythology some form of a legend. A legend of a golden age of peace and prosperity. All nations, all peoples all sentient beings believe that they've fallen from some state of grace, and look with longing toward the past, when everyone was more noble, more wise and perfect than they are now. This feeling, this belief, is self delusion at it's best, complete idiocy at it's worst.'" Eleanor smiled briefly. "From the introduction. She makes a good case for blaming the Vedrans for the Long Night, which is why the book was banned."

"The Vedrans? But the Commonwealth was destroyed by the ubers--um, sorry, no offense."

"None taken." Quicksilver smile. "My indirect ancestors may be responsible for the Long Night, but it was Vedran arrogance and--let's call it vanity--that destroyed the Commonwealth."

It was almost funny hearing a uber accuse another species of "arrogance." Words along the lines of "pot, kettle," were aimed and ready to fire when the Andromeda's hologram appeared, directly between them. "Sorry to interrupt the debate, but Freya wants to meet our guest," the AI said, looking not the least bit sorry. The hologram looked at him critically. "But not in pajamas. Find something presentable for him."

"Of course," Eleanor said calmly, and stood up. "Tell Freya we'll be in to see her within half an hour."

The hologram froze for an instant, then nodded. "Done," she said, and disappeared.

"Your clothes should be ready, and delivered here in ten minutes," Eleanor said. "I think your leather jacket, black trousers and gray shirt and leather boots will qualify as 'presentable' I suggest you wear them."

"What, you're not only my 'bodyguard' you're also my fashion consultant? And who's Freya?"

Eleanor smirked. "Given your taste in clothes, child, you're in desperate need of one. Freya is the Admiral's junior wife, so be on your best behavior."

Harper bristled at being called "child" twice in one day, but at the same time felt a slight easing of tension. Ubers who called you "child" were less likely to treat you like something they'd just scraped off their steel toed boots. It also meant they were likely to underestimate you even more than they would if you were just a "kludge." He tried to project "harmless kid" and ran his fingers through his hair. "Yeah, well, if you want me to look 'presentable' I'm going to need to fix my hair."

"We'll get you something later," Eleanor promised with an amused look.

Harper kept up a steady barrage of questions on the way to his "interview", partly out of curiosity, mostly as a way to keep the itty bitty critter in his skull from dancing a mazurka on the fight/flight button. Eleanor's answers were evasive or circular, depending on their level of security, which was about what he'd expected, so no harm, no foul. "So, where's this 'interview' taking place?" Harper asked as they entered a lift.

"A small, dark room, with one very bright light," Eleanor said with such a matter of fact tone that it actually took Harper a moment to realize that she was joking.

"Because you want to put me at ease by providing me with familiar surroundings, right?"

A very faint smirk. "Exactly." The lift doors opened and they exited, moving aside so that a woman accompanying a teen on crutches could get in. The kid was missing a left foot and maybe six inches of leg. As inured as he was to seeing people with maiming, crippling injuries, he couldn't help but wince in pained sympathy.

"Leg trap," Eleanor said once the doors of the lift had closed. "Primitive, but effective booby trap."

Harper winced, imagining a toothy, steel jawed trap closing on his own leg. "Ouch."

"Yes," Eleanor said, any latent humour in her voice fled. She continued down the hall, nodding a greeting to the occasional crewman passing by. After the fifth or sixth such occurance, Harper's Earth-trained instincts stopped screeching "duck and cover," so he was almost calm and collected when his heart stopped.

Anasazi's junior wife was another gorgeous blue eyed blonde. She was maybe and inch or two taller than Medea-Desiree, and maybe a few years younger, though it was hard to tell with ubers.

She was also pregnant. Very pregnant.

Harper stopped so suddenly that Eleanor stepped on his heels. He was barely aware of the fact that he was now in some kind of infirmary, his wide eyes were anchored on the full-moon curve of Freya's belly. You almost never saw a Drago-Kasov woman (the few female Drago soldiers he'd seen didn't count; by Drago custom, they weren't "women," just "female.") and you never EVER saw a pregnant one. He'd always assumed that ubers kept their wives under lock and key.

"Maybe the small, dark room with one bright light would have been a better idea," Eleanor muttered, and nudged Harper further into the room. Harper was too stunned to protest.

Harper blinked. "Wha?" He said, feeling as if his head had been removed from his shoulders, inflated with helium, then reattached it to his shoulders.

With string.

"Freya, This is Seamus Zelazny Harper, who from what I've seen so far is usually more articulate than this," Eleanor said with not quite mock consternation in her voice. "Harper, this is Freya."

"Uh...pleased to meet you, your ladyship?" Harper asked, kicking his vocal cords into gear.

"How polite," Freya murmured with a faint smirk. "I'd say it was a like pleasure to meet you, but won't given the circumstances."

The Nietszchean's words were half-teasing--and half not, though the edge in her tone didn't seem to be aimed at him, so Harper relaxed. Slightly. "Brendan won't let anything happen to your co-wife," he said in what he hoped was a diplomatically reassuring tone. "The alliance between The League and the Sons of Liberty is too important."

"Your cousin may be in for a surprise if he plans on wrapping Medea in insulation foam. I've no doubts that she'll insist--if she hasn't already--on a position in The Sons of Liberty," Freya said with considerable amusement.

Harper tried to wrap his mind around that possibility but couldn't, quite. His only impression of Medea Cymry was of a small-for-a-uber blond in a gray and lavender gown. Maid Marion meet Mad Max, you have nothing in common. With no bone-spurs, she could easily pass for human though..."What did she do in the League of Iargalon?" Harper asked, though he already had an idea.

"Organized cells. Spoke to people of like beliefs who would be otherwise intimidated by the League."

She seemed about to say more, when someone else entered the room. The new person was a vaguely humanoid female with lavender skin and reddish hair. She was carrying what looked like a vaccination kit, one that had been possibly lifted from some charity organization or another. He thought he could see the logo for Earth Relief stamped on the lower corner of the battered grayish box. For some reason, she almost dropped the box when she saw him, making a little squeak of surprise. "Oh, he's--!"

"Seamus Zelazny Harper," Freya inserted smoothly, moving away from the exam table she'd been leaning against. "Brendan Lahey's cousin," she looked at Harper. "This is Trance Gemini. She's our enviromental control officer, and the chief of our medical department. She'll be giving you a check up, and adminstering your vaccinations."

The alien, who wasn't much taller than Harper, seemed to compose herself. "Hi, just have a seat," she said, nodding to the exam table Freya had just vacated. Harper obeyed the request, though not without a little trepidation. Not because of Trance, who seemed bubbly, sweet and friendly, and understood his oddball references and jokes even better than his own cousin in some ways, but because of Anasazi's wife and his "bodyguard".

He wondered what kind of message Anasazi might be trying to send with all of this. If there was a message. And if there was it a message that Harper was in no personal danger, so he should relax, or was the message more; "we don't consider you a threat, kludge." If either case was true, what could he do to use it to his advantage?

Possibly he was overanalyzing this anyway.

Most of the questions Freya asked while Trance poked and prodded him were personal. She asked about his family, his parents, his age, the exact degree of relationship he shared with Brendan, if he'd had lovers, what seemed like his entire health history, if he was a father yet, if he'd had experience with raising younger relatives. "Can I ask where all these questions are going?" Harper asked after having to expand on how his dad had treated his mom, followed by how both his parents had responded to childhood misbehavior.

"You will be interacting closely with my family," Freya said. "That will include my son once he's born, and our six year old daughter. You are a fifteen year old boy who has grown up on a slave planet--can you see where my questions go now?"

"Ma'am, I wouldn't hurt a kid," Harper said, and tried not to be offended, while wondering what the hell 'interacting closely' meant. "If you don't want me around, I'll stay out of your way."

Freya smiled thinly. "There is no place you could go on this ship that would be 'out of my way'. As a hostage you're a member of my household, and as a minor child, you are under my authority."

"Oh."