Editing Long Distance Snapshots

<span style="color:#800000">'''I had originally written this as an RP opener but it didn't work out that way. Even so, it has some information on Rina's family that some might find useful in dealing with them while they are with us and I thought to include it here.--Maer</span> <br> <br> 



'''Friday, 26 Feb 2523'''<br>
'''Koh-I-Nor Cyber Cafe''' <br>
'''New Hyderabad, Urvasi'''<br>
'''Kalidasa (Xuan Wu) system'''<br>
'''1000hrs, local time'''<br><br>

Kiera and Arden announced me fit to discharge from the hospital and I’d returned to Equinox eager to see how repairs had gone in my absence. Beglan had done his usual conscientious job and the only thing left undone was repairing the security breach in our electronic systems. Which were, of course, beyond the scope of the time and place we were in. Otherwise I was sure Beglan would have tended to that detail while I was laid up.<br><br> 

The next day dawned bright and I could put it off no longer: I had some shopping to do. I had to replace my coveralls and clothing ruined by the fight on Beaumonde and luckily for me, New Hyderabad’s spaceport had plenty of second- and third-hand shops for the economy-minded. Getting replacements for the lost clothing was a snap. Getting a replacement for my databook—stolen by would-be pirates on Ghost—proved a little harder. I needed a quality machine, not a knock-off, and it took a couple of hours of hunting before I found one. I paid cash and went straight to the cyber café near our ship that I’d seen on the way out. It was just before the midday rush and I was able to get a seat in the corner. I opened up my new databook and booted it up and hopped online. I had some surfing to do.  There was no chance of a secure line, so I left checking my clandestine contacts for later, but there were public sites I could browse that wouldn’t raise any red flags for anyone tracking my hits.<br><br>

I looked up my mother’s upcoming performance schedule and saw that her circuit was taking her back toward Sihnon. I checked her repertoire and was pleasantly surprised. She’d chosen to sing the opening aria from Rimsky-Korsakov’s Kitezh. I had always thought it suited her, showcasing her upper range as well as allowing her to add a mysterious undertone with her lower range. She’d included her favorite, Tatyana’s heartfelt letter from Eugene Onegin, and the rest of the program was a carefully chosen selection of art songs. I spied one by Dvorak and the rest were by more recent Slavic composers who were unfamiliar to me. She looked rather well for a woman pushing her middle 60s, her face only just beginning to show signs of her exit from the Long Summer into the Golden Autumn years. There was a stunning shot of her lit by the footlights, her eyes closed, transported and transcendent, nothing but a conduit for the music pouring out of her. I hovered over the link to the soundfiles but resisted the urge to listen. The café was noisy with the clack and clatter of cup and saucer, the hiss of the espresso machines, and the liquid syllables of Urvasi’s native tongue. It was crowded, too, with people sitting tightly packed on the long benches. Despite all the times my mother and I had spent screaming at each other at the top of our lungs, her singing still had the power to make me ache for the sheer beauty of it and for something like this, I wanted a little more privacy. If it would reduce me to tears, I would rather it be somewhere no one else could see. <br><br> 

I moved on to my father’s Cortex page. He was doing well, having just hosted his winter workshop opening. The review stated he’d sold out of his new instruments inside the hour. He’d decided on making the bigger bass balalaikas over the long winter months but promised everyone he’d return to the higher registers in time for the summer release. The picture on the screen showed him in his shirtsleeves and work apron, his glasses at half mast down his nose, painstakingly varnishing an instrument to bring out the grain of the wood. Behind him, the finished instruments gleamed from their ceiling and wall hooks. Another picture had him at the opening, decked out in a traditional Cossack tunic and trousers and boots, red and blue embroidery picked out at cuff and collar. He held a vodka glass aloft in a toast and looked as if he’d rather be back in his workshop. He disliked the limelight, unlike my mother who thrived on adulation from her fans.<br><br>

A few minutes was all it took to check on my brothers. Grisha was continuing his series of historical paintings, choosing the Russian expansion into space for his next set. His canvases were larger as a result and the time it took to paint them meant he’d had to put aside portrait commissions. Knowing his penchant for detail, I eyed the ships in his paintings and judged he’d managed to get as far as the 22nd century on his last canvas. <br><br>

Sasha had been busy as well, launching designs for a line of mother-of-pearl jewelry, intricately carved and polished. Like my father, he had an appreciation for the play of light across his medium and had finally reached a level of success that he could indulge it. For once, his work was devoid of the hidden snark that his more sharp-eyed fans loved. Some of the better received pieces had gems en cabochon and more than one reviewer made reference to the Old Earth designer Tiffany. Not so sinuous a line as the old master, to my eye, but evocative nonetheless. <br><br>

Normally the jeweler of the family, Mitya took this sibling tresspass into his craft rather well. He retaliated by launching his own series of accessories, with a strong element of Steampunk to push the traditional envelope just a little bit further. With two artists by the name of Tigranov releasing work at the same time, it paid to be different. <br><br>

Kolya was weathering a stint of laryngitis, so the official word said. He, like my mother, was a singer. He excelled at the folk repertoire, bringing to them a more contemporary twist. He’d picked up a circuit of Sihnon’s dinner club venues the season before and privately I thought it was too hard for him.  Kolya was adept enough in his craft without having to exert much effort to win a place in the Guild and had been resting on his laurels ever since. He’d either toughen up under the current strain or it would break him. I left his page with a twinge of regret. We bickered constantly growing up, being close enough in age to get on each others’ nerves, but I didn’t wish him ill. Washed up at the tender age of thirty-eight was not the desired retirement plan for any performer.<br><br>

The noonday rush was well underway when I finally looked up. Some of the counter staff were surreptitiously eyeing my single cup of coffee and the relatively large piece of real estate I occupied during what had to be the busiest time of day. I left a platinum under my saucer to repay them for the covers I’d cost them, tucked my databook securely on my person, and left for home. <br><br>

The streets were hopping with people grabbing a meal before scurrying back to work, and on Urvasi that was a lot of hopping and a lot of people. Like the country of their origin on Old Earth, Urvasi was heavily populated and living conditions in the cities were very crowded. It was not a place I’d recommend an agoraphobe to visit. The sheer press of bodies would have been too much for them. Of course, I didn’t find it a picnic, either, and it was with some relief I ducked into our berth and left the crush on the streets behind.  I shut the cargo ramp door on the noise and after the echo died out, I stood in the blessed silence and space to soak up the peace in the hold.<br><br>

''Go quietly amid the noise and the haste and remember what peace there may be in silence'' … <br><br>

So the line in the poem went. As I made my way back to my quarters to stow my gear, I thought of the long silence I'd maintained with my family and wondered what peace—if any—they'd managed after they buried the body they believed to be mine. I knew that I would find out soon. Joshua and I had already declared our intention to marry and that meant we'd make our way back to the Core to tell them the good news. Would they be happy to see me again or angry? Shocked, yes. That was a given. But would I be making things better or worse by coming back from the dead?<br><br>

The little girl in me wanted my homecoming to make things better, but the grown woman in me knew that I would only be asking for trouble. Sometimes the dead must stay dead, for the sake of the living, no matter how the dead felt about the matter. And knowing my propensity to be a crap-magnet, I knew the chances were good that regardless of whatever scenario I managed to dream up, the reality would be less salutary. <br><br>

And then there was the small detail of actually bringing up the idea to the crew. While they generally understood that Joshua and I were headed for the altar, no one knew of my resolve to actually go to my family to tell them. Not yet. And while the front of my head counseled me to wait until the moment was right, the back of my head and increasingly my dreams were telling me I was running out of time. I had made a promise to Joshua and I had to keep it, I just had no idea ''when'', other than it would be ''soon''.<br><br>

My quarters held no answers for me as I stowed my purchases and since I wasn't able to change the state of affairs with regard to my family while in Kalidasa, for now I was best employed looking after the things I could change. I took off for the engine room to see what, if anything, had happened while I'd been out. Maybe the answers I sought would come to me there.<br><br>







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