“Perhaps you should explain,” Lan backpedaled. She tried to make it sound gentle, but it came out like an order anyway.
“I am sure there is nothing I’d say that you’d find significant. I trust you have a way home.”
Her voice sounded like ashes that were surrounded by fire, yet too tired to burn.
“You … you can keep the donuts,” Lan said shakily, before disappearing in a flash of green.
Shizuka looked out over the lake. She tossed in another donut. The goldfish and ducks did as they did.
Shizuka closed her eyes, then waited for the quiet to return. When it did not, she picked up her phone.
“Astrid, I’m coming home. Do we have any more of the Riesling?”
* * *
Don’t think about her.
The woman was trouble, and there was no time for trouble. Captain Tran frowned as she walked to the front of the store. And then she kept frowning.
The donut case was shining and spotless. Behind the glass nestled soft and chewy twists and glazes, light and poofy Boston crèmes and French crullers. There were rich chocolates, vibrant vanillas, and happy strawberry sprinkles.
Lemon filled. Blueberry filled. Fruity, sugary apple fritters. Glistening, sticky cinnamon rolls.
They were beautiful.
But it was the middle of the afternoon. Why were so many still on the racks?
“Windee, please check the replicator.”
“I already did, Captain.”
“Then please tell your brother to rotate the reference donuts.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Within the first two months of full operations, the crew had uncovered a curious phenomenon. Sales would drop if the donuts remained the same. Lan was still trying to figure out why.
So far, her best theory was that these humans suffered a “taster fatigue.” It was a curious defect. A favorable food source is a favorable food source, is it not? If one enjoyed a food today—why should one not enjoy the same food tomorrow?
But this was a simple glitch in a simple people, so Lan expected the solution to be simple, as well. Thus Starrgate began to log which reference donuts were being replicated, and switched them whenever sales began to drop. Each time they did this, the sales would return to previous levels.
Lately, however, some of the decrease seemed to be permanent. The drop was very slight, but if Lan could not trace the root cause, it might compound into a serious issue.
Seriously, what was wrong with this planet?
She must have missed something vital in her initial assessment. Earth had seemed so rustic, so benign. But it was obvious that she had misjudged the people here.
After all, she had certainly misjudged Shizuka Satomi. To think she would sacrifice children!
“Mother?”
And yet, why could she sense no malice from her? Did this species possess some sort of thought shielding?
“Mother?”
But her feelings toward Katrina were genuine. She was sure of it. So why would Shizuka do that to someone she loved?
“Mother?”
To someone she loved …
“Mother, are you okay?”
“W-what?”
Shirley was standing over her.
“Yes, yes … I’m fine…”
Lan looked up. She’d been sleeping at her desk again.
* * *
You don’t need her, Satomi.
That is what Shizuka tried to tell herself, as she thought of the Saturdays that they had spent together. Yes, Lan’s tales of the galaxy had been spellbinding, but what about her world?
Shizuka thought of how regularly Lan had changed the subject away from her music, away from her. How, when she did respond, it was to compliment her on the beauty of her voice … never what her voice said.
Being doubted hurts. But what hurts even worse is not being heard.
Over all these Saturdays, Lan had never stopped assuming that music was the trivial diversion of a backward planet. And if Lan felt that way about her music, then how did Lan feel about her?
What was left to explain? She was Shizuka Satomi, the Queen of Hell. Why was she even thinking about this? Why couldn’t Lan have listened? Why did she have to be so utterly dense?
“Miss Satomi?”
“Katrina? What?”
“You seemed to space out for a while. Are you all right? I can get you some water.”
“T-thank you.”
Where were they? Yes, of course, they were working on intonation. Shizuka smirked at the irony. Lan was not the only one who needed to listen.
Since the recording studio had been installed, Katrina’s playing had become remarkably lyrical, daring, and sure. It was as if those fantastical forms she now inhabited were allowing Katrina to become more relaxed, colorful, open.