Providence - Max Barry Page 0,3
stylist, and now this second makeup person. His face felt like a plaster model, ready to crack and fall to pieces if he smiled.
“Smile,” she said. It did not crack. “Can I get some three-base paste for Gilligan?”
“Gilly,” he said reflexively. He didn’t like Gilligan.
“I’m so nervous, I could barf,” said the person to his left. “That blueberry yogurt is definitely starting to feel like a mistake.”
Three others were in chairs alongside him; the speaker was Talia Beanfield, the Life Officer. Gilly glanced at her but she was recording herself on her phone. He was supposed to be recording clips, too. Service wanted to stitch them together into a behind-the-scenes feed of the launch ceremony.
She caught his eye and smiled. For most of the last half hour, Beanfield had been immersed in towels and clips. She looked good now, though. Her hair was artful and honey brown and glimmered as she moved. “Did you try the yogurt, Gilly?”
“No.”
“Smart,” she said to her phone. “This is why Gilly’s Intel and I’m Life.”
“I’m sorry,” said the makeup woman. “I need to get in there.” She stood between them and resumed her attack on Gilly’s face.
“Stop giving the makeup people a hard time, Gilly,” Beanfield said. “You and your unruly eyebrows.”
“Eyebrow,” said the woman. “It’s only the right.”
“A deviant,” said Beanfield.
“Len’s here,” called a woman by the door. “Last looks, please!”
Gilly took the opportunity to check out the others. Jackson, the captain, was reclining with a white bib tucked around her neck, eyes closed, possibly asleep. She hadn’t recorded any clips, either, as far as Gilly had noticed. Between her and Beanfield was Anders, the Weapons Officer. He had a shock of dark hair and light stubble and was probably the most handsome man Gilly had ever met. On the occasions Gilly hadn’t been able to avoid seeing his own press, he was always struck by how out of place he looked, like a fan who’d won a contest to meet celebrities. Jackson, the war hero; Anders, the tortured dreamboat; Beanfield, the effortlessly charming social butterfly . . . and Gilly, a permanently startled-looking AI guy who couldn’t find a good place to put his hands.
The door opened. A man in fatigues entered and clapped his hands. This was Len, their handler from Service: thirtyish and upbeat, carrying a little extra weight. “It’s time. How’s everybody feeling?”
“Like a painted whore,” said Anders.
“That’s perfect,” said Len. “We’re good to move, then, yes?”
“Yes,” said Jackson, awake after all. She peeled off her bib and was at the door before the rest of them had managed to extract themselves from their makeup thrones. The silver-lipped woman stepped back and, for the first time in a while, looked into Gilly’s eyes instead of around them.
“Good luck out there,” she said.
* * *
—
The van’s windows were heavily tinted. But as they crossed the tarmac, Gilly caught sight of the shuttle gantry: a towering metal lattice that would launch them into the upper atmosphere. From there, they would rendezvous with the ship, which had recently finished its two-year construction in high orbit. They would then perform a monthlong burn, followed by a hard skip to join four other Providence-class battleships that were fighting an alien race farther away than anyone could imagine. Before any of that, though, was the part he was anxious about.
“Here’s the rundown,” said Len. “Your families will be seated to the right of the stage, all together. Feel free to give them a wave, blow them a kiss, whatever you like. You can do that at any point. But especially at the end, as you’re leaving for the shuttle.”
“I did my good-byes this morning,” Gilly said.
There was a half second while Len tried to figure out whether he was joking. “Well, this is the one people see. So, you know, give them a wave.”
“Yep, okay,” he said.
“Like you mean it,” said Len. “Like you’re about to embark on a harrowing four-year mission to save the world and you might not see them again. You know what I mean?”