Winning Colors

Chapter Four

Heris could not define the concern she felt. Cecelia looked healthy, strong, and sane; she spent several hours a day on her riding simulator, but that was normal for Cecelia. Now she didn’t need the massage lounger after each ride; she showed no stiffness or soreness. Her appetite was good, her spirits high—so Heris told herself. What was wrong? Was it her own imagination, perhaps her own envy of someone with so much privilege getting even more?

At dinner that very night, Cecelia brought that up herself. “It’s indecent, in a way . . . to be so lucky. I try to tell myself it’s fair payment for the hell Lorenza put me through, but that’s a lie. I’ve had such good luck nearly all my life, and for the year I lost have been given back forty—not a bad bargain.”

Heris wondered how much she believed that. “Would you go through it again for another forty years?”

“No.” It came out reflexively; her face stiffened. “It’s not the same; it couldn’t be. I didn’t know how long—or that it would end this way—” Her breath came short.

“I’m sorry,” Heris said. “That was a tactless question; of course no one would choose that year. I guess I thought you were making too light of it—”

“Too light! No . . . I don’t think so. I’m trying not to let it rule the rest of my life . . . put it behind me.” The tension in her shoulders suggested that it still weighed on her.

“Does it bother you that you’re not competing?” Heris asked.

“Of course not!” It came almost too quickly, with a flush and fade of color on Cecelia’s cheeks. “It’s been thirty years; it would be ridiculous.”

“Still—”

“No. I just want to see it. I might—someday—think about going back.”

Zenebra’s orbital station carried an astonishing amount of traffic for an agricultural world. Heris had had to wait two days for a docking assignment, and had eased the yacht in among many others. On the station itself she found the kind of expensive shops she remembered from Rockhouse Major. Cecelia had called ahead, purchasing tickets for the Senior Trials, all venues. Heris saw the prices posted in the orbital station’s brochure, and winced. She hadn’t realized it could cost as much to watch other people ride horses as to own them. Or so she assumed. She also hadn’t realized that Cecelia expected her to come along—that she had bought two sets of tickets. Heris didn’t quite groan.

On the shuttle ride down to the planet she heard nothing but horse talk. At least Cecelia’s coaching had given her the vocabulary to understand most of what she heard. Stifles and hocks, quarter-cracks and navicular, stocking up and cooling down, all made sense now . . . what it didn’t make, she thought to herself, was interesting conversation. The talk about particular riders and trainers made no sense at all—she didn’t know why, for instance, “riding with Falkhome” was said with such scorn, or “another Maalinson” seemed to be a compliment. But any notion that Cecelia had no equal in fixation on horses quickly disappeared—the universe, or at least that shuttle, was full of people with equally one-track minds.

Zenebra’s shuttle port had a huge bronze—and-stained-glass sculpture of a horse taking a fence in its lobby. The groundcars had horse motifs painted on the side. Along the road to the hotel, a grassy strip served as an exercise area for the horses—all sizes, all colors—that pranced along it. The hotel itself, jammed with enthusiasts, buzzed with the same colorful slang. Heris began to feel that she’d fallen into very strange company indeed—these people were far more intense than the foxhunters at Bunny’s.

Heris had by this time seen dozens of cubes of the Wherrin Horse Trials, both complete versions of the years Cecelia had competed, and extracts of the years since. She recognized the view from the hotel room window—the famous double ditch of Senior Course A, and the hedge beyond. Although modeled on the famous traditional venues of Old Earth, the trials had made use of the peculiarities of Zenebra’s terrain, climate, and vegetation. One advantage of laying out courses on planets during colonization was the sheer space available. At Wherrin, the Senior Division alone had four separate permanent courses, which made it possible to rotate them as needed for recovery of the turf, or for the weather conditions at the time of the Trials.

Up close, the Wherrin Trials Fields looked more like the holocubes than real land with real obstacles. Bright green grass plushy underfoot, bright paint on the viewing stands, the course markers, some of the fences. Clumps of green trees. Bright blue sky, beds of brilliant pink and yellow flowers. Heris blinked at all the brilliance, reminding herself that Zenebra’s sun provided more light than the original Terran sun, and waited for Cecelia to get back from wherever she’d run off to. They had agreed to meet at this refreshment stand for a break, and Cecelia was late. Then Heris saw her, hurrying through the crowds.

“Heris—you’ll never guess!” Cecelia was flushed. She looked happy, but with a faint touch of embarrassment. Heris couldn’t guess, and said so. “I’ve got a ride,” Cecelia went on. Heris fumbled through her list of meanings . . . a ride back to the hotel? A ride to her chosen observation spot on the course? “A ride,” Cecelia said. “Corry Manion, who was going to ride Ari D’amerosia’s young mare, got hurt in a flitter crash last night. A mild concussion, they said, but they won’t put him in the regen tanks for at least forty-eight hours, and by then it will be too late. Ari was telling me all this and then she asked me—I didn’t say a word, Heris, I promise—she asked me if I would consider riding for her. I know I said I didn’t mean to compete again, but—”

“But you want to,” Heris said. From the cubes alone, and from her brief experience of foxhunting, she had had a vague notion that way herself, but one look at the real obstacles had changed her mind. “Of course you do. Can I help?”

“You don’t think I’m crazy?” Cecelia asked. “An old woman?”

Heris did think she was crazy; she thought they were all crazy, but Cecelia was no worse than the others. “You aren’t an old woman anymore,” Heris said. “You’ve been working out on the simulator. You’ve got a lifetime of skills and new strength—and it’s your neck.”

“Come on, then,” Cecelia said. “I’ll get you an ID tag so you can come in with me—you have to see this mare.”

Heris didn’t have to see the mare; she had only to see the look on Cecelia’s face, and remember that less than a year ago Cecelia had been flat in bed, paralyzed and blind.

As with the foxhunting, more went on behind the scenes than Heris would have guessed from the entertainment cubes she’d seen. The Trials organization had its own security procedures; Heris and Cecelia both needed ID tags, and Cecelia had to have the complete array of numbers that she would wear during competition. Cecelia spent half an hour at the tailor’s getting measurements taken for her competition clothes.

“I have all this somewhere, probably in a trunk back on Rotterdam,” Cecelia said. “Maybe even somewhere in the yacht, though we didn’t move everything back aboard. I don’t remember, really, because it had been so long since I needed it.”

“Why so many changes of clothes?” Heris asked. She had wondered about that even with the foxhunters. Why not simply design comfortable riding clothes that would work, and then wear them for all occasions?

“Tradition,” Cecelia said, wrinkling her nose. “And I’d like to know what a shad is, so I’d know why this looks anything like its belly.” She gestured at her image in the mirror; Heris shook her head. “Yet that’s what this kind of jacket is called.”

Heris followed her from the tailor’s to the saddler’s, where Cecelia picked out various straps that looked, to Heris, like all the others. “Reins are just reins, aren’t they?” she said finally, when Cecelia had been shifting from one to another pair for what seemed like hours. Cecelia grimaced.

“Not when you’re coming down a drop in the rain,” she said. “And by the way, see if somebody can dig my saddles out of storage and put them on the next shuttle. I’d rather not break in a new saddle on course.” Heris found a public combooth and relayed the request; Brun promised to bring the saddles herself if Heris would give permission to leave the ship.

“Fine,” Heris said, and anticipated her next request. “And why not bring Sirkin down, too? She’s probably never seen anything like this.”

Finally they arrived at one of the long stable rows. Ari D’amerosia had four horses in the trials, two in the Senior Trials and one each in Training and Intermediate. Grooms in light blue shirts bustled about, carrying buckets and tack, pushing barrows of straw, bales of hay, sacks of feed. Ari herself, a tall woman with thick gray-streaked hair, was bent over inspecting a horse’s hoof when Cecelia came up with Heris.

“Tim, we’re going to need the vet again. Cold soak until the vet comes—Oh, hi Cece. Have your rider’s registration yet?”

“Yes—and this is Heris, who’s hunted with the Greens at Bunny’s.” Nothing at all, Heris noted wryly, about her main occupation as a ship’s captain.

“Ah—then you can ride. Ever event?” The woman straightened up and offered a hand hastily wiped on her jeans. She was a head taller than Cecelia.

“No,” Heris said. “I came to riding a bit late for that.”

“It’s never too late,” Ari said, with the enthusiasm of one who would convert any handy victim. “Start with something easy—you’d love it.”

“Not this year,” Heris said. “I’m just here to help Cecelia.”

“Next year,” Ari said, and without waiting for an answer turned to Cecelia. “Now. I’ve had the groom warm her up for you—we’ve got two hours in the dressage complex, ring fifteen. Get to know her, feel her out—she may buck a few times, she usually does.”

“Where can I change?” Cecelia asked.

“Might as well use her stall—your friend—Heris?—can hang on to your other stuff until we clear out Corry’s locker.”

Cecelia ducked into the stall and reappeared in breeches, boots, and pullover; Heris took the clothes she’d been wearing, rolled them into Cecelia’s duffel, and felt uncomfortably like a lady’s maid. She followed Cecelia down the long row of stalls and utility areas, past grooms washing horses, walking horses, feeding and mucking out, around the end of the stable rows to the exercise rings.

“The great thing about Wherrin,” Cecelia said, “is there’s no shortage of space. You don’t have to make do with a few practice rings, a single warmup ring . . .” So it appeared. A vast field, broken into a long row of dressage rings separated by ten-meter alleys, and another long row of larger rings with two or three jumps each. Everywhere horses and riders and trainers.

At the far end, Heris saw the number fifteen. A bright bay mare strode around the outside, ridden by a groom in the light blue shirt of Ari’s stable. Cecelia showed her competitor’s pass, and the groom hopped down to give her a leg up. Heris stood back. She thought the horse looked different from those Cecelia usually praised, but she couldn’t define the difference. Taller? Thinner? In the next ring, a stocky chestnut was clearly shorter and thicker, but looked lumpish to her.

She didn’t understand most of what Cecelia was doing, that first session. That it would lead to a dressage test the day after next, yes, but not how Cecelia’s choice of gait and pattern aimed at that goal. Cecelia’s expression gave her no clue, and her comments and questions to the groom, and then Ari, didn’t clear things up. Heris felt uncomfortable, not only because of the hot sun. If anyone had asked her, she thought it was a silly thing to do in the first place, trying to get horses over those obstacles. And for Cecelia, at her age, when she hadn’t done it for thirty years—and on a horse she didn’t know—it was worse than silly. But no one asked her, and she kept her opinion to herself, through the few hours of training that Cecelia had before the event began.

When Brun and Sirkin arrived with Cecelia’s saddle (which looked just like all the other saddles, to Heris’s eye), she noticed that Sirkin reacted as she did, while Brun clearly belonged with the equestrian-enthused. Before the day was out, Brun had convinced Ari to let her work with the horses—for no pay, of course. Sirkin, having been stepped on by the first horse led past her, had even less enthusiasm than Heris.

Early in the morning two days later, Heris found herself perched on a hard seat in the viewing stands of the dressage arena. Cecelia, already dressed for her own appearance, sat with her at first to explain the routine. A big gray, paired with a rider who had won the Wherrin twice before, moved smoothly through the test. Cecelia explained why the judges nitpicked; Heris thought it was silly to worry about one loop of a serpentine being flatter than another. It seemed an archaic concern, like continuing to practice drill formations never used in real military actions.

Then Cecelia left, to warm up her own mount. Heris worried. She still couldn’t reconcile the old Cecelia, well into her eighties, with the vigorous woman who seemed a few years younger than herself. She kept expecting that appearance to crack, as if it were only a shell over the old one.

She was thoroughly bored by the time Cecelia appeared. All the horses did exactly the same thing—or tried to. Some made obvious mistakes—obvious to the crowd, that is, whose sighs and mutters let Heris know that something had gone wrong. One went into a fit of bucking, which was at least exciting, if disastrous to its score. But most simply went around and around, trot and canter, slower or faster, until Heris fought back one yawn after another.

Cecelia and the bay mare did the same, not as badly as some and not as well as the best. Heris tried to be interested, but she really couldn’t tell how the judges scored any of it; the numbers posted afterwards meant nothing to her. She climbed out of the stands after Cecelia’s round, sure her backside would have been happier somewhere else.

To her surprise, Cecelia said hardly anything, shrugging off Heris’s attempt at compliments with a brusque “That’s over with—now for tomorrow.” Tomorrow being the cross-country phase, Heris knew, with four sections that tested the horse’s endurance, speed, and jumping ability. “That’s the fun part,” Cecelia said. Heris had more than doubts, but at least she wouldn’t have to sit through all of it. She could watch on monitors, or walk from one obstacle to another.

Heris watched the start on the monitor, trying not to listen to the announcer’s babble. He had already said too much, she thought, about Cecelia being the oldest rider in the event, on the youngest horse. Cecelia had the mare gathered up in a coil, ready to explode, and when the starter waved, she sent the mare out at a powerful canter. The first fence, invariably described as inviting, didn’t look it to Heris: the egg cases of the native saurids glittered bronze in the sun and their narrow ends, pointed up, looked too much like missiles on a rack.

“We used to use the whole eggs,” someone said in her ear; she glanced around and saw that it was another of Ari’s people. “But someone crashed into them one year, and the stench was so bad none of the other horses would go near the fence. Ruined the scoring, completely upset everyone. Now they have to weight the bottoms of them, but at least there’s no stink.”

Cecelia and the mare were safely over the first fence, and Heris decided to walk across the course to the water complex. Cecelia had said it would be a good place to watch.

Cecelia grinned into the wind. The mare had calmed down on the steeplechase, where she could run freely, and she met all the fences squarely, with the attitude of a horse that knows it can jump. Of course, most horses would jump on the steeplechase course, with its open grassy terrain and its clearly defined fences. The problems would come in the cross-country phase. During roads and tracks, Cecelia tried to feel out how the mare felt about different surfaces, about dark patches of shade and reflections from water. The mare didn’t like sudden changes in light, but she would go on if supported by the rider. She paid no heed to the loose dog that suddenly yapped at her heels—a good omen because the crowds in the event course often had dogs, and at least one always got loose.

On the big course, Cecelia continued to feel her way into the mare’s reflexes. So far, she was amazed at how easy it all seemed. Her own reflexes had come back as if the thirty years since her last big season had never been. They had cleared that first easy fence. The second fence was another straightforward, well-defined obstacle, made of the intertwined trunks of a stickass thicket. The mare flowed over it.

Now the course ran toward the ridge for which it was named, the grade gentle up to a scary but jumpable set of rails over a big ditch. The mare looked at the ditch, but jumped without real hesitation when Cecelia sat tight. Next came the Saurus Steps, a staircase arrangement that required the horse to bounce up a series of ledges, then take one stride and jump a drop fence. Here Cecelia thought the mare was going to run out of impulsion on the last bounce, and legged her hard into the stride at the top. The mare stretched and almost crashed the fence, but caught herself and landed without falling.

My mistake, Cecelia thought. Too much pushing, too much delight in being here again. But there was no time to reride it in her head; she was already entering the switchbacks that led to the ridgetop, with trappy obstacles at each turn. Two of them required a trot approach; the others could be cantered if the horse didn’t pull too badly. The mare pulled like a tractor, fighting the down transitions, snaking her head. On the second trot fence, the mare charged straight ahead past the fence and ran out past the flag.

“Settle down,” Cecelia said, as much to herself as to the mare. She was still pushing too hard, abusing the fragile, two-day relationship. The mare switched her tail and backed up, kicking out finally before Cecelia got her lined up for the jump. She jumped willingly once aimed straight at the fence, and didn’t charge the next fence. “Finesse,” Cecelia muttered. “It’s easier if you don’t fight the course.” Or the rider, but it wouldn’t help to tell the horse that. She had to convey that with her body, all the mare would understand.

Now they were on the ridge, headed back to the east, roughly parallel to the early part of the course but higher. Here the obstacles were built to take advantage of natural stone formations. Horses had to jump into depressions, leap back up and over the ridgeline, twisting and turning, changing leads and stride length between each obstacle.

Cecelia had always enjoyed this demanding part of the course. On a good day, it had a compelling, syncopated rhythm, very satisfying to mind and body. On a bad day it was a bone-jarring, breath-eating nightmare of near catastrophe. This mare continued her headstrong, stiff-sided refusal to bend left, but Cecelia kept her on course, regaining her own confidence with every successful jump. Perhaps she was out of practice, but—she hauled the mare around a stone pillar and got her lined up for the next—she could still handle a difficult horse on a difficult course. She felt more alive than she had in years. She knew the tapes would show a wide grin on her face.

The most dangerous part of the course lay downhill to the water complex. From above it could look all too inviting, a long sweep of green to the tiny red—and-white decorations at the water’s edge, tempting horse and rider alike to set off down the slope at full speed. But on the way down were two punishing obstacles, a drop fence and a large bank with a ditch below. Cecelia had seen many a rider come to grief here; she had done it herself. She took a firm hold of the mare, and eased her over the drop fence.

Below it, the mare picked up speed. She wanted to charge at the bank, fly off the top. Cecelia wrestled her down to a rough trot, paused briefly at the top and thought she had the mare ready for the slide and jump below. Suddenly the mare swung sideways on the steep slope, reared, plunged, and fell, rolling over into the ditch. Cecelia flung herself off on the upslope side as the mare went down.

“You idiot,” she said, without heat. She meant both of them. This finished the round as far as scores went. Completion was the best she could hope for now, and one more refusal would eliminate them. She knew this debacle would be featured on the annual cube; she could imagine the commentator’s remarks about her age. At least she hadn’t been wearing a camera herself.

The mare lay upside down for a moment, legs thrashing, then heaved herself over and up, clambering out of the muck with more power than grace. She seemed unhurt as Cecelia led her away from the course and checked her legs. Cecelia looked at the saddle, now well-greased with mud, and accepted a leg up into the slippery mess with the resignation of experience. The mare was sound; the best thing to do was keep going and finish the course.

If she could. The water complex was next, offering a serious challenge even to riders with dry saddles and steerable horses. Cecelia decided on the straight route, mostly because the mare’s mistakes had all been steering problems. With that in mind, she eased the mare around the one sharp turn on the approach, and legged her at the first fence. The mare jumped clean, sailing into the water with the enthusiasm of youth and a tremendous splash. She cantered gaily through the stream, leapt out the far side, and over the bounce, as if she’d been doing it all her life.

On the far side of the water complex, the course made a circuit of a large open area, with obstacles spaced along it, rewarding horses that liked to gallop on. Here the mare had no problems, attacking one jump after another with undiminished verve. Cecelia put the problems behind her and enjoyed the ride. This was what she loved; this was what she had dreamed of, in those months of blind paralysis. The warm, live, powerful body beneath her, the thudding hooves, the wind in her face, the vivid colors, the way her body moved with the horse, pumping her own breath in and out. Even the sharp bite of fear that made the successful jumps individual spurts of relief and delight.

At the finish, the mare galloped through the posts with her ears still forward and her legs intact. Cecelia felt that if she’d had mobile ears, hers would have been forward too.

“Sorry about the problems,” she said to Ari, when she dismounted. “I think I was too rough with her on the stairsteps, and that’s why she fought with me later.” She didn’t really want to talk about it; Ari, after a few perfunctory questions, seemed to realize that and led the mare away. Cecelia wanted to be alone to savor the feelings, the joy that thrust so deep it hurt. She was back where she belonged; she could still do it. Common sense be damned; she didn’t have to give it up yet.

Heris, familiar with the cubes of Cecelia’s great rides of the past, couldn’t help thinking that this had been a disaster. The horse had refused one fence; the horse had fallen upside down in a ditch, and Cecelia was lucky not to have been squashed underneath. Mud from the fall caked Cecelia’s breeches.

“Not too shabby,” was Cecelia’s comment on her own ride. “The mare and I needed more time together.” She caught sight of herself in the mirror. “Whoosh! What a mess. I’ve got to get cleaned up. An old friend asked me to dinner.”

“But tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow’s just the jumping, and she’s going to be a pain to truck around that course. We’ll probably have a few rails down. But it’s worth it—I can’t tell you how much fun it’s been.” Fun. Heris opened her mouth and shut it again. Her memory reminded her that she had once thought foxhunting was stupid, and had found it fun herself. Maybe this was fun, if you were good enough. She wasn’t, and she told herself she never intended to be.

The next morning, Heris was back in the stands, this time with a cushion she’d brought. Since competitors rode in reverse order of standings, Cecelia’s show jumping round came early. Most of the horses with more faults had not completed the course and would not be jumping. Heris watched the mare shift and stamp as Cecelia checked the girth and mounted. The horse showed no signs of the previous day’s efforts; her bright bay coat gleamed, clean of the mud from the ditch.

The jump course required not only jumping ability but a level of steering that this mare hadn’t attained. Heris could see that Cecelia was trying to give the mare the easiest route through the maze, with sweeping turns that set her up at a good distance from the next obstacle. The mare resisted, trying to cut the round corners and charge at any fence that caught her eye. That she went over the fences in the right order seemed a minor miracle; the large one was that she didn’t fall or crack Cecelia’s head against either of the large trees in the ring. She still had two fences down, one of them in a scatter of rails that made Heris wince—she could almost feel the bruises on her own shins.

By the end of the day’s performances, Heris understood a bit more about the sport, but she had no intention of risking her own neck that way. People who craved that much danger should be firefighters, or some other job that accomplished something worthwhile to balance the danger. Cecelia was flushed and happy, eager to talk now about today’s winner (someone she’d known as a junior competitor) and the number of Rejuvenants competing. Of the five top placings, three were Rejuvenants.

“Does that mean you’ll go back to competition—if other Rejuvenants are doing it?”

“I might,” Cecelia said. “I’m not sure. Pedar—my friend that I went out with last night—wants to talk to me about Rejuvenant politics.” She made a face, then grinned. “I’ll listen to him—but I can’t think of myself as a person whose interests have changed just because I’m going to live longer.”

“Perhaps not,” Heris said. “But if three of the top five riders are Rejuvenants, where does that leave the youngsters just starting? Experience counts.” She was sure Cecelia would compete again; she was far too happy to give it up. She couldn’t help wondering what that would mean for her and the Sweet Delight.

“And some Rejuvenants don’t place,” Cecelia said, laughing. “I certainly didn’t.” But she looked thoughtful.

Cecelia had recognized the face but at first had not known whether this was Pedar himself, a son, or a grandson. The long, bony, dark-skinned face looked all of thirty. Had Pedar taken rejuvenation? How many times? He wore a full-sleeved white shirt with lace at the collar over tight gray trousers . . . he had always, she recalled, favored a romantic image. He had been the first man she knew to wear earrings . . . though now he wore three small platinum ones, in place of the great gold pirate hoop of his flamboyant youth.

“My dear Cecelia,” he said, holding her hand a long moment. “You look . . . lovely.”

“I look fortyish,” Cecelia said, with some asperity. “And I was never lovely.”

“You were, but you didn’t like to hear it,” he said. “And yes, I’m Pedar himself.” He tilted his head; his rings flashed in his ear. “I notice you aren’t wearing any—are you trying to pass?”

“Pass?” Now she was completely bewildered.

“As your apparent age, I meant. Perhaps you are planning to compete seriously again, and—”

Rage tore through her. “I am not trying to be anything but myself. I never did.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I seem to have hit a sore point. It’s just that you aren’t wearing any earrings—”

“I don’t follow fads in jewelry,” Cecelia said, biting each word off. “I prefer quality.” She glared, but he didn’t flinch. Of course, he hadn’t flinched much when they were both in their twenties and she’d glared at him. Now, he shook his head, and chuckled. She had always liked his chuckle; for some reason it made her feel safe.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I should not laugh, but it is so like you to be unaware of the code. You’re right, Cecelia: you never paid attention to fads, or tried to be anything but what you are. Let me explain.” Without waiting for her reaction, he went on. “Those of us who’ve experienced the Ramhoff-Inikin rejuvenation process several times found that we were confusing some of the people we’d always known. Even within the family we might be taken for our own descendants. We didn’t want to wear large signs saying ‘I am Pedar Orrigiemos, the original,’ or anything like that. We wanted some discreet signal, and—” he touched the rings in his left ear, “—this is what we use.”

“Earrings?” Cecelia asked. It seemed a silly choice. She tried to remember how many earrings she’d seen lately, and whether Lorenza had worn them.

Pedar laughed. “They aren’t just earrings. The first serial rejuvenations were all done under special license, with very close monitoring. They wore implanted platinum/ceramic disks encoded with all the necessary medical information, from their baseline data to the dosages. Someone—I forget who—objected to the disk, and asked if it could be made more decorative. Next thing you know—rings. Now we use them to indicate how many rejuvenations we’ve had, which is a clue—though not really precise—to our full age.”

“But why would you want to?” Cecelia said, intrigued in spite of herself. “I can see what you mean about families—although there’s no young woman in mine who resembles me that closely. But surely they could learn—”

“Oh, I suppose so. It’s handy in business, though, when associates know that the youngish man with the three earrings is the CEO, while the one with the single earring is his son, merely a division vice-president.”

“Ross never sneaks in another earring?” asked Cecelia, remembering Ross very well. She had never liked him.

“Not while I’m in the same system,” Pedar said. “I suppose he could, but then he’d have to sustain conversations with any of my friends—and he couldn’t. Which brings up the other issue, perhaps the main one. Haven’t you discovered yet how boring the young are?”

“I have not,” said Cecelia. She was in no mood to agree with Pedar about anything.

“You will.” His face twisted into the wry expression she had once found so fascinating. “Having a young body is one thing—I like it, and I’m sure you do too. No more aches and pains, no more flab and stiffness. Vivid tastes and smells, a digestive tract with renewed ability to cope with all the culinary delights of a hundred worlds. You can ride a competitive course again, if you want. But—will you want to?”

“I just did,” Cecelia pointed out.

“True, but that was—survival euphoria, perhaps, after your ordeal. Will you continue to compete?” When she didn’t answer immediately, he went on. “The physical sensations you enjoyed, those are strong again, just as I swim in big surf, which I always loved. You will always ride, perhaps. But you may not always want to compete. One reason is the constant contact with the young. There’s nothing wrong with the young—they will grow up to be old—but you have already solved the problems they find so distressing. Just as, when you were originally forty, you found adolescents boring—and don’t tell me you didn’t, because I remember what you said about Ross when he was in school.”

That was Ross, Cecelia thought to herself. Ross had been boring because all he thought about was Ross. Although, come to think of it, that description fit most of the adolescents she’d known. Certainly Ronnie had been like that.

“Take your average forty-year-old,” Pedar said. Cecelia immediately thought of Heris. Heris wasn’t average, but she didn’t like average anyway. “Your average forty-something is worrying about a personal relationship, and if not rejuved, is having concerns about the first signs of physical aging.” Well, that was true. She could not have missed the tension between Heris and Petris, and both of them were making a fetish out of using the gym. “More than half the things you know directly, they know only by hearsay—from their education, which includes only what educators think is important. Nothing of the little things that you and I remember effortlessly. Remember the craze for sinopods?”

Cecelia laughed. She hadn’t thought about that for years, a fashion so peculiar it had penetrated even her horse-focussed mind. She had had a sinopod herself, a red and yellow one.

Pedar nodded at her expression. “You see? If sinopods are mentioned anywhere outside obscure biology texts, it’s in some terminally boring treatise on the economic impact of fads for biologicals on the ecology of frontier worlds. You and I—the others our age, with our background—we remember the sinopods themselves, and even if we can’t explain the attraction, we remember the ones we had.”

“I wonder whatever happened to them?” she asked; she remembered that she had even named her sinopod, though she couldn’t recall the name. Pedar laughed outright.

“Cecelia, you have a genius for getting off the subject. If you really care about sinopods, look it up. My point is that people in the same generation share experiences—know things—that others cannot know directly. Long ago, people who wanted to pretend they weren’t aging tried mingling with those younger—hoping the youth would rub off, I suppose. We don’t have to do that. We can have the best of youth—the healthy bodies—and the best of age—the experience.”

“So you wear rings in your ears.” She hated to admit it—she would not admit it aloud—but Pedar made sense. She remembered her exasperation with Heris as far back as that insane adventure on the island. To waffle around like that, about whether or not she loved Petris—she herself would not have been so baffled, and she had straightened the younger woman out. Heris had been wrong again about Sirkin, and again her own age and experience told. But Heris wasn’t boring. Ronnie, maybe.

“A ring like this—” Pedar tapped his rings, “simply tells us—those who have had multiple rejuvenations—that you have had one, and how many. We choose to stabilize at different ages, so you have to do a little calculation. The commercial version gives about twenty years per treatment, so if you combine the appearance and the number of rings, you can come close to the actual age.” He grinned again, a challenging grin this time. “Or, you can wear no ring and simply pretend to be forty. Talk to other forties, live among them, and become like them. . . .”

“No,” Cecelia said firmly. “I have no intention of pretending to be younger than I am. That’s why I never wanted rejuvenation in the first place.”

“Then wear the ring,” Pedar said. “It will save you a lot of trouble.”

Restlessness, too much energy . . . was it all because she hadn’t had the chance to confront Lorenza directly? She had confronted Berenice directly enough, and that hadn’t satisfied her.

Something bothered her about Pedar’s advice, about Pedar’s complacency. She had deliberately refused to think about the implications of rejuvenation. It complicated things; she wanted to go on with her life and not worry about it. But his attitude suggested that this wouldn’t work, that others would always be assessing her, looking for correspondence or conflict between her visible age and her real self.

Exactly why she hadn’t wanted to do it. Better than being blind or having to use optical implants, certainly. She wanted to be healthy, whole, able to do what she wanted to do. But she didn’t want to waste her time wondering if she was confusing people or what they thought.

And he implied a whole subculture of rejuvenated oldsters, a subculture she hadn’t even noticed. How many serial Rejuvenants were there? She began to wonder, began to think of looking for the telltale rings.

They weren’t always in ears, but once she looked, they were on more people than she had expected. Discreet blue—and-silver enamel rings on fingers, in ears, in noses, occasionally in jewelry but most often attached to the body. She began to suspect that where they were worn signaled something else Pedar hadn’t told her. Certainly when she saw couples wearing them, they were usually in the same site. She wondered if anyone outside the Rejuvenant subculture had caught on, if some of the rings were faked. She had had no idea so many people had been rejuvenated at all, let alone more than once.

Cecelia pulled out her medical file from the Guerni Republic, something she’d stashed in the yacht’s safe without another glance. Sure enough, a little blue—and-silver ring slid out of the packet, and the attached card explained that it contained the medical coding necessary for a rejuvenation technician to correct any imbalance. Odd. Why not just implant a record strip, as was done all the time for people with investigational diseases?

She sat frowning, rolling the ring from one hand to another. Did she want to identify herself to others as one of the subculture? She wished she knew more about it. She disliked even that much concern . . . and yet . . . she couldn’t deny that Pedar was right about the callowness of the young.