Free Sound by Alexandra Duncan

question.
    â€œHere you are. Have a pleasant evening, miss.” She waves me ahead and turns to Rubio. “And you? Name?”
    A burst of laughter spills out of the dining quarters. I hang back in the sitting room, watching. A long table laid with linen napkins, china, and crystal fills most of the inner room. Near the back, a group of officers in dress blues cluster around the bar, sipping some kind of cherry-red spirit from glass tumblers. I spot Dr. Osmani, wrapped in white raw silk from neck to toe. She smiles, more with her mouth than with her eyes, as the officer beside her says something.
    At least I’m not the only one overdressed.
    One of the officers, a handsome older man with a smooth brown face and white hair combed up into a subtle pompadour, spots me. “Ah, our guests have arrived.” He waves me closer. “Come in, come in. Can I offer you a drink? Wine? Sherry?”
    â€œUm . . .” Soraya never drinks, though she keeps wine and beer in the house in case she has guests to dinner. I’ve mostly fallen in with her, not out of any religious feeling like hers, but because the few times I tried it, the alcohol muffled up my head and blunted my thoughts. I didn’t like the screen it lowered between me and the world.
    â€œI don’t—” I begin.
    â€œWe’d both love a sherry.” Rubio sidles up beside me. “Thank you, sir.”
    â€œGood lad.” The old man winks at Rubio and turns away.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I hiss. “I don’t want a drink.”
    â€œYou do when the head of telemetry offers.” He keeps his eyes on the old man splashing red liquid into two more tumblers.
    â€œBut I—”
    â€œYou don’t have to drink it. You just have to let him fix it for you.” Rubio rolls his eyes. “Honestly, memsahib, an upper cruster like you, I’d have thought you’ve beento your share of these things.”
    â€œI keep telling you, I’m not—” But the telemetry officer and his pompadour return with our drinks.
    â€œThank you.” Rubio smiles and raises his glass to take a sip.
    â€œThanks,” I mumble after him.
    â€œWhat a lovely sari.” The officer smiles as he hands over my drink. “Miss . . . ?”
    â€œGuiteau,” I say. “Science Specialist.”
    â€œGuiteau.” His smile spreads like butter. He gestures at my sari. “My colleagues and I are honored by your knowledge of our homeland. You must have gone to quite a lot of effort to procure such a fine piece.”
    His words hit me before I have a chance to brace myself. I stare at him, fighting to keep my face blank. Senior officers make the lab assignments. I’ve come to expect this sort of thing from Rubio, but the senior officers? Even the ones from my own country? Surely they can see I’m one of them, not an outsider trying to weasel my way into their good graces.
    I shift from one foot to the other. “Not really.” The sari came from a big, airy shop across the street from the one in South Mumbai where Soraya bought my school uniforms. It was only a twenty-minute lev train ride fromour house. “Not much trouble at all.”
    â€œGuiteau’s from India herself.” Rubio volunteers. “Chennai, yeah?”
    I scowl down into my sherry. “Mumbai.”
    â€œAh, yes?” The officer blinks and looks me over more closely. “I would never have imagined.”
    I raise my eyebrows at him, the words lashing out before I can stop them. “What does that mean?”
    An awkward silence follows. Stupid, stupid, Guiteau . I should have kept my tongue, taken a drink, anything other than biting the head off one of the officers. I grip the slick sides of my glass.
    â€œNothing.” The head of telemetry gives me a tight little smile. “Nothing at all. If you’ll excuse me . . .” He backs away with a little bow and melts into the