They were sitting in a picnic awning enclosed in synth-glass eating lunch. Cimarron sipped from a bowl of minestrone soup that she had ordered from a take out place on the east corner of the main square as she contemplated his grumbling. “If you didn't want to be in this situation, you could have been more adamant about not taking in a pet.”
He grumbled some more as he took a bite out of his ham and cheese sandwich.
The large pard-synth had taken up a spot underneath their table, gnawing on some leftover steak that the take out place had been about to throw away. Occasionally, the big cat would raise his, Banner had checked the animal's gender before leaving the robotics repair shop, head and sniff at the next table where a pair of city maintenance workers in dark coveralls were attempting to eat their own meals. Whenever the workers happened to glance their way, the pard-synth would growl in warning. In response, the workers would give them confused looks and go back to their own meal.
“I didn't know you had a pard-synth when you were a child,” she continued. “Jorge told me a lot about you while I was growing up. The genius boy who lived out in the Outer Colonies, whose parents met in a romantic Romeo and Juliet fashion.”
“Right.” Banner gave a resigned sigh. Was he surprised that she thought how his parents met was romantic? Everyone else said the same thing. “They were being young and stupid. They eloped and got into a whole lot of trouble and strained diplomatic relations between the Outer Colonies and the Terran government. My grandfather ended up disinheriting my mother.”
“Jorge told me that his brother regretted his mistake, but he was too hard-headed to take it back. It must have irked you that you were cheated out of inheriting the Helado winery empire.”
Banner set the rest of his sandwich down deliberately. “I'm a mechanical engineer. I have no interest in dabbling with the wine industry. Besides, that was the last generation's mess. I have enough trouble making my own blunders let alone involving myself in grudges perpetuated by other people.”
“That's easy enough for you to say. Unlike you, I'm the product of other people's messes. I can never get away from it.”
Startled, he asked, “What do you mean?”
She continued to calmly sip her soup. “So the pard-synth in your childhood. It must have been fun having a pet and being the son of a space pirate.”
“My father is not a space pirate. Or isn't any more. He's an interplanetary merchant.”
“I suppose that is more politically correct.”
“It's why I don't talk with him much these days. He claims he's just fighting for free trade, but I think he's just out for the adventure.”
“And you're a homebody.”
He glared at her. “I'm not some provincial hick who wants to get stuck in one place my entire life. But if you've grown up, constantly on the move, not knowing what will happen next, that sort of life will look pretty good in comparison. Anyways, it was my mother who got the pard-synth. It was just before I was born when my parents had visited New Gunnbjorn for some reason or other. An acquaintance of theirs owned a pard-synth who had just had a litter and the kitten was a gift.”
“That was nice of them. Pard-synths aren't cheap.”
“Eismitte was almost an albino—her fur was completely white. But her eyes were black. She was my companion and guardian while my parents were off swashbuckling their way towards free trade. Well, she was around until some government-sanctioned kidnapper with a happy trigger finger fried her when I was about ten.”
The soup spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “Good grief. That must have been traumatic.”
“Yeah.”
“Why did the government want to kidnap you?”
He shrugged. “They wanted to subdue a rebel leader. I was a convenient target at the time to ensure his cooperation.” He picked his sandwich back up and chewed thoughtfully. “I take it you haven't had any pets while growing up?”
“No.” She concentrated on her soup. “But I did move around a lot, although probably not as often as you.”
“Huh. That's right. Your father is a famous diplomat.”
“I'm not sure my father would like to be labeled as famous,” she said wryly. “He'd say that it was a dangerous thing to say. He likes to keep a low profile.”
“It's not so low if I've heard of him before Uncle Jorge said anything about him. And I don't pay much attention to politics in the first place.”
“Hm. Well, originally, my parents wanted me to do what they did—either go into genetics like my mother or into political science like my father. But I had shown interest in computers—which they were happy to nurture. They had expected me to go all the way. They had even picked out a nice young man for me to marry. And then I threw them for a loop when I said I wanted to find myself.”
“Ah yes. That Tibetan nunnery you mentioned. So did you? Find yourself, I mean.”
“I'm not sure. But I've discovered aspects of myself that I've never considered before,” she admitted grudgingly. “Aspects that my parents probably would be aghast to hear about.”
“Oh, I've got to hear this. Aghast about what? Have you turned into a criminal?”
“No.” She looked at him with narrow eyes. “You can't tell me that you haven't noticed anything unusual about me, compared to other people.”
“Well, to be frank, I thought you were all wrong when I first met you.”
“Wrong?” Her voiced lilted upwards in sudden outrage.
“Sure. Uncle Jorge told me all about it. But don't worry about it. There wasn't anything you could have done anyway.”
She slumped back in her chair. “Ah. Jorge and his big mouth. If he was still alive, I'd wring his neck.”
“Why?”
“People assume things of me. And even when they know the truth, they're always so,” she sighed, not finishing her thought. “I mean, you've been the exception.”
“What? What did I do?”
That sly grin briefly tilted the edge of her mouth again. “You're so clueless.”
“I suppose you're not going to enlighten me?”
“Nope.” She patted the pard-synth's head when the big cat batted at her knee. “We should give him a name.”
“Why? Riverside is going to send the beast back once the appropriate shuttle comes in.”
“Well, even a temporary name would be nice instead of just referring it as 'it' or 'pard-synth' or even 'kitty'. Besides, I've never gotten the chance to name a pet. What would you name him?”
Feeling in a contrary mood, he replied, “How about Spot?”
“Spot? How unoriginal is that,” she exclaimed.
“Well, it has spots, doesn't it? Spot fits.”
“We need something with more flair. How about Alexander?”
“I'm not calling an animal by a person's name.”
“All right. What about Minestrone.”
“You're calling the pard-synth after a soup?” said Banner dubiously. “Isn't that more ridiculous than Alexander?”
“We can't sit here and argue about names all day,” she pointed out. “I'm not so creative, so I'd say we stick with Minestrone. And if you have objections to that, you can call him Min. Or any other number of diminutives you could come up with.”
“I'm not sure why I even bother to give my opinion,” he muttered. “Everyone ends up having her own way anyway.”
