The Quiet Pools

CHAPTER 3 —UAU— “… a student of history…”

Sitting back in his bowllike operator’s chair, Christopher McCutcheon studied the center pair of the ten standard displays arrayed before him in the darkened archaeolibrarian’s booth. His gaze flicked from the upper screen to the slim green-bound volume resting on his lap, then back. Frowning, he pressed the black bar on the right armrest.

“Come on, Ben, you’ve got to have some cross-reference,” he said. “These guys didn’t come out of nowhere, write this book, and then vanish.”

“I’m sorry, Chris,” replied Benjamin, the most agreeable of the library’s AIP constructs. “I find nothing with the search keys ‘A. Privat Deschanel’ or ‘J. D. Everett.’ I do find entries for the Lycée Louis le Grand, the Academy of Paris, Queen’s College in Belfast, D. Appleton and Company of New York—”

“What’s the closest match on Deschanel?”

A third display sprang to life to display a double-column list of names. “A Paul Eugene Louis Deschanel was the tenth President of the Third French Republic in 1920,” Benjamin said as a monochrome photograph appeared on a fourth display.

“Birth date?”

“February 13, 1855.” The text of a biography took over a fifth screen.

“Too late,” Christopher said. “All right. New entry.” All five active displays blanked momentarily. “Key to title, author, coauthor, associations for both. Cross-link to physics, history of science, natural philosophy, mechanical engineering, technology. There’re a lot of cutaway drawings and diagrams in this one, so let’s make it an image upload with text call. Give me the null reference list on the big screen.”

“I understand,” Benjamin said, and a slotlike drawer opened in the sloping semicircular panel below the bank of screens.

Christopher leaned forward and laid the green volume in the drawer. “And be careful with that one,” he added. “It’s almost two hundred years old.”

“Always, Chris.”

It took bare seconds for the source upload to begin and the results to be reflected on the quiescent displays. Christopher sat back and watched the “picture window” display high above the center of the operator’s panel. As the library’s engine began analyzing the contents of Deschanel’s Natural Philosophy, thirteenth edition, 1898, the list of terms which had no reference anywhere in Ur’s library began to build: Atwood’s Machine, Vase of Tantalus, Morin’s Apparatus.

What good any of it would do the pioneers when they reached Tau Ceti was neither Benjamin’s nor Christopher’s concern. Their task was to help assure that the starship carried with it the most complete and most accurate library of human thought and experience available—a fully interlinked hyperlibrary drawing on sources neglected even by DIANNA and her counterparts DIANE in Europe and DIANA in Asia.

There were a hundred scavengers in the field, supported by a public appeal campaign paying finder’s fees to donors of material on the team’s Red List. More than two hundred of Allied Transcon’s Houston complement were working part- or full-time on the library, including forty archaeolibrarians.

Adding in the staff in Munich and Tokyo, as well as the scratch squad on Memphis herself, more than a thousand people were devoting their energies to building the pyramid. The Memphis library was already forty percent larger than that which had sailed with Ur, and exponentially more complex.

Even so, there was a crisis atmosphere in Building 16, a sober urgency which belied the fact that the target sailing date was still fourteen months away. Part of the urgency came from the realization that larger did not necessarily mean better. More than a quarter million errors had been found in the Ur library in the years since it sailed, and management was determined to produce a cleaner product the second time around.

The balance of the urgency came from the knowledge that Memphis’s sailing date was an absolute deadline. Data time on the starship’s thousand-channel laser link and the five-channel neutrinio was too precious for all but the most crucial corrections and updates. There would never be room for the likes of Infantry Drill Regulations 1911, the novels of Michael Hudson, or Deschanel’s Natural Philosophy.

“Excuse me, Chris,” said Benjamin politely.

Christopher pressed the black bar. “Yes?”

“I see that the current volume is marked ‘Part One,’ and there are references in the text to a Part Two, a Part Three, a Part Four, and the topics covered in those volumes. Are those sources also available at this time?”

“No,” Christopher said. “Like I said, it’s almost two hundred years old. We are lucky to find this one—it turned up at an estate liquidation in Michigan. Nineteenth-century science texts are about as welcome as acid-based paper at the Library of C.”

“I’ll make secondary entries for the missing volumes with the information available,” Benjamin volunteered.

“Do that,” Christopher said.

“Shall I add them to the Red List as well?”

“No. But you can find me a current hydraulics instructional. A lot of these nulls look like demonstration gadgets. They may correspond to some of the computer models used later on.”

The instructional came up on a blank display a moment later. Christopher leaned on the red bar and began navigating through the full-color animated sequences with half-whispered commands, seeking a match for the pen-and-ink drawing on the adjacent screen. It was several minutes before he noticed the blue mail window up on display ten, and the one-word message therein:

“Send to Daniel,” Christopher said, touching the white bar. “Sure. I’ll come there. I can use the walk.”

The mail window dissolved into Daniel Keith’s sandy-haired and smiling visage. “Wrong, wrong, wrong. I need to get out of this zoo for an hour a lot more than you need to exercise. I’ll come to you. Twelve-fifteen.”

“Food’s better at the central cafeteria,” Christopher reminded his friend.

“If you get a chance to eat it,” Keith said dryly. “It’s three weeks until the first batch of selection notices. A selection counselor’s got about as much chance of enjoying a quiet lunch as Jeremiah has of being named captain of the Memphis.”

“Read and understood,” Christopher said with a grin. “I’ll see you downstairs in a bit.” He touched the black bar. “Ben, show me the Bramah Press again, will you? And let me know when it’s ten after.”

The rumble of a departing Pelican echoed in the garden courtyard just as Christopher McCutcheon and Daniel Keith were settling at a small table shaded by a broad-leafed tree.

“I’m serious,” Keith was saying. “It’s like they think the rules are different now than they were a year ago. I’ve had all kinds of offers this last month—and that’s from our people. God help me if anybody outside finds out what I do.”

“If you want to keep the secret, you’d better watch where you flash this,” Christopher said, reaching across the table and tucking the bottom half of Keith’s ID inside his shirt pocket. “We know what goes on in Building 37, too. You’d probably get accosted just on general principles.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Keith said, cracking his soup container open.

“So, did you report the offers?”

“A few. The serious ones. The scary ones.”

“Take any offers?”

Keith’s mouth worked wordlessly, then turned up in a sheepish grin. “No. And I don’t know if that makes me a saint or an idiot,” he said.

“Depends on the temptation in question, I guess,” Christopher said, amused.

“Ranged from truly sad to died-and-gone-to-heaven.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll have to show you. One woman mailed me sixty seconds of very—uh, wet video. On reconsideration, I am a saint,” Keith said. “Look, you must have something to talk about that doesn’t have anything to do with Memphis. Tell me about Jessica. Tell me how wonderful it is to wake up next to something like that.”

“Don’t tell me you want her, too,” Christopher said dourly.

Keith shrugged. “Hair down to here, tits out to there—what did you expect?” Then he caught the unhappiness in Christopher’s eyes, and his demeanor changed. “Don’t tell me there’s a problem already.”

“Yeah. Me.”

“Huh?”

He toyed with a spoon before answering. “I found out I don’t like sharing Jessie.”

“No surprise,” Keith said. “Nobody does. Your woman lies down with someone else and your genes start screaming at you for not protecting their interests. No matter how noble and rational you’re determined to be, there’s a little program running in the back of your mind saying, ‘No, you idiot,’ and worse.”

“I know.”

Keith went on, “This can’t have been a surprise, though—even though she’s only been living with you for, what, two months? A woman like that’s going to attract a lot of attention, and you three aren’t contracted. And hasn’t Loi had other lovers all along?”

Christopher nodded. “I couldn’t do anything about that. That was clear going in. That’s why she wouldn’t go for a closed contract.” He paused, then added quietly, “I guess that’s part of the reason I wanted Jessie in the house. I thought she was going to be all mine.”

“While she had to share you with Loi?”

“I said it was what I wanted. I didn’t say it was fair.” He sipped at his iced tea. “So maybe it’s justice, after all.”

“What’s justice? What exactly happened?”

“Loi and Jessie happened. While I was playing my usual Sunday gig down in Freeport.”

“Oh-ho.”

“Which means?”

“Which means I could have seen that one coming.”

“This makes sense to you?”

“Sure,” Keith said. “My moms were closer to each other than to either of my dads. Same thing happened with Brenda and Jo. As far as I can tell, if there’s two women in the house, they either form the strongest bond in the family or they split the family apart scratching at each other. Mostly the former.”

“I don’t have the benefit of your experience,” Christopher said. “My only other trine was two men and a woman.”

“What about your own family?”

Christopher shook his head. “My mother died three years before I was born—”

“Excuse me?”

“Frozen embryo. They took some eggs when my mother took sick, just in case.”

“Huh,” Keith said. “Interesting. Right out of the soaps.”

Tight-lipped, Christopher nodded and said, “Anyway, Deryn—she was my host and my nurture-mother both—was the only woman in the house when I was growing up.”

“You have a sister, don’t you?”

“Doesn’t count.”

“I suppose not,” Keith said. “Look, did you bring this business up hoping for some free advice?”

“Did I bring it up?” Christopher asked. “Never mind. You can play relationship technologist if you want, Doctor Keith.”

Keith smiled. “It’s nothing brilliant. It just seems to me that what happened was still inside the family, even if it was kind of a rude surprise. And along the lines of what I said earlier, you’ve probably got to take it as a good thing.”

“You’re talking to the guy up here,” Christopher said glumly, tapping his temple. “And he knows all that.” He touched the center of his chest. “It’s this guy that’s having the trouble.”

“Evict him,” Keith said with mock solemnity.

“I tried. He’s got a long-term lease.”

“Bribe him, then. See if you can buy him off with the erotic possibilities of two women together.”

“No chance. We were playing three-in-a-bed the first week Jessie moved in. He just feels left out.” Christopher shook his head. “I really love both of them.”

“Try ‘loving’ them a little less and trusting them a little more,” Keith said wisely. “It’s a better mix in the long run.”

“Yeah,” Christopher agreed. “Fine. But how do you do it, Daniel? How the hell do you get from here to there?”

Keith smiled, chewing. “I only do theoretical, Chris. Practical’s up to you.”

Though music was playing throughout the house when Christopher McCutcheon arrived home, he seemed to be alone there. But Jessica quickly appeared as he entered, her body tucked into black slacks and blouse, her long hair pulled together at the back of her neck into a golden waterfall.

“Hello, Chris,” she said cheerily, intercepting him near the door with a hug.

The hug lasted until it triggered recent memories, and Christopher stepped away. “Where’s Loi?”

“With a client, previewing a commissioned piece. Barring disaster, she’ll be home at seven or so. Can you survive without dinner until then?”

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

“I haven’t seen you to talk to since Sunday morning. How did your set at Alec’s go?”

“Not too badly, I guess,” he said, continuing past her. “Alec seemed happy, anyway. Of course, all he cares about is that he does more business with me there than he was before I started.”

“Did you do ‘Caravan to Antares’?” she asked, following.

“Yeah. Last song of the night. Just me and the hard-core.”

“And?”

“I don’t think they quite knew how to take it.”

“It’s a terrific song,” she said earnestly.

A crooked smile, thrown back over one shoulder. “So long as no one from Allied hears it. I’m going to check mail, okay?”

She stopped following and let him escape. “Okay, Chris.” Her poignant expression was wasted; he did not see it as he settled in front of the housecom.

“Mail,” he said, absently noting Jessica’s footsteps on the stairs behind him as the sole message came up.

“Hello, Christopher,” said William McCutcheon, looking out at him from the display.

His father’s face was not a friendly one—eyes too piercing, jaw too stern and angular. But his voice, warm and cultured, moderated the effect.

“I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that Allied was in the news today,” the senior McCutcheon continued. “This business with Homeworld reminded me that you haven’t been up to visit since you started there—what, six months, seven months ago? Why don’t you come up this weekend.” Not a question. Something closer to a command. “You can tube up Friday night and leave early enough Sunday not to disappoint your followers. Don’t bother with a rental. I’ll pick you up in Portland.”

The display dimmed, and Christopher sat back in the chair, thoughtful. The break had been more complete than his father had acknowledged. There had been no meaningful contact in nearly three months. Moreover, it was not mere neglect, but a conscious choice not to risk an open fight, not to face his father’s fury.

Even at twenty-seven, on his own for a dozen years, Christopher dreaded his father’s disapproval. When he decided, after much agonizing, to come to Allied, Christopher had not sought either his father’s permission or his approval. Permission was not required, and approval was not likely. Not from the man who had made Christopher refuse the selection option won in a tenth-grade cybernetics contest. Not from the man who had spent Ur’s sailing day climbing Saddle Mountain, safely out of touch with the net and out of the reach of any Diaspora zealots.

Christopher had sent the news wrapped in a tissue of justification, and his father responded with an acknowledgment empty of both criticism and congratulation. The rules of the compact seemed clear: You are my son and I love you, but I cannot love this choice you’ve made.

But now his father had broken the contract of silence with an invitation. A summons, couched in the civilities of family. The confrontation Christopher had thought he had avoided loomed before him.

“Chris?” Jessie’s voice, timid and tentative, intruded on his thoughts.

He twisted in the seat to see her sitting on the stairs, halfway between floors. “What’s the matter?”

“That’s what I was wondering. Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad?” he asked, delaying an answer.

“About last night.”

He pursed his lips, polled his feelings. “Nah,” he said, and shrugged.

“I could use just the littlest bit more reassurance than that,” she said.

“Like?”

She stood up, a far more flattering pose for her figure. “Will you come upstairs and make love with me?”

He hesitated, polling another set of readings. “With pleasure,” he said, bounding out of the chair wearing a playful smile.

It wasn’t too difficult to see that they were still involved when Loi and seven o’clock arrived.