The Quiet Pools

CHAPTER 31 —CCC— “… worlds to know…”

Christopher had come to Sanctuary knowing that he would not be allowed to stay. But almost from the moment he arrived, the thought began forming that he also did not want to stay.

The suspicion was strengthened when first Deryn, then Anna X, shrugged off the Chi Sequence as inconsequential. It crystallized into a certainty in the Moon Chamber when, watching the darkened globe and the brilliant stars roll by, he suddenly understood that Anna X was right.

Earth had seemed so far away, the bustle of its billions shrunk to a pattern of lights in the night. And the stars that Memphis would soon reach for were unimaginably, unbelievably more distant. In the blink of the mind’s eye, scales shifted, values changed. What was Earth to Sanctuary? A foreign land in the grip of unfriendly forces. What was Sanctuary to Earth? Even less—a carnival ride in history’s sideshow. What happened on Sanctuary did not matter except to those few who called it home.

I don’t watch the news. It’s never about me. How many more felt that way, not only around the wheel, but around the world? It was the turning away, the turning inward. Daniel Keith had described it, and Jeremiah had feared it. Sanctuary was the vindication of a prophecy, the anticipation of the human prospect. It would spin along in its orbit year after year much as it was now, growing older rather than growing, ever more fragile in structure and frail in spirit. And someday, it would fail.

It was the future of the Earth, in microcosm. He required no further proof from Daniel, Deryn, or the midwives—from Sharron’s memory or his father’s legacy. Synthesis was his art and his magic, and the synergy was clear. The twilight of the will was approaching.

That being so, what was the best use of a life? The curtain would not ring down for decades, perhaps centuries. In that time, billions would pass through the whole cycle of existence, and most of the passages would be made in pain. Against that background, what was the moral act? Was it enough to simply take a turn on the wheel and then step aside?

In a life of watching, Christopher had learned to measure his expectations. Wanting little placed the goal within reach. Wanting nothing too badly mitigated disappointment. The path of least resistance beckoned. If he could not be happy, he could at least hope to temper the pain.

But that, too, was a turning away, into emptiness, into numbness. There was a better choice at hand. I’ll gladly trade choice for destiny and purpose, Daniel had said. Better still to choose destiny and purpose, to negate the tail-chasing pointlessness with a summary act of will. The moral act was the same in either conception of the world. A quiet life ending in a quiet death was a song sung in silence. To have meaning, it had to be heard.

In that light, the choice was easy, inevitable. Mercifully, there was still a chance to choose. He would go home and apply what tools he had to rebuild his family and rehearse his song. There was time for a child, for the treasures of his father’s world. And then, Gaea willing, he would join Daniel on Knossos in the first breath of the new century.

The phone in Deryn’s apartment was a simple videocom, barely smarter than an interactive TV, meant only for local messaging. To call out required the help of a tech in the Sanctuary communications center, which required in turn the permission of both Deryn and the station censor. And though Deryn left him alone with her blessing once the arrangements were complete, the censor remained on the line.

He had been off-net long enough that skylink greeted him with almost effusive cheeriness and a subscriber-update menu when he signed in. There were a dozen messages waiting, including blue-bar mail from Loi, Daniel, and the Vernonia District of the Oregon State Police. “Too many to wade through now,” he murmured. “Give me Loi’s.”

It was so long since Christopher had seen her face that he almost failed to listen, savoring the sight of her.

“I got your message, Christopher. I’m sorry so much has come down on you,” she said. “Take what time you need and do what you need to do. Come home when you can.” There was some tenderness in her tone, if not in the words.

He smiled to himself. “Call reply,” he said.

A dozen or so seconds later, Loi’s face returned to the screen. She was tousled and raccoon-eyed, and a beautiful sight.

“Hello, Loi.”

“Christopher?” She squinted off-screen. “Prodigal lover, it’s after four in the morning.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Never mind. Bad manners to do it, worse to complain. Where are you? How are you?”

“On Sanctuary. I didn’t think about the time difference. I’m not even sure what standard we’re on.”

She did not seem to need any explanation about his whereabouts. “Chris, this is showing a conference call. Who else is on?”

“The station censor. Probably being looped, too—I don’t know if this lag is normal.”

“Special treatment?”

“Not that I know of,” he said. “I’ve missed you, Loi.”

“The house has been empty. Jessie moved out this weekend.”

“She went to John’s?”

Loi nodded, then rubbed an eye. “Kia was here last night, but mostly I’m alone here now. Are you coming back soon?”

“Tomorrow, I think. I haven’t talked to the Entry staff about openings on the shuttle yet. And I may have to borrow a nickel or two for the fare.”

“It’d be worth a nickel or two to have you back,” she said. “Let me know. Chris, have you been avoiding Daniel Keith?”

“Why?”

“He came by the house tonight, late, wondering if I knew how to reach you. He said he had to reach you before seven tomorrow morning. I mean this morning. He must not think me very bright, because he said it three times.”

“Everyone’s off-net up here. You need special permission just to order out for nachos,” Christopher said. “I’m surprised that Daniel tried to get me, though.”

“You’ve been popular with the oddest people. The Oregon State Police called. A lawyer in Portland. Roger Marshall even asked about you.”

“Who’s Roger Marshall?”

“The L.A. developer. He called to talk over a commission for the lobby of Daley Tower. He said he was sorry to hear about your father, wondered how you were doing.”

“I’ll be damned,” Christopher said. “How did he hear about that? Unless they moved faster than I thought—Loi, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to find out what this means, and this phone can only do one thing at a time.”

“You’re still in trouble, aren’t you, Chris?”

“Some. It’ll all sort out. Maybe it already has.”

She knew the optimism was misplaced. “I have a lot of friends. Come on back and let’s fight it together.”

“I like that idea,” he said. “I like it so much I had it myself a few hours ago. Look, when did this Marshall call?”

“Ah—Friday. Three days ago. Chris, I think you’d better talk to Daniel first. It’s almost five o’clock. And he seemed upset. Angry might be a better word.”

“Do you know what he was upset about?”

“No. If I was going to guess, I’d say it had something to do with what happened to Memphis.”

A chill touch prickled the skin on the back of Christopher’s neck. “What happened to Memphis!”

“You don’t know?” Her expression turned grave. “Homeworld hit it with some kind of missile yesterday morning. A hundred and six dead, twenty percent destroyed, two-to-three-year delay, according to some reports. Some are saying she’ll never leave.”

It was there on all the services, just as Loi had described, complete with Takara-supplied pictures of twisted metal and construction plastic. The list of the dead had not been released yet, but the reports showed their bagged bodies stacking up in Takara’s medical stations.

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” he breathed to himself, angry tears welling as he watched. “Not Memphis. Why couldn’t you have just let them go? Why couldn’t you have just let her be?”

With a full day already passed since the event, the live coverage had deteriorated into talking heads debating in a vacuum. No reporters had been admitted to Takara, Memphis had been turned away from prying eyes, and the flow of information from Prainha had tightened down to a trickle. That helped Christopher escape becoming a prisoner of the screen.

“Did you pick this story up for local use?” he asked the censor.

“They did two hours on it yesterday morning.”

While I was still on vacation, he thought.

Time was slipping away, but he was not ready to face Keith, knowing what he must be thinking. Instead, Christopher went back to the mail stack and tried to focus on problems he could touch, and to answer a nagging question raised by his talk with Loi.

The first message from the Oregon State Police informed him that there’d been a fire on the ridge, that his father could not be located, and would he contact Detective Brooks with any information he might have? The second, the one with the receipt tag, was only a day old, and a bit more terse. An investigation into William McCutcheon’s disappearance had begun, and Christopher’s participation was considered crucial—would he please make himself available within the next forty-eight hours to answer questions?

But still no fugitive warrant or grand-jury subpoena, which meant no body. Which meant no way for Marshall to know that William McCutcheon was dead—except hearing it from either Allied or Homeworld.

Christopher could not tap DIANNA from orbit, and he was not welcome in Sanctuary’s library, which probably didn’t contain the data he needed in any case. But he sent a query through to Codex, a subscription information service, and had an answer in a few minutes: Roger Marshall was a member of the Diaspora advisory committee.

Surprised as he was by that discovery, it explained plainly enough how Marshall knew. But the rest of it made no sense. Was there some kind of message in Marshall calling Loi? An apology? A confession? Or just a bit of carelessness? Christopher could not make the picture come together.

The clock caught his eye, warning him that he was running out of time to reach Keith. Keith’s message gave him a clue what to expect: It was short and foul, beginning with “You shit-mouthed son of a bitch—” and going downhill from there. It was time-stamped several hours before Loi would have seen him; Keith’s emotions had apparently cooled, though his judgments had likely hardened at the same time.

In the end, Christopher could not let those judgments stand unchallenged. He was surprised to find Keith on the move, in his flyer rather than his bed. But Keith’s cold tone and hard words were no surprise. “Fag off. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Fine. Just listen. This is the truth: I only just heard about Memphis. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Do you think I’m that big an idiot? You don’t get another chance.”

“How many ways can I say it? I feel sick about Memphis. I didn’t do it, I didn’t know about it, and I didn’t want it to happen.”

“This is Dan Keith you’re talking to. I know you, remember? Sorry. Your eleventh-hour conversion fails to convince.”

“Daniel, I know where the last verse of ‘Caravan’ came from now. And it wasn’t a lie.”

That slowed him—Keith blinked confusedly. “What do you mean?”

“Daniel, read my lips: I didn’t do it.”

A blank stare turned to a hateful glare. “You did it to me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They’re not taking me. They’re not taking me, and it’s your goddamned fault. Because of your fucking father. Because I thought friendship fucking counted for something. They’re not taking me, do you understand? Because of you I’ve got to stay here.” The flyer beeped an out-of-lane alarm at Keith, and he slammed his palm against the dash. “Shut up!”

“What are you talking about? Memphis isn’t going anywhere. And you weren’t going on Memphis in the first place.”

“Fuck it,” he said sullenly.

Christopher did not understand what had just happened. “I’m coming back to Houston tomorrow. If you’re in trouble because of me, I want to help.”

“You, help me?” Keith’s snicker was nasty.

“I haven’t done anything against the Project. Not one thing,” Christopher said. “But they’ve done to me. They killed my father and stole his body. They took away my job, screwed up my career, and helped me screw up my family—not that I needed much help in that department. And do you know what? I still want them to make it.

“They were wrong to be afraid of me. I was wrong to duck my tail and run. That’s over. I’m coming back, and I’m going to stand toe-to-toe with Dryke or anyone else I have to until reality sinks in. And if I need to scrap for you at the same time, I will.”

Keith was silent, his eyes on the road.

“What’s going on, Daniel? Why are you up at this hour of the morning?”

When Keith finally spoke again, his voice was muted. “I don’t know why the hell I believe you,” he said. “I must be as big an idiot as they make, I guess.”

“Sorry. The line forms behind me.”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you anything,” Keith said, rubbing his cheek roughly. “There isn’t anything you can do to help me. And there won’t be anyone here to talk to by the time you arrive.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re shutting down the training centers. All the small fry are being let go. They’re sending half the talent to Prainha, including me. The other half—four hundred people—is going up to Memphis. They’ve been flying out all night. You can guess why we’re needed in Prainha—they’re shipping people upstairs, too.”

“Why?”

Keith turned his head away to the right and drew a ragged breath. “Vincenza told the press that we’re sending technicians and engineers to help with the reconstruction, management to inspect the damage. That’s bullshit. I know the list. It’s the fraternity. And I can’t get anyone to admit it, but I know they’re not coming back.”

“That’s crazy. Where can they go?”

Keith’s gaze was faraway and sad. “Tau Ceti.”

Christopher gaped. “In what?”

“You really don’t know, do you?” Keith said, turning back. “Memphis isn’t hurt. Not that badly. But they’re not going to take any more chances. They’re going to move her. Everyone knows that. The only question is how far. I think they’re going to load her up and light her up the first chance they can, and not look back.” His mouth twisted into an acerbic smile. “That’s what I’d do, if I was Sasaki. And she’s at least as bright as I am.”

His own future vanishing with his friend’s, Christopher found himself hollow and numb. “Why are you going to Prainha?” he asked finally.

“Because I’m like you. I want them to make it no matter what they do to me,” he said. “I’m almost to the gate, Chris. I can’t stay on.”

“Wait—how’s the Houston staff getting to Memphis?’”

“Through Technica, I think. On the big bus. Jesus, Chris, you’re not going to try—you don’t think you’ll get near them, do you?”

“Why not? How many stowaways on Ur?”

“Sixteen. Trust me, they all had better plans than this.”

“Things are going to be crazy on Technica and Memphis both. It’s the last days of Saigon, man. And I think I ought to be able to pass myself off as a Project archie, don’t you?”

A long hesitation. “No,” Keith said. “Too many people from here know about you and Jeremiah.”

“Then—”

“Shut up. The Munich people are going through Horizon,” Keith continued. “You’ll have a better chance there, as a Houston staffer caught away from the center when the orders came through.”

Christopher had run out of words. “Thanks. You didn’t owe me that.”

“I know,” Keith said. “I said a better chance. Your chances are still piss-poor. Do me a favor, will you? Try not to let me find out if you make it. I want to be able to think it came out either way, depending on my mood.”

“Sure,” said Christopher, his throat hot.

“I’m up. Time to go. Have a life, huh?”

“I’ll try. Better days—my friend.”

“Fuck you very much.”

Christopher didn’t know how long he sat there, wet-eyed and stiff-backed, after the phone blanked. He had prepared himself for a marathon, but the only race open to him was a sprint. Last call, everyone in the blocks. But his feet, like his thoughts, were churning in mud.

Ready to go?

Not.

Gun in the air—

Wait!

But the starter paid no heed. The race was on. He had to start moving or walk away, disappear into the tunnel.

I have to get to Horizon.

That was almost an executable thought. The missing operand was Deryn. Without her permission or presence, he seemed to be able to do nothing on Sanctuary.

Where did Deryn say she was going?

Sanctuary’s infuriating phone net had no way to call persons, only places. He called all eight schools, harangued the net operator, even went to the door and called for her down Summer Corridor. Finally, out of desperation, he called Anna X.

“McCutcheon,” she said. “Your timing is very good. I was about to send someone for you.”

“I have to find Deryn. Do you know where she is?”

“No. Do you remember the way to my Circle Room?”

“Where we had our meeting? Yes.”

“Then come here, please. As quickly as you can.”

“With no escort?”

“There is a man named Mikhail Dryke in Entry, with several armed and armored friends, suggesting that we turn you over to him. I thought you might like to be involved in the decision.”

Christopher ran, ignoring the startled stares.

There were six goons in Entry and who knew how many more on the twenty-four-seat Transorbital shuttle docked to tunnel 2. As near as could be told from the monitors, they were carrying splatterguns and shockboxes, both of which could be safely used inside a pressurized space, though there’d been no shooting so far. In all probability, they also carried enough cutters and shape charges to come through the bulkheads and locked doors which presently contained them.

Shelter had been emptied and sealed without incident, but two Entry staffers were still at the main desk, keeping Dryke and his men company. They were not exactly hostages, since discussions were still technically polite, with no hard refusals or locked doors yet tested. But the women’s position was tenuous and their presence was a complication.

“This is the man who killed your father?” asked Anna X.

“Yes,” Christopher said, studying the monitor with hard eyes. “Are you going to give me to him?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No,” Christopher said, shaking his head. “I have to get to Horizon.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t think he means to allow that.”

“Have you admitted I’m here?”

“We are still discussing technical issues—the validity of his police powers, the status of our agreements with Brazil and Kenya, certification of his warrants—”

“He has warrants this time?”

“Conspiracy and unlawful flight. Purely ceremonial. This is not a question of law. The paperwork is to keep up appearances. The real warrants are his soldiers and the weapons they carry.”

Someone had found Deryn at last, and she came into the room at that moment. “Dryke,” Christopher said to her, gesturing at the screen.

Looking up at Dryke and then at Christopher, Deryn sat down beside Anna X on the open end of the bench. “Are you going to surrender Christopher?”

“I would rather not.”

It was welcome news to Christopher. But there were others in the room, all of whom had dropped into sullen silence when he arrived. Now one spoke up.

“Shelter was meant for women, not for cocks,” she said. “Why are we risking our home for him? It’s not our fight.”

The object of the objection was unmoved. “I would not like it said that either Sanctuary or Anna X can be threatened.”

“Here come the certifications,” called a woman across the room, looking down at a comsole.

Anna X did not stir from her seat. “We’ll take some time to study them, I think.”

“Is there any other way off the station?” asked Christopher.

“Yes. Two ways. They control the passenger side of the hub, but not the freight side. And there is a small slug freighter there. There are also emergency boats, of course.”

“Can either reach Horizon?”

“Either can.”

“Can either reach Memphis?”

Several eyebrows went up.

“No,” Anna X said.

Christopher looked at the docking monitor. The blue and red Transorbital shuttle was clearly visible, anchored to the slender pylon which projected from Sanctuary like the axle from a bicycle wheel. The white docking tunnel angled up to it from the half-gee Entry ring at a forty-degree angle, like a flight of covered stairs. “Can you keep Dryke from leaving?”

She nodded slowly, acknowledgment but not encouragement. “Dryke and the men inside, yes. His shuttle, no.” She smiled faintly. “Run, fight, surrender—all three are possible. As you see, none are attractive. Do you have a preference? Or a solution?”

“Anna,” Deryn said sharply, looking up at the main screen.

The two women were no longer behind the desk. Two of Dryke’s soldiers had them in hand and were walking them briskly across the floor to the opening of tunnel 2, at the end of which lay Dryke’s shuttle.

“Idiot,” Anna X muttered. “Trionna—cut the shuttle loose. Seal the lock.”

On the docking monitor, Christopher saw a smoke-ring puff blow outward from the oval tunnel just a half meter from where it was attached to the shuttle. Between the inner and outer locks, Christopher thought, remembering his own arrival. The tunnel was flexing and shaking in long, wavelike undulations from the jolt and the flying load of the four people inside it. Meanwhile, the shuttle had drifted a few meters from the pylon, trailing the stub end of the tunnel from its main port.

Long moments later, the four reappeared in Entry, the soldiers looking more shaken than the staff. An angry Dryke ordered the women to sit on the floor, their faces to a wall, and then turned toward the nearest camera.

“Anna X, I assume that you can hear me—”

Anna X signaled to a technician with her hand. “You’re an impatient man, Mr. Dryke,” she interrupted. “Neither quality is a virtue here.”

“I want Christopher McCutcheon. It’s a simple thing. You have enough documentation to satisfy any conscience you may have. Are you going to give him to me?”

“Mr. McCutcheon is not a possession to be given away. He is a person. He petitioned for Shelter, which was granted. And Sanctuary has never given up a Sheltered person on the demand of any authority.”

“Then you must feel safer than you are,” Dryke answered. “Don’t make this a test of strength. I’m not leaving without him.”

Anna X’s back was up. “Do you think that Sanctuary is a huddle of helpless women? Do you think—”

“Is two enough to make a huddle? Because there are two women here with me who don’t seem particularly powerful at the moment. Two citizens of Sanctuary, I suspect—not visitors. I imagine you can play with the pressure and the lights and the heat and maybe even gas the whole section anytime you please. I just think you should know what will happen if you do. How often have you sacrificed Sanctuary citizens for a male criminal? Would you like to put that question to a plebiscite? I’ll be happy to wait.”

“I know how a community aspiring to your ethics would vote,” Anna X said. “Christopher doesn’t have to fear that from us.”

But looking at the faces around him, Christopher was less certain than Anna X sounded.

“Really. There’s only one reason I can think of that’d account for that—”

“Then you have a sadly stunted imagination.”

“—which is that he isn’t just a visitor, after all. Maybe he’s a friend. Hell, let’s think creatively—maybe he’s not even a he. What about that, Anna? Things aren’t always what they seem, are they? Should we come take a look in your records under Homeworld? Should we look in them for Jeremiah?”

“Off,” said Anna X tersely. “Self-important bastard—is the freighter ready?”

“Yes—on one-minute hold.”

“We’ll use it as a decoy. Send it toward Hanif. Then prepare boat 5 for launch to Horizon—”

“No,” Christopher said, stepping forward. “Stop.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“He won’t send the shuttle after the freighter. He’ll destroy it if he has a way. And he’ll have a way. He won’t have come up here without being ready to deal with me if I ran.”

“I don’t want to give you to him.”

“He doesn’t want that, either. I only just realized.”

“Explain.”

“I think he wants an excuse to come in here. He’d rather have a chance to ‘accidentally’ kill me, with pawing through your records as a bonus. That’s why he’s baiting you. This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Have you a suggestion? Or a choice?”

“We’re dealing with the wrong person.”

“Explain.”

“It would take too long. Let me talk to Dryke. I think I can get us better terms.”

She studied him skeptically, then vacated her seat for him, standing off to one side. “Are you ready?” He nodded. She stepped back, out of camera, and gave the signal.

Dryke had been having his own side conversation. When he looked up, a mild flicker of surprise crossed his face. “So you are here, after all,” he said.

“Shut up,” Christopher said. “I want to talk to the Director. Conference, three-way, full video. You, me, and her. You can arrange it, or we can put out the call on Aurora Freenet, all hundred thousand watts’ worth.” He saw Anna X’s eyes widen. “You decide. Thirty seconds.”

“No.”

“Bad choice. Because if I don’t talk to Sasaki, Freenet is going to start broadcasting everything we know about the Chi Sequence and Memphis. Which is quite a lot.”

Dryke’s expression did not change. “What the hell is that to me? Just come out, McCutcheon. It’ll be a lot easier to clean up around here if you do.”

Christopher tried to keep the surprise off his face. Dryke didn’t know. Dryke doesn’t know. For just that moment, Christopher’s confidence wavered. Mother of Gaea, if I’m wrong—

“You’d better check with the Director and see if she cares,” he said weakly.

“I’m not playing the game, McCutcheon. You’ve got nothing to bargain with.”

“You’re a chump, Dryke, d’you know that? A first-class no-brain chump. You don’t know what this is all about. You don’t know what you’re defending. You don’t even know what you’re fighting.”

“You’re not earning any points, McCutcheon.”

“You couldn’t keep count if I was,” Christopher said. “The hell with you. We’re taking it to the air.”

“We’re already on the air,” Anna X said.

Christopher shot her a surprised sideways glance, and then a pleased smile. “My name is Christopher McCutcheon,” he said, looking straight into the camera. “My father was Jeremiah, of the Homeworld. The first reason that I’m here is to tell you that he’s dead.”

He swallowed, dropped his eyes for a moment, and then drew in a breath to proceed. “He’s dead now, but I’m still learning from what he taught me. You have something to learn, too. That’s the other reason I’m here—to tell you a story. It’s a story about a great river and the animals who explored it. The river is called Time and Destiny and God. The animals have many names, including Man.

“So you’re part of the story, and so am I. It’s a story about where we came from and where we’re going. It’s all of our stories, from before the beginning of history, all wrapped in one. Because it’s the story of who we are. Some of you won’t like the ending—I’ll warn you about that now—”

“Christopher?” interrupted one of the women. “Someone heard you. It’s Hiroko Sasaki.”

“Switch,” he said. “Director? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Christopher. I hope you can hear me, as well. Mikhail, are you listening?”

“Here, Director.” From his expression, he was eating his face off from the inside.

“Very well. Christopher, what is it that you want?”

“I want to see you. I want the truth about the Chi Sequence and Memphis.”

“Nothing more?”

His chest rose and fell with several breaths before he knew his answer. “There’s more, but it will keep until I see you.”

She nodded. “Mikhail.”

“Yes, Director.”

“If he ends his broadcast now, bring him to me.”

All eyes in the room were on Christopher. He sought out Deryn’s with his own.

“It’s a good beginning,” she said, answering the question in his look. “And I know how to finish it. If you can’t, I’ll tell the story, when the time is right.”

He nodded. That was enough. “I’d like a promise of safe conduct from Mr. Dryke,” he said to Sasaki.

A moment later, he had the promise. He hugged Deryn and thanked Anna X, then turned and left, his steps curiously light. Alone, he climbed up to Entry and walked out through the door of Shelter 24 with his shoulders straight and his head high. As he did, the two staff women rushed by him, escaping into the safety of Sanctuary.

“You don’t have it yet,” Dryke said, glaring across the room.

“Wrong,” Christopher said. “I always had it. I was just the last to know.”

Christopher did not try to talk to Dryke in the shuttle, not even to ask where they were headed. Instead, he thought about the questions he wanted to ask Sasaki. There were fewer than he would have expected. Confirmation, correction, validation— those he still needed. But the unknown detail was irrelevant. The synthesis embodied the detail. The general implied the specific.

The flight was long even in objective terms, long enough that it could have only one destination. Finally, they docked at a satland which, from the glimpse Christopher got through the pilot’s port and the kanji signage in the transfer chute, could only be Takara.

“The Director’s on Memphis!” Christopher asked, turning as he walked and throwing the question back over his shoulder to Dryke. Dryke’s only answer was a straight-arm, flat-palm shot to the middle of Christopher’s back, shoving him forward.

Dryke and two of the soldiers escorted Christopher to a med station, where he was stripped, scanned, sampled, searched inside and out, and, finally, given new clothes—a rigger’s pajamalike skinsides. He endured the exercise stoically, refusing the humiliation he might have felt.

Then he was bustled aboard another spacecraft, this one cavernous and buslike, with low, extra-wide seats that were actually uncomfortable without the work suits they had apparently been designed for. Their party of four was scattered among the forty seats—Christopher and Dryke at opposite sides of a middle row, the soldiers at opposite ends of the center aisle.

As on the shuttle, Dryke never took his right hand off his shockbox or his eyes off Christopher. The level, unflinching gaze had in it something of a carrion bird’s hopefulness and something of a timber wolfs watchfulness.

For the most part, Christopher ignored him. All of his surroundings were new, and he managed enough curiosity about them to divert himself by attending to the novelty. But he could not stop his mind from thinking, from trying to weave in the last few threads. And one of those threads involved the security of Memphis, which meant it involved Mikhail Dryke. It was hard to offer anything, even a thought, to the man who had shot down his father. But Sasaki might not be the best to face the question he wanted to ask.

“Is Roger Marshall coming up to Memphis, too?”

Dryke’s gaze never wavered, and his expression never changed.

“He never went through Selection, you know.”

Still there was no response.

“I hear that a lot of people are going to be on Memphis who never went through Selection or Training. If Marshall’s one of them, you might want to pay attention to whether his freight gets here before him. And if it does, you might want to make sure it gets the ‘A’ inspection—the kind you’d give something belonging to me.”

Almost five minutes passed in silence.

“Why?” Dryke said, as though a complicated equation had ground through his mind without generating a solution.

“Because I’m not the new Jeremiah—which means that someone else is.”

Another long silence. Christopher understood that it was as hard for Dryke to accept anything from Christopher as it was for him to offer it.

“Why Marshall?” Dryke asked finally.

“Do you know a good reason why he would call my home and wonder to Loi how I was dealing with my father’s death?”

“Do you?”

“Maybe. It was two days after I disappeared, and two days before the attack on Memphis. Maybe he’d lost track of me and needed to make sure I wasn’t on board somehow.”

“Why?”

“Because of a promise to my father.”

Dryke looked away, raising a hand to scratch the bridge of his nose. “A lot of maybes.”

“Then he is coming,” Christopher said.

The gaze firmed and found Christopher again.

“Has it occurred to you that the attack on Memphis was a successful one, after all?” Christopher asked. “The real damage was done to security. This panic plan puts hundreds of people on the ship who would otherwise never have gotten there, apparently including Marshall. And I’m guessing it overwhelms your normal screening procedures, too. Are you streamlining things to get people processed faster? Giving anyone a pass? Top management? The committee? Roger Marshall? Don’t answer, I can’t do anything with the information. Just questions.”

Something had awakened in Dryke’s eyes. His head tipped back slightly, and he stared at Christopher with something closer to—fear?

One last card. “Tell me—Marshall wasn’t involved in drawing up this plan, was he?”

There was a suspended moment, in which Christopher could almost see the picture in his mind replicating itself in Dryke’s. Then there was a bump as they docked with Memphis, and the all-clear tone.

This time, Dryke preceded him down the aisle. He seemed to be in a hurry.

The suite in which Sasaki received him was neither large nor grand, but it bore a stamp. A pale-tinted hanging scroll sandwiched in translute was strung between ceiling and floor as a room divider; in lighted display recesses on the wall were a bronze horse, a gleaming metal-paper origami of a dragon in flight, and a deep-rubbed mahogany Buddah, surrounded by flowers and candles, smiling within at some untold amusement.

Other recesses were empty, but there were two trunklike shipping casks stacked in a corner of the outer room. Furniture seemed sparse until Sasaki showed him a pair of facing chairs that slid out from an inner wall as though they were drawers. She settled in one and invited him to the other with an open hand. She was smaller than he had expected, and braver—they were alone, Sasaki having sent his escorts back.

“You said that you wanted the truth,” she said. “Are you equal to it?”

“How do you know, before you’re tested?”

She nodded. “A good answer. Ask your questions.”

“Is Memphis ready for space?”

“It will be, very shortly.”

“When are you leaving?”

“From Takara, a matter of days. For Tau Ceti, a matter of a few weeks. We will go out for our certification flight with full crew and manifest. If the systems are sound, we will not turn back at Pluto.”

“Who will be governor?”

She smiled slightly. “That duty will be mine, for now.”

“And what happens here? Who takes over? Or will there be anything to take over?”

“No,” she said. “This is the end of the Diaspora, as we have suspected for some time it would be. After Memphis sails, the Project will fall into bankruptcy. But the vultures will find very little meat on the bones. The money is all here, in Memphis and Ur. We have bought two starships for the price of five. Many promises will be broken, and many bills left unpaid. Not even Allied has ever seen an honest accounting.”

“Why that way?”

“Because it was time. Because it was the only way the flower would blossom,” she said.

Dryke joined them then, entering the suite quietly and standing with crossed arms beside the hanging scroll. Sasaki looked up past Christopher with a questioning glance.

“Marshall missed his flight from LAX,” Dryke said. “He apologizes and says he has to have more time to wrap up business. His personals didn’t miss their flight. I had the casks pulled out of the line on Technica and checked. The one that was supposed to be art and books was two hundred and eighty kilos of underwater explosives.”

Christopher closed his eyes, the rush of relief carrying away the strength from his limbs.

“I should have wondered why a man like that wanted to go,” Dryke said.

“Sometimes perfection is found in the result, not in the method,” Sasaki said. “And sometimes perfection is only possible in thought.” She looked to Christopher. “Now a question for you,” she said. “Do you want to come on Memphis?”

Her words encircled his heart and tightened until he could hardly breathe. “Yes.”

“Why?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. The reasons were all turned around inside each other, connected at odd places, sometimes not connected at all. His motives were all suspect, shallow, trivial—or else so deep and fundamental that he could not wrap sentences around them. “I don’t know,” he said at last.

To his surprise, Sasaki smiled warmly. “Then come.”

He drew a hard breath. “No,” he said. “I can’t.”

“Explain?”

“There’s someone else who belongs here before I do. A friend. Daniel Keith. He works in Selection—a BC-positive. He’d be up here now if it wasn’t for me.” He was fighting with tears. “If you’re going to give me a discretionary space, I—you have to let me give it to him.”

She was studying him closely. “Mikhail, do you know anything about this?”

“Keith was on the list,” he said. “He was sent to Prainha because of contact with Christopher. He’s under arrest there.”

“He was clear except for his friendship with this man?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, looking into Christopher’s eyes. “You don’t know how extraordinary I find it that you would give up your place to your friend.”

“I made him a promise.”

“Even so, that would be rare selflessness, even here.” She sat forward in her chair. “I think that we can find two places as easily as one.”

A shuddery sob escaped through the smile that sprang onto Christopher’s face. He pressed his palms together almost as though praying, and puffed away the rush of discordant emotion in hoarse breaths.

Rising, she smiled and touched his shoulder. “I will give you some time. Then there will be much more to say.”

He twisted in his chair as she started away. “You had me tested for the Chi Sequence. On Takara. Didn’t you?”

“That was the question I expected first,” she said. “Yes.”

“What am I?”

“Young,” she said. “But you will grow.” Guiding Dryke ahead of her, she started again for the door.

Christopher stood and called after them. “That’s not enough,” he said.

She turned and looked back. “Most of those who will make this trip will know no more.”

Shaking his head, he said, “I still need to know—do I belong here?”

Her gaze appraised him. “Not if you still need that question answered by me.”

He considered that for a long time, then laughed a little laugh, the joke a silent secret. “No. I suppose I don’t. But did any of us really have a choice? Did you?”

“No,” she said. “And still, I did what I wanted.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you know T. E. Lawrence?”

“A little.”

“The epigraph from Seven Pillars.” She quoted, “ ‘I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands and wrote my will across the sky in stars, to earn you Freedom—’ ”

“Yes,” Christopher said, throat suddenly tight, thinking not of Lawrence, nor of Sasaki. “I have one more question.”

She waited.

“For him,” Christopher said, looking at Dryke.

Dryke met his gaze with a look absent of apology—which, for the first time, Christopher could accept. “What?”

“Where is my father?”

There was only the briefest hesitation. “Where we found him.”

Eleven days later, fulfilling a promise by Sasaki, an Allied screamer took Christopher down to the ridge.

It promised to be his last hour on Earth, and he had hoped Loi could meet him there and share it. He had envisioned a tidy closure—fierce, fervent hugs, murmured I love you’s, blessings and forgiveness. But it was not to be. The day before, when he called her to ask, he found her half a world away in Osaka, promoting a new timesculpt, arranging for an exhibition. She could not get away.

Her regret seemed sincere, but he could not tell her that there would be no more chances. She already knew he was leaving— he had been transferring his libraries up from the housecom all week, and a Project gofer had been by to retrieve Claudia and his other possessions. He was moving on, and so was Loi, and if it was not tidy, it was still going to be all right, in time.

Just as it was somehow right that he had ended up coming to the ridge alone.

Overhead, clouds like black lace curled down to form a dome. The house was little more than ashes, and the ashes were already dotted with green fronds. Christopher moved slowly across the charred foundation, marking where each room had been, toeing the ashes here and there but finding nothing he recognized, much less anything he wanted. Hands buried in his pockets, he wandered a short way into the woods, drawing in the familiar scents, looking skyward into the crown and watching the firs dance their slow dance in the wind, listening to the delicate sound dead needles made falling to the soft carpet of the forest floor.

Then it was time to do what he had come there to do.

The grave marker had been made on Takara, formed of the compacted lunar soil used as satland shielding, etched with energy captured from the Sun. In silence, Christopher carried the heavy tablet from the screamer and placed it in the wet ashes above his father’s tomb.

JEREMIAH MCCUTCHEON, it said.

Non Omnis Moriar.

“Good-bye,” said Christopher. And as the rain began and his tears ran, Loi, his father and the verdant hills all released him with their blessing.

UAG STOP