Greg Bear - Darwin's Children

Kaye fixed on this so intensely her eyes crossed. “I tried to call her last week. They wouldn’t put me through.”

“The bastards,” Mitch said, his voice grating.

“Go help Eileen. But keep in touch. I really need to hear from you.”

“That’s good news.”

Kaye let her chin drop to her chest, and stretched out her legs. “I’m relaxing,” she said. “Listening to you relaxes me. Tell me what she looks like.”

“Sometimes she moves or acts or talks like you. Sometimes she reminds me of my father.”

“I noticed that years ago,” Kaye said.

“But she’s very much her own person, her own type,” Mitch said. “I wish we could run our own school, bring lots of kids together. I think that’s the only way Stella would be happy.”

“We were wrong to isolate her.”

“We didn’t have any choice.”

“Anyway, that’s not an issue now. Is she happy?”

“Maybe happier, but not exactly happy ,” Mitch said. “I’m calling on a landline now, but let me give you a new phone code.”

Kaye took up a pad and wrote down a string of numbers keyed to a book she still kept in her suitcase. “You think they’re still listening?”

“Of course. Hello, Ms. Browning, you there?”

“Not funny,” Kaye said. “I ran into Mark Augustine on Capitol Hill. That was…” It took her a few seconds to remember. “Yesterday. Sorry, I’m just tired.”

“What about him?”

“He seemed apologetic. Does that make sense?”

“He was busted to the ranks,” Mitch said. “He deserves to be apologetic.”

“Yeah. But something else…”

“You think the atmosphere is changing?”

“Browning was there, and she treated me like a Roman general standing over a dying Gaul.”

Mitch laughed.

“God, that is so good to hear,” Kaye said, tapping her pen on the message pad and drawing loops around the numbers, across the pad.

“Give me the word, Kaye. Just one word.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Kaye said, and sucked in a breath against the lump in her throat. “I hate it so much, being alone.”

“I know you’re on the right course,” Mitch said, and Kaye heard the reserve in his voice, filling in, even if it means leaving me outside.

“Maybe,” Kaye said. “But it is so hard.” She wanted to tell him about the other things, the imaging lab, chasing down her visitor, the caller, and finding nothing conclusive. But she remembered that Mitch had not reacted well to her attempts to talk about it on their last night together in the cabin.

She remembered as well the love-making, familiar and sweet and more than a little desperate. Her body warmed. “You know I want to be with you,” Kaye said.

“That’s my line.” Mitch’s voice was hopeful, fragile.

“You’ll be at Eileen’s site. It is a site, I assume?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“What do you think she’s found?”

“She’s not telling,” Mitch said.

“Where is it?”

“Can’t say. I get my final directions tomorrow.”

“She’s being more cagey than usual, isn’t she?”

“Yeah.” She heard Mitch moving, breathing into the handset. She could hear as well the wind blowing behind and around him, almost picture her man, rugged, tall, his head lit up by the dome light in the booth. If it was a booth. The phone might be next to a gas station or a restaurant.

“I can’t tell you how good this is,” Kaye said.

“Sure you can.”

“It is so good.”

“I should have called earlier. I just felt out of place or something.”

“I know.”

“Something’s changed, hasn’t it?”

“There’s not much more I can do at Americol. Showdown is tomorrow. Jackson actually dropped off his game plan today, he’s that cocky. They either listen to the truth or they ignore it. I want to… I’ll just fly out to see you. Save me a shovel.”

“You’ll get rough hands.”

“I love rough hands.”

“I believe in you, Kaye,” Mitch said. “You’ll do it. You’ll win.”

She did not know how to answer but her body quivered. Mitch murmured his love and Kaye returned his words, and then they cut off the connection.

Kaye sat for a moment in the warm yellow glow of the small living room, surveying the empty walls, the plain rented furniture, the stacks of white paper. “I’m imprinting,” she whispered. “Something says it loves me and believes in me but how can anything fill an empty shell?” She rephrased the question. “How can anyone or anything believe in an empty shell?”

Leaning her head back, she felt a tingling warmth. With some awe she realized she had not asked for help, yet help had arrived. Her needs—some of them, at least—had been answered.

At that, Kaye finally let down her emotions and began to weep. Still crying, she made up her bed, fixed herself a cup of hot chocolate, fluffed a pillow and set it against the headboard, disrobed and put on satin pajamas, then fetched a stack of reprints from the living room to read. The words blurred through her tears, and she could hardly keep her eyes open, but she needed to prepare for the next day. She needed to have all her armor on, all her facts straight.

For Stella. For Mitch.

When she could stand it no more and sleep was stealing the last of her thoughts, she ordered the light to turn off, rolled over in bed, and moved her lips, Thank you. I hope.

You are hope.

But she could not help asking one more question. Why are you doing this? Why talk to us at all?

She stared at the wall opposite the bed, then dropped her focus to the cover rising with her knees above the bed. Her eyes widened and her breath slowed. Through the shadowy grayness of the cover, Kaye seemed to look into an infinite and invisible fount. The fount poured forth something she could only describe as love , no other word was right, however inadequate it was; love never-ending and unconditional. Her heart thudded in her chest. For a moment, she was frightened—she could never deserve that love, never find its like again on this Earth.

Love without condition—without desire, direction, or any quality other than its purity.

“I don’t know what that means,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Kaye felt the vision, if that was what it was, withdraw and fade—not out of resentment or anger or disappointment, but just because it was time to end. It left a mellow, peaceful glow behind, like candles thick as stars behind her eyes.

The wonder of that, the awesome wonder, was too much for her. She laid her head back and stared into the darkness until she drifted off to sleep.

Almost immediately, it seemed, she dreamed of walking over a field of snow high in the mountains. It did not matter that she was lost and alone. She was going to meet someone wonderful.

OREGON

The high desert morning was warm and it was barely seven o’clock. Mitch walked across the motel parking lot, swung his bag into the battered old truck’s side seat and shielded his eyes against the sun over the low, gray eastern hills. An hour to the Spent River. Half an hour to the outlying camp. He had his instructions from Eileen, and one more warning: Don’t breathe a word to anyone. No students, no wives, no girlfriends, no dogs, no cats, no guinea pigs: Got it?

He got it.

He pulled out of the Motel 50 parking lot, scraping his bumper on the way. The old truck was on its last few thousand miles; it smelled of singed oil and was starting to cough blue smoke on the grades. Mitch loved big old trucks and cars. He would be sad to see the truck die.

The motel’s red sign grew tiny in his mirror. The road was straight and on either side lay rolling brown terrain daubed with greasewood and sage and low, stubby pines and an occasional sketchy line of fence posts, leaning and forlorn, the wire broken and coiled like old hair.