Michael Kube-McDowell - The Quiet Pools

“Nothing received, sir.”

“What has Sasaki said about it? Or about Malena Graham?”

“Nothing received, sir.”

“Is the interrupt still ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring up the translator and animator and give me a countdown,” he said.

“Yes, sir. Translator up. Converter up. Counting down: five-four—”

“This is Jeremiah, speaking for the Homeworld.”

The anger was still bubbling within him, and he welcomed it.

“My heart aches this day for those who knew and loved Malena Graham. Her death was brutal and tragic. But the greatest pain must be the knowledge that her death was unnecessary.

“Who is to blame for what befell Malena Graham? I have been accused. But my goal from the first has been to dissuade—not destroy. I love this world and all its creatures, mankind most of all.

“Who, then? Her parents, for failing to control her? Evan Silverman, for succumbing to the hate that filled him? Hiroko Sasaki, for dangling the universe before a naive girl? Or Malena herself, for the choices she freely made?

“As every parent can witness to, life is a journey from dependence to rebellion to responsibility. Every parent knows that their child will have to face temptations and make difficult choices. You want them to choose well.

“But how do they learn to choose well? They learn from the rules imposed on them from the beginning. If the rules are too strict, what they learn is to escape. And they learn from the examples that surround them. We are sometimes surprised to discover that they have learned more from our example than our words.

“Did Malena Graham choose well? She forsook her family for strangers, the richness of a vast bountiful world for the closed spaces of a tiny metal shell.

“Her father has called her a runaway. But what was she fleeing? Was she abused and belittled? No. We can see that she was loved and nurtured. Was she bitter and unhappy? We are told that she was vibrant and joyful. Why, then, would she make such choices?

“The answer is that Malena Graham was a victim not of a murderer’s hand, but of a poisonous idea. An idea born in the harsh years of the great Repression, when the family of man turned cold in spirit as well as flesh. An idea as false and foolish as a ten-year-old’s notion that his problems will end if he only leaves home.

“Come with me to the stars , whispered the demon. Come with me to find a better place .

“Malena Graham listened. Many good people listened. They saw so much more clearly than we, or so they believed. They saw a burning Earth, an old and weary Earth, a sickly Earth. They saw disease-riddled bodies and fear-divided communities.

“And they dreamed a child’s fantasy of a magic land inhabited by the pure and the loving. A fantasy that became a crippling obsession, a roadblock on the way to responsibility.

“Who is responsible for Malena Graham’s death? We are all responsible—Evan Silverman perhaps least of all. Every one of us who thought the demon harmless. Every one of us who thought the fantasy amusing. Every one of us who failed to notice our children slipping away.

“Malena Graham is dead, but her death will have meaning if only we can read the warning in it. Malena Graham is gone, but there are nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine more tragedies that can still be averted.

“I say this to the family of Earth: When a child goes astray, a good parent will use a firm hand to bring them to heel. The greater the danger, the firmer our hand must be. We must speak the hard truths. We must set limits. Those who see must act, or those who are blind will stumble.

“I say this to the pioneers of Memphis : We have learned from our mistakes. The Earth is healing. The disease which divided us has been defeated. Now we will correct one last mistake, by saving you from yours. This day, I have struck at the heart of Memphis , in the most protected refuge of Allied Transcon. And I will strike again, and again, until the fantasy is shattered and the demon destroyed—because I love you.

“Listen to me: There are no other Edens. This Earth is all you need. You may not leave.”

It was the emptiest, loneliest night Christopher McCutcheon could remember.

Outside the house, a drenching winter rain was sweeping the dusty streets, the fat droplets beating against the windows when the wind gusted. Hiding out from the storm in their vehicles, two stalwart microcam crews, competing independents, waited at the mouth of the cul-de-sac, hoping Christopher would make an appearance or agree to an interview. It was a small mercy that there were only two—the morning after the concert, there had been eleven cameras waiting for him when he started for work.

The attrition was largely Allied’s doing. As part of its response to Malena’s murder, the company had gone to war with the media on his behalf. Management dispatched spin doctors and jackmen to divert their attention elsewhere, and loosed its attorneys to end the use of the bootleg concert recording (the source of which was still not known, though signs pointed toward Papa Wonders).

No doubt he was becoming old news, and soon even the last holdouts would lose interest. Still, he felt trapped. The house was at once the only place where he was guaranteed privacy and the last place he wanted to be.

Christopher knew, though it was no comfort, that his dilemma was largely self-created. He had squandered most of the compassion offered him in the wake of Tuesday’s horrors. Brittle-tempered and bitter-tongued at best, inconsolably self-hating at his worst, he had exhausted the sympathy of his friends by the end of the first day and the patience of his supervisor by the end of the second. She banished him from the complex late Thursday with orders to take the weekend off and see a staff facilitator when he returned Monday.

“You’re all turned inside out, Christopher, with the ugly parts on the outside and the good stuff tucked away,” was her blunt assessment. “Get your attitude adjusted and come back in tune, because I need you on task.”

The oddest part, looking back, was that he had known exactly what he was doing. As if he wanted to make them despise him as much as he despised himself. As if making them reject him would confirm his harshest judgments of himself and make him feel as miserable as he thought he ought to.

And he had succeeded. He was quite alone, and he had never felt quite so awful.

Jessie was somewhere in the city with John Fields, the fifth time in two weeks they had disappeared on a formal evening date. And Loi was in the moon room’s whirlpool with a new playmate, the lion-maned son of a Dallas client. From time to time, Christopher could hear the splash of water, a titter of laughter, from behind the privacy-opaqued glass door.

It should be me in there with her , he thought wistfully, wishfully. Could have been .

Loi had been home Tuesday night when Tidwell delivered him to the front door. She had seen him struggling with his conscience, witnessed the body blow as he learned that his name and music were linked to a bloody murder that was top of the queue on every net. She had offered him motherly consolation and caught the full force of a broadside of bile for her trouble. He had been too busy being unapproachable, unlovable, to accept the comforts she offered.

No, he could not blame her for leaving him to his own devices—though, in truth, neither could he quite forgive her.

Or himself, he realized. Or I wouldn’t be sitting here in the pit making myself listen to them play .

“Music,” he said.

“What kind of music?” asked the house AIP.