Michael Kube-McDowell - The Quiet Pools

Time to heal. But how much healing can I do when the blood is still running? How long can I live with this much pain ?

Waiting in his skimmer in the security check line at the south entrance to the compound, Christopher wondered if it wasn’t time to go back to riding the tram.

Ever since the Homeworld assault on the NASA Boulevard checkpoint, it had been more trouble than it was worth to try to bring a private vehicle through the relocated gate. Sentinel now took control of approaching vehicles the moment they crossed the security threshold, and the open-gate on-the-fly check had been replaced with a stop-and-go double-gate inspection. It was like putting a navigation lock on a busy river, with the predictable result—traffic was always backed up, no matter what the time of day.

But after last week’s concert, he had turned to the skimmer as a way of hiding from the media who followed him onto the tram. The nosy suspicion of the sentries was less of a nuisance than the nosy intrusion of the reporters. But the cul-de-sac had been empty that morning, miracle of miracles. If the miracle repeated itself tomorrow, he would leave the skimmer in the carport.

Presently, he was first in line, the outer gate opening for him. Sentinel eased the skimmer forward, then closed the outer gate behind it. At that point, Christopher was sealed in a square cell formed by the double gates and the flanking gatehouses.

Ordinarily, it took only a few seconds for the red-eyed laser to strobe the code plate on the skimmer, the bomb sniffers and telltales to pronounce it clean, the telescopic camera in the leftside gatehouse to scan Christopher’s face and check it against the hyper.

But this time, the kill-Q alarm came on, a sirenlike sound that startled Christopher. The skimmer settled to the ground, its lifters shut down. While he gaped in surprise, doors on both gatehouses yawned, and brown-uniformed guards hurried out through the openings. In seconds, Christopher found himself looking out at four hard expressions, four unslung assault rifles.

“Christopher McCutcheon”—he heard the words over the skimmer radio—“this is Captain Jackson of base security.” In truth, it was Sentinel; “Captain Jackson” was merely a stern-voiced AIP.

“Yes.”

“Please get out of your vehicle.”

Numbly, his face proclaiming his bewilderment, Christopher obeyed. As he did, a blue-striped Security flyer coasted to a stop beyond the inner gate, and one of the corpsecs stepped forward.

“Would you come with me to Building 100, sir?”

The inner gate opened a walk-through to the flyer, but stubbornness rooted Christopher’s feet. “What’s going on?”

“If you please, sir,” the corpsec said, nodding toward the flyer.

Reluctantly, and still without any conception of why he had failed the check, Christopher allowed himself to be bundled into the flyer and whisked off to Building 100—the security office. He only braved the obvious question once, not knowing if they could hear him, not knowing how to penetrate their professional distance. “What did I do?”

No one answered.

At Building 100, they left him waiting in the flyer, watched by more of the hard-eyed Corporate Security officers. Presently, a broad-shouldered man wearing a steel-gray jumpsuit emerged from the building and joined him in the flyer.

“Christopher McCutcheon?” the man said as the flyer lurched forward.

“Yes?”

“I’m Donald Lange, site security,” the man said. “You’re wanted at another location. I’m going to escort you.”

“Wanted where? For what?”

“I’ll tell you once we’re in the air.”

“In the air?” Christopher tried to shake his fog. “I don’t have any clothes.”

“That won’t be a problem,” said Lange.

They took him to a six-seat screamer already warming up on a taxiway. Christopher, Lange, and two corpsecs boarded. In less than five minutes, Houston was falling away behind them.

“Now can I know where we’re going?” asked Christopher, turning away from the small window.

In lieu of an answer, Lange turned his seat and locked it so that it faced Christopher. From the small case beside him, he retrieved a flip-flop slate and plugged it into the SkyLAN port on the right armrest. Finally, he placed a black-banded eyecup headset on his head, tugging the display down into place.

“Recorder on. Analyzer on. This is a contract compliance interview, clauses 29 and 33. Donald Lange, examiner. Christopher Alan McCutcheon, subject.”

Christopher’s mouth suddenly went dry, for he understood the references, if not the reason. Clause 29 was the Non-Disclosure section of his employment contract—a comprehensive collection of thou-shalt-nots Keith called the Twenty-nine Commandments. Clause 33 was the Corporate Property and Enterprise section—or, more simply, the theft and sabotage clause.

“This is about Malena Graham, isn’t it? It wasn’t my fault, I thought you knew that. I thought the company was on my side.”

“The purpose of this interview is to help determine whether grounds exist for termination, civil prosecution, or both,” Lange went on, ignoring the question. He was looking at the slate, and his words had a scripted ring. “Lying to an examiner, or refusing to answer, is itself sufficient for termination-for-cause, with forfeiture of the full probationary bond and all pension and insurance rights. Answer the questions as completely and truthfully as you can.”

“I want to know where we’re going,” said Christopher stubbornly.

Lange looked up. “You’re in a company aircraft, on company time, involved in company business. That should be enough for now.”

“To hell with your compliance interview. I resign,” Christopher said. “I want out of here.”

“You have a ten-day notice provision in your contract,” Lange said. “Sorry.”

“The hell—you kidnapped me, you son of a bitch.”

“Was force used against you? Were you threatened?”

“No—”

“Suspend,” said Lange. He flipped up the eyecup and leaned forward in his seat. “Look, if you want to cut your own throat, that’s fine with me. But if we’d already decided you were dirty, we’d just toss you. Answer the questions, and if you’re clean, you’ll be okay. As for where we’re going, Mr. Dryke, the head of security, wants to talk to you. But I can’t tell you where he is, or they’ll have me in that chair on the way back. So what’s it going to be?”

Christopher didn’t know how much of what Lange was saying he believed. Not many people came back from compliance interviews—a CCI notice looked a lot like a termination notice dressed up in due process.

But it would be hard enough finding a civilized position fresh from being fired by Allied Transcon. If he blew away the bond in the process, he’d be locked out of virtually all of the frontline openings. No one with a multimillion-dollar data investment to protect was going to let an unbonded librarian near a password.

And besides, he knew he was clean.

“I’m sorry,” Christopher said, his face pickling as he said the words. “Ask your questions.”

Lange nodded. “Resume.”

But Lange did not want to know about Malena.

That fact wasn’t immediately clear, because Lange started there. Had he ever met Malena Graham? Whom did he know in Nassau Bay? In Training? In Selection? Had he taught any tutorials to the Block 1 pioneers? How many times had he been to Wonders? What had he told Bill Wonders about his job? About Allied Transcon? About Malena Graham? What had he told Evan Silverman?

After every question, Lange would pause, as though reading the voice analyzer’s judgment in the eyecup display. Try as he might, Christopher could not read Lange’s face. His expression never changed, never betrayed what he was seeing.