Michael Kube-McDowell - The Quiet Pools

But it was not hard to read the changing focus of the questions. What do you know about communications processing? Data storage structures? System security? Have you ever hacked a net to which you did not have legitimate access? Created a private gateway to a net on which you were working? Broken a transmission cipher? Designed a virus?

It was hard to answer some of the questions, and more than once Christopher’s hesitation showed. No systems jockey with any curiosity escaped technical adolescence without taking a look under the hood now and then, and he had enjoyed a perfectly healthy curiosity.

Before settling on data structures and information archaeology as his specialty, he had tried or mastered most of the hacker’s rites of passage—cracking private family files, remotely switching on a friend’s or neighbor’s or interesting girl’s videophone, sending “ghost” messages on the net. And he had used that knowledge more than once in his professional life to make an end run on an intractable systems administrator or a witless structures engineer.

Everyone did it. Everyone. But he hesitated, because he knew how the truth would sound to ears tuned to suspicion. And then he told the truth, because he knew that a lie would sound still worse.

Whether coincidence or not, from that point onward Lange started fishing for a confession. What do you think of Jeremiah? Are you a member of Homeworld? Do you know anyone who is a member? Do you know anyone who you think might be sympathetic to their cause? What about Bill Wonders? Loi Lindholm? Deryn Falconer? Daniel Keith? William McCutcheon?

Those questions Christopher fielded more easily. His opinions of Jeremiah were less than passionate, and a series of increasingly amused repetitions of “No” did for the rest. He did not try to tell Lange he was fishing in sterile waters.

Then, just as Christopher was beginning to feel comfortable, things took a nasty and surprising turn.

“How often did you discuss your work with your father?”

“Almost never,” Christopher said.

“What did your father want to know about your work?”

“As I just said—”

“You said you talked about your work sometimes. What did you talk about?”

“All he wanted to know is if I was happy with what I was doing, and if the work was going well.”

“On May 7, you traveled to Oregon and stayed two days at your father’s house. What was the purpose of your trip?”

Christopher allowed his incredulity to show. “A family visit.”

“Why?”

“Because he invited me. Don’t you ever go home?”

“What did he want to talk about that weekend?”

Christopher frowned. “The Twenty-ninth Amendment. Serai stages. The mean annual rainfall of northwest Oregon. We went hiking,” he added by way of explanation.

“Did you talk about Homeworld activities?”

“No.”

“In August, your housemate Loi Lindholm went to Europe for five days, visiting Brussels, Paris, and Geneva. Why did she make that trip?”

“August? Ah—she had a commission debut and went to some business-card kiss-and-snack parties,” said Christopher.

“What did she take there for you and whom did she deliver it to?”

“What?” His face wrinkled in puzzlement. “Nothing. Her trip didn’t have anything to do with me.”

Lange rolled on, undeterred. “Five times in November, your father left messages for you on your personal account. What instructions did he give you?”

“Wait a minute,” Christopher said warningly. “Wait just a minute. All that means is I didn’t want to talk to him.”

“But then you took a call from him at your workstation in Building 9. Was that because you needed to warn him about the Munich gateway?”

The picture suddenly snapped into focus, and Christopher stared at it with a collision of horror and helplessness, astonishment and rage. “What are you saying? Those are all just things that happened.” He clawed at the safety restraint, but it would not release him. “This is crazy! What are you saying?”

Lange sat back in his seat and watched Christopher’s futile struggle, listened, but was unmoved.

“I’m not saying anything,” he said lightly, pulling off the headset and closing the slate with one finger. “I’m just asking questions.”

Christopher should not have been surprised when he saw where their journey had taken them, but he was, all the same. He knew with the first glimpse of the little Forest Grove hub-port, knew with the first breath of air as they crossed from hot-winged screamer to waiting flyer.

But until the thin ribbon of U.S. 26 and the scattered houses of Manning flashed by below, until Tillamook State Forest spread out beneath them and a mist-wrapped Hoffman Hill loomed out the right-side windows, Christopher refused to accept the knowledge.

At that point, though, he had no choice but to embrace it. They were taking him home.

There were four vehicles already crowded into the clearings flanking the house, and easily a dozen people in sight—ferrying cases from inside to the square-backed silver van, standing talking in knots of two or three, or just watching as the flyer bearing Christopher floated in to settle on the much-trampled grass between the muddy track of the old road and the garage.

Christopher had long since given up demanding—or even pleading for—explanations. He docilely followed Lange inside, sat in the living room chair Lange pointed him to, watched mutely as white-gloved men and women meticulously erased any signs of the intrusion with vacuum and buffer and an endless supply of square yellow cloths. How long had they been there? Where was his father?

Presently, Lange returned, trailing behind a black-haired dart-eyed man with a wrestler’s build and a soldier’s walk. Christopher stood up to meet him.

“Are you Dryke?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Getting ready to leave,” said Dryke. “I’ll take the rest of your questions when you’ve answered mine. Come with me, please.”

He led Christopher to the office and, asking Lange to wait outside, closed the door behind them.

“Sit at the desk.”

Moving tentatively, Christopher complied.

“Ask the AIP if it knows you.”

Christopher swallowed. “Hello, Lila.”

“Hello, Christopher,” Lila said. “I wasn’t told you would be visiting. How long will you be staying?”

“I don’t know,” said Christopher, looking to Dryke.

“Ask for your messages.”

“Lila, are there any messages for me?”

“No messages, Christopher. Should I update your address to this location?”

“No.”

“Ask it to replay the last message sent to you by Jeremiah.”

“I never—”

“Ask it.”

He did, and the center panel of the comsole darkened into an image of William McCutcheon. “Hello, Christopher. This is your father. You’re not being paid enough if you’re still working at this hour—”

“Lila, you made a mistake,” said Christopher. “That’s my father.”

The display went white. “I’m sorry, Christopher,” said Lila. “Which Jeremiah did you mean?”

Suddenly fragile, Christopher looked up into Dryke’s intent gaze. “It made a mistake.”

“No,” said Dryke.

“You think my father is Jeremiah?”

“There isn’t any question about it. Do you expect me to believe you didn’t know?”

“I don’t believe you .”

Dryke nodded. “Lila, show Christopher Jeremiah’s last transmission.”

It was his father again, sitting in a room Christopher did not know. “This is William McCutcheon, speaking for Jeremiah and the Homeworld. As you can see, I have visitors this morning. As you might guess from the weapons they carry, I did not invite them. Mikhail Dryke, chief of the security forces for Allied Transcon, has invaded my home to arrest me—”