Michael Kube-McDowell - The Quiet Pools

“Because you’re Jeremiah’s son. But you’re also Chris. I took a chance because I thought you would listen.”

“What?”

“I wanted you to know you don’t have to be afraid of us. I want you to let us be. Don’t try to stop Memphis , Chris. Please.”

Christopher stared. “Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath. “Son of a bitch. My father was afraid I wasn’t enough like him. And now you’re afraid I’m too much like him.”

“I don’t know what to think, Chris. I really don’t.”

Shaking his head, Christopher dropped the bottle where he stood and made for the door of the Avanti. “I’m leaving,” he muttered. When he reached the car, he knocked the gun to the ground with a careless, angry swipe of his hand, then pulled the door upward.

“Chris—”

He settled in the seat before looking back. “What?”

“I can’t be sorry about Jeremiah. But I’m sorry about your father.”

Christopher looked at Keith with blazing eyes. “My father was a king.” He said it pridefully, with a hint of a challenge.

“Yes. I think he was.”

Nodding as though satisfied with the concession, Christopher brought the car to life, the door still open. Then he seemed to take a deep breath, taking the control wheel in both hands as though he needed it for support. He looked over his shoulder out at Keith. “What am I, Daniel?”

Keith came a step closer. “I was expecting you to ask that a long time ago—and you’re not going to like my answer. The truth is I know you too well to see you that simply. I can see all eight attributes in you—including Chi-negative.”

“Then how do I find out?”

“You can’t,” he said, shaking his head.

“Doesn’t the company know?”

“No,” Keith said. “That’s one of the questions that got me in trouble. You were an employee. You were never sampled. And there isn’t a lab anywhere outside Allied that knows what to look for.”

“You knew I’d have to know.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t need to be told.”

“Why?”

“Can’t you feel it? Didn’t you say, ‘Yeah, that’s me,’ at some point in the list?”

“Sure. Three times.”

Keith frowned. “Then the key is your mother. Maybe you can figure it out from there.”

“Maybe,” Christopher said, little hope in his voice or his eyes. He sighed and jerked his head toward the empty seat beside him. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

The invitation was an apology and a peace offering, and Keith’s acceptance the signing of a truce. But they had little more to say to each other. From the time they lifted off to the time Keith climbed out in the driveway of his parents’ Stone Park home, only once was the silence broken.

“One more question?” Christopher asked as they bore across the Loop.

Looking out the side glass at the Daley Tower, Keith gave a slight nod.

“Were you ever sampled?”

“BC-positive,” Keith said. “Hardworking and loyal to a fault.” He turned back and showed a wan smile. “Most of the time, anyway.”

“But they didn’t take you.”

“My choice.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I’m putting in my turn at the wheel,” Keith said. “There are a lot of us doing it. I’ve been promised a place on Knossos .”

It was midmorning when Christopher reached the house on the ridge. After stowing the Avanti in the garage, he stopped in the bathroom to splash his face and in the kitchen to start coffee. While the coffee was brewing, he collected the Portables from his father’s bedroom and carried them into the den. He stacked them in three columns on the end of the comsole before settling, cup in hand, in the chair.

“You there, Lila?”

“Ready, Christopher.”

“Any mail? Any messages?”

“No. There are no new messages.”

“What about for my father?”

“I am handling Mr. McCutcheon’s correspondence.”

“Still pretending he’s not dead?”

“I am doing what he asked me to.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to let me see what it is.”

“I’m sorry, Christopher. I can’t do that.”

“Have you heard from my father?”

“No. Your father is dead.”

“Does anyone besides us know that?”

“No.”

“You haven’t told anyone while playing secretary for him?”

“I am conducting your father’s business according to his instructions.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll bet the only people you told knew him as Jeremiah. And Jeremiah’s not allowed to die, is he? Who’s the new Jeremiah, Lila?”

“I can’t answer that, Christopher.”

“Right.” He sipped at his caramel-colored coffee, still steaming. “Do you know anything about a will?”

“A will is registered with the Oregon State Probate Court. Since no death certificate has been filed, the will has not been presented.”

“Who’s the executor?”

“You are, Christopher.”

It was only technically a surprise. “I guess I know better than to think he’d ask me. Was he planning to ever tell me?”

“It’s not required by Oregon law, since an executor may refuse the appointment.”

“Know anything about what the will says?”

“No. The only knowledge I have of it comes from checking the court registry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Christopher. “That’s how he was going to get me back here, wasn’t it? That’s why he left the archives.”

“They were for you to read after his death.”

“So you said. Well”—he patted the top of the nearest stack— “I’m ready to see the rest of them.”

“I’m sorry, Christopher. I don’t understand.”

“I want you to show me anything and everything about my mother that you have in your files or can find anywhere, including these archives.”

“Checking. Your mother is Deryn Glenys Falconer?”

“Sharron,” he said impatiently. “I’m talking about Sharron. My father’s wife.”

“Checking. Full name is Sharron Ria McCutcheon, nee Aldritch?”

He stared at the display in surprise. “You had to check that? He didn’t think it was important enough to restore?”

“I do not know what information was not restored, Christopher, nor why it was not included.”

“Are you saying you don’t have anything about Sharron?”

“I’m compiling biographical information from several sources. I’ll have a report for you in the next thirty seconds.”

“I don’t want anything from outside. I want to know how he saw her. I want to see her myself. Where are the family albums? Didn’t he keep anything of hers?”

“Not in my records, Christopher.”

Seizing the nearest Portable, Christopher pulled open the drawer and pushed the book into the empty data port. “What about there?”

“This volume is Wild Animals of North America , published by the National Geographic Society. It contains no archives.”

“What?” Quickly, Christopher swapped another book into its place. “What about that one?”

“This volume is Ptolemy’s Daughter: The Art of Sabra Adams , by—”

“I can read the goddamned titles.”

“It contains no archives.”

“What’s going on here, Lila? These are the same books I read from on Tuesday, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Christopher. Those files were erased as you read them, on Mr. McCutcheon’s instructions. I find no other files.”

“Son of a bitch,” he breathed. “Why didn’t you tell me? If I’d known I was only going to have one chance to read them—” He stopped, seeing the answer to his own question.

— I’d have photographed the screen, or transcribed the entries, or read them into a recorder. And then I could have shared them with anyone. For your eyes only. This tape will self-destruct in ten seconds .