Michael Kube-McDowell - The Quiet Pools

“You’re still in trouble, aren’t you, Chris?”

“Some. It’ll all sort out. Maybe it already has.”

She knew the optimism was misplaced. “I have a lot of friends. Come on back and let’s fight it together.”

“I like that idea,” he said. “I like it so much I had it myself a few hours ago. Look, when did this Marshall call?”

“Ah—Friday. Three days ago. Chris, I think you’d better talk to Daniel first. It’s almost five o’clock. And he seemed upset. Angry might be a better word.”

“Do you know what he was upset about?”

“No. If I was going to guess, I’d say it had something to do with what happened to Memphis .”

A chill touch prickled the skin on the back of Christopher’s neck. “What happened to Memphis !”

“You don’t know?” Her expression turned grave. “Homeworld hit it with some kind of missile yesterday morning. A hundred and six dead, twenty percent destroyed, two-to-three-year delay, according to some reports. Some are saying she’ll never leave.”

It was there on all the services, just as Loi had described, complete with Takara-supplied pictures of twisted metal and construction plastic. The list of the dead had not been released yet, but the reports showed their bagged bodies stacking up in Takara’s medical stations.

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” he breathed to himself, angry tears welling as he watched. “Not Memphis . Why couldn’t you have just let them go? Why couldn’t you have just let her be?”

With a full day already passed since the event, the live coverage had deteriorated into talking heads debating in a vacuum. No reporters had been admitted to Takara, Memphis had been turned away from prying eyes, and the flow of information from Prainha had tightened down to a trickle. That helped Christopher escape becoming a prisoner of the screen.

“Did you pick this story up for local use?” he asked the censor.

“They did two hours on it yesterday morning.”

While I was still on vacation , he thought.

Time was slipping away, but he was not ready to face Keith, knowing what he must be thinking. Instead, Christopher went back to the mail stack and tried to focus on problems he could touch, and to answer a nagging question raised by his talk with Loi.

The first message from the Oregon State Police informed him that there’d been a fire on the ridge, that his father could not be located, and would he contact Detective Brooks with any information he might have? The second, the one with the receipt tag, was only a day old, and a bit more terse. An investigation into William McCutcheon’s disappearance had begun, and Christopher’s participation was considered crucial—would he please make himself available within the next forty-eight hours to answer questions?

But still no fugitive warrant or grand-jury subpoena, which meant no body. Which meant no way for Marshall to know that William McCutcheon was dead—except hearing it from either Allied or Homeworld.

Christopher could not tap DIANNA from orbit, and he was not welcome in Sanctuary’s library, which probably didn’t contain the data he needed in any case. But he sent a query through to Codex, a subscription information service, and had an answer in a few minutes: Roger Marshall was a member of the Diaspora advisory committee.

Surprised as he was by that discovery, it explained plainly enough how Marshall knew. But the rest of it made no sense. Was there some kind of message in Marshall calling Loi? An apology? A confession? Or just a bit of carelessness? Christopher could not make the picture come together.

The clock caught his eye, warning him that he was running out of time to reach Keith. Keith’s message gave him a clue what to expect: It was short and foul, beginning with “You shit-mouthed son of a bitch—” and going downhill from there. It was time-stamped several hours before Loi would have seen him; Keith’s emotions had apparently cooled, though his judgments had likely hardened at the same time.

In the end, Christopher could not let those judgments stand unchallenged. He was surprised to find Keith on the move, in his flyer rather than his bed. But Keith’s cold tone and hard words were no surprise. “Fag off. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Fine. Just listen. This is the truth: I only just heard about Memphis . I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Do you think I’m that big an idiot? You don’t get another chance.”

“How many ways can I say it? I feel sick about Memphis . I didn’t do it, I didn’t know about it, and I didn’t want it to happen.”

“This is Dan Keith you’re talking to. I know you, remember? Sorry. Your eleventh-hour conversion fails to convince.”

“Daniel, I know where the last verse of ‘Caravan’ came from now. And it wasn’t a lie.”

That slowed him—Keith blinked confusedly. “What do you mean?”

“Daniel, read my lips: I didn’t do it.”

A blank stare turned to a hateful glare. “You did it to me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They’re not taking me. They’re not taking me, and it’s your goddamned fault. Because of your fucking father. Because I thought friendship fucking counted for something. They’re not taking me, do you understand? Because of you I’ve got to stay here.” The flyer beeped an out-of-lane alarm at Keith, and he slammed his palm against the dash. “Shut up!”

“What are you talking about? Memphis isn’t going anywhere. And you weren’t going on Memphis in the first place.”

“Fuck it,” he said sullenly.

Christopher did not understand what had just happened. “I’m coming back to Houston tomorrow. If you’re in trouble because of me, I want to help.”

“You, help me?” Keith’s snicker was nasty.

“I haven’t done anything against the Project. Not one thing,” Christopher said. “But they’ve done to me. They killed my father and stole his body. They took away my job, screwed up my career, and helped me screw up my family—not that I needed much help in that department. And do you know what? I still want them to make it.

“They were wrong to be afraid of me. I was wrong to duck my tail and run. That’s over. I’m coming back, and I’m going to stand toe-to-toe with Dryke or anyone else I have to until reality sinks in. And if I need to scrap for you at the same time, I will.”

Keith was silent, his eyes on the road.

“What’s going on, Daniel? Why are you up at this hour of the morning?”

When Keith finally spoke again, his voice was muted. “I don’t know why the hell I believe you,” he said. “I must be as big an idiot as they make, I guess.”

“Sorry. The line forms behind me.”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you anything,” Keith said, rubbing his cheek roughly. “There isn’t anything you can do to help me. And there won’t be anyone here to talk to by the time you arrive.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re shutting down the training centers. All the small fry are being let go. They’re sending half the talent to Prainha, including me. The other half—four hundred people—is going up to Memphis . They’ve been flying out all night. You can guess why we’re needed in Prainha—they’re shipping people upstairs, too.”

“Why?”

Keith turned his head away to the right and drew a ragged breath. “Vincenza told the press that we’re sending technicians and engineers to help with the reconstruction, management to inspect the damage. That’s bullshit. I know the list. It’s the fraternity. And I can’t get anyone to admit it, but I know they’re not coming back.”

“That’s crazy. Where can they go?”