Tad Williams - Sea of Silver Light

She let it go and gave herself up to happiness.

NETFEED/ENTERTAINMENT: Robinette Murphy Won't Concede

(visual: excerpt from FRM's Around the Corner net series)

VO: Professional psychic Fawzi Robinette Murphy, who surprised the entertainment world by retiring after predicting that the end of the world was imminent, does not appear at all embarrassed that her proclaimed deadline for apocalypse has passed.

(visual: FRM interviewed by GCN's Martin Boabdil)

BOABDIL: "Do you want to extend the timeline on your original prediction?"

MURPHY: "It doesn't matter what I say, what you say. It happened."

BOABDIL: "What happened?"

MURPHY: "The world ended."

BOABDIL: "I'm sorry, I don't understand. I mean, isn't this a world we're both sitting in?"

MURPHY: "Not the same one. I can't explain it any better than that."

BOABDIL: "So you meant the whole thing . . . philosophically? Like, every day the old world ends and a new one begins? I suppose that makes a certain kind of sense."

MURPHY: "You really are an idiot, aren't you?"

The memorial service was a small one. The minister they hired to say a few words clearly felt something was going on that he didn't understand, but was enough of a professional not to ask too many questions.

He probably thinks we're in a good mood because we didn't like the dear departed much, or because we're making out like bandits in the will, Ramsey thought as he listened to the recorded music. Well, that part's true, anyway.

The only face in the tiny gathering that seemed to wear a wholly appropriate expression was that of the little girl Christabel—wide-eyed, confused, tearful. Ramsey and her parents had done their best to explain, but she was very young and was having trouble understanding.

Hell, he thought, I'm having trouble with it myself.

"Patrick Sellars was an aviator," the minister said. "I'm told he gave freely of himself in service to his country and to his friends, and that although he was badly injured in that service, he never lost his kindness, his sense of duty . . . or his humanity."

Welllll. . . .

"Today we say farewell to his mortal remains." The minister indicated the simple white coffin surrounded by flowers—Mrs. Sorensen's touch. "He was a gardener," she had insisted. "We have to have flowers." "But the part of him that is immortal lives on." The minister cleared his throat—a nice man, thought Ramsey, way out of his depth. But he would never know that. "I think it might not be too great a liberty to suggest that he is flying still—going to a place none of us has yet reached, seeing things none of us has yet seen, free of the encumbrance of his wounded body, the burden of his wearisome years. He is free, now, truly free to fly." And that, thought Ramsey, is some world-class irony.

"They have a little surveillance camera in the corner of the chapel," Sellars told them when they returned. On the wallscreen he looked just the same as he had in real life, although his surroundings were quite different. Ramsey thought the stony plain and faint stars behind him looked distinctly eerie—otherworldly, even. He could not help wondering why Sellars would choose such an odd background but preserve his image in that same strange, crippled body, unless it was to make the little girl more comfortable. "I couldn't resist the temptation to watch the service," the old man went on. "I found it unexpectedly moving." His smile was just a little wicked.

"But why are you dead?" Christabel was still close to tears. "I don't understand."

"I know, little Christabel," he said. "It's difficult. The fact is, that body of mine was just worn out. And I can't use it anymore, so I had to . . . had to use some tools I have now to transfer myself. Make a new home, I guess you'd say. I live on the net, now—or at least in this special part of it. So I'm not dead, not really. But I didn't have any more use for that old body, and it's just as well that people think I've . . . passed on." He looked out at the others. "There will be fewer questions."

"There'll be plenty of questions anyway," said Major Sorensen.

"Yes, there will."

"I'm still not sure I forgive you," said Kaylene Sorensen. "I believe you when you say it was an accident—about Christabel, I mean—but I'm still angry." She frowned, then showed a little half-smile, her own touch of wickedness. "But I suppose we shouldn't speak ill of the dead."

The boy Cho-Cho got up and walked out of the room, stiff and uncomfortable in the dark formal clothes Kaylene Sorensen had insisted he wear to the service. Ramsey was troubled about the boy and had begun considering what might happen to him now, but he had other things to deal with first.

"Speaking of questions," he said, "we need to begin strategizing."

"I don't want to strategize," said Mrs. Sorensen. "I want to take my daughter away from this and go home. She needs to be in school." She looked around for Cho-Cho and saw the open bedroom door, Her expression was troubled. "Both these children need to be children again."

"Trust me—a little thought now will make things much easier later on," Ramsey said. "Things are going to get very strange. . . ." He paused, shook his head. "I suppose it's more accurate to say they're going to continue to be strange. We're going to court with this. We're suing some of the most powerful people in the world. This is going to be a story the tabnets dream about. I can do a lot to shield you, Mrs. Sorensen, but I can't make it foolproof. Even the money you inherit from Sellars isn't going to make it foolproof. This is going to set the world on its ear."

"We don't want the money," Major Sorensen said. "We don't need it."

"No, you don't need it, Major," Sellars told him gently. "But you're going to get it. If you're worrying that the money is tainted somehow, I promise you there was no theft involved. I made many investments over the years, all of them quite legitimate—I had decades of all the world's information at my fingertips, and I am not a foolish man. I used most of that money upgrading myself and investigating the Grail Brotherhood. Surely you will not balk at using the small amount I have left to help protect your family, after all you've done for me."

"Small amount! Forty-six million credits!"

Sellars smiled. "You won't be forced to take all of it. It will be split among several . . . volunteers."

"It's tiny compared to what we're going to get when we drag Telemorphix and some of these others into court," Ramsey said. "But most of that will go to, the parents of the Tandagore kids, the ones put into comas by the Grail network's operating system. Oh, and to one other thing, which I might as well tell you about now. We're planning to build a hospital—the Olga Pirofsky Memorial Children's Hospital."

Sellars nodded slowly. "I did not know Ms. Pirofsky as well as you did, Mr. Ramsey, but may I make a suggestion? I suspect she would have preferred to call it the Daniel Pirofsky Children's Hospital."

It took him a moment to understand. "Of . . . of course. Yes, I think you're right."

"But why do we have to take these people to court?" asked Kaylene Sorensen. "After all we've been through?"

"You don't," Ramsey said carefully. "I have no qualms about filing a class-action suit. But when General Yacoubian's role in this comes out, I think it will be difficult to keep you folks out of it entirely. This is going to be the biggest story since the Antarctica War. Hell, it's going to be bigger than that—we've got a cloud of smoke over most of southeastern Louisiana, the J Corporation island is a melted slab at the middle of a federal disaster zone, and that's just a tiny piece of the goddamned puzzle." He saw Mrs. Sorensen's look and couldn't help smiling. Things were returning to normal, even if she didn't recognize it yet. "Sorry for the language. But there may be a court-martial ahead for your husband, too, I'm sure with Captain Parkins' testimony we won't have any trouble winning. . . ."