Never had I seen it so bright and so clear, though. Hongcheon was a rainy province, and even when we saw the stars, it was through the thick blanket of Earth’s atmosphere. And on Farport, I had been too busy for stargazing. But here the main mass was a white-yellow haze, within which I could pick out many tiny pinpricks of light; but I knew from my course that the entire haze was made up of stars, billions of them so distant that my eye could see them only as a collective glow. Obscuring much of that glow were dark swirls of cosmic dust, like some giant tangle of hair. And everywhere—shining through the dust, standing out against the haze, and scattered around the main band—were brighter stars like jewels decorating the blackness. They were mostly white and shades of blue white, but there were also countless dots in red and yellow and occasionally orange.
Closer to hand was a large creamy-yellow dot. That had to be Jupiter, I guessed. And closer still, behind us but a little to the lower right, was a tiny bright-blue crescent. Near it was a smaller white crescent. Earth and Luna, the sister planets, spinning peacefully on their annual voyage around the sun.
And as I sat there and stared in openmouthed wonder, I knew: this was why Aames had his office all in black. It wasn’t an escape from society. It wasn’t a reflection of his dark personality. It was simply the best way to experience this miracle of a universe, where humanity was taking its first cautious steps off our home world. This was where the real Nick Aames lived.
Only thanks to the machinations of others, he had been denied the chance to go there himself; and he refused to settle for a life back on Earth, not after he had walked on Luna and Mars and had flown the spaces between. Instead of an empty existence, trying to forget all that he had lost, he chose this assignment, almost a form of exile. He had made it his responsibility to get people safely to the frontier, but he could never go there himself. He had to stay here, ensuring their safe passage, a glorified subway conductor whose own path ran from nowhere to nowhere in an endless cycle.
But at least in the darkness he could see these stars.
And they had a calming effect on me. My anger at Aames had passed. I could consider his unorthodox idea more clearly now. It was certainly innovative, and I couldn’t find a flaw with Aames’s knowledge of protocols and precedents. I woke up the desk to go over Comptroller Lostetter’s calculations, and they were impressive and thorough. There was absolutely no doubt that the Aldrin could function economically and socially and culturally as an independent entity.
But I just didn’t see how it could work. Aames had a talent for pissing people off, and too many of the wrong people were too angry to ever let him get away with this. Oh, I could order his plan under chapter 12, section 1. I was sure I could get Reed to back me up. But I couldn’t see a way to get enough others in the Initiative and the Admiralty to accept it.
I was still staring absently at the numbers, as if some answer hid within them, when the office door opened. I looked up, expecting to see Matt; but instead I saw a weary-looking woman in Admiralty black, with full bars. I had only seen Admiral Morais from a distance aboard Farport, but I knew her face from my files.
“Excuse me, Admiral,” I said, “did Lieutenant Harrold forget to tell me we had an appointment?”
Morais shook her head. “The lieutenant is gone.” I looked at the desk, and I realized how late it was. Matt had no doubt left for his cabin. “No one has thought to deactivate my access privileges, since where can I go on this ship? I am as much as a prisoner here. So I used my codes to let myself in. Inspector, I believe we should talk. May I sit down?”
I pushed back from the desk, stretching out my arms to get the kinks out. “I appreciate your eagerness to cooperate, Admiral, but I’m not ready to depose you at this time. I’ve had a long day already, without a lot of sleep, and I’m still recovering from injuries. And I can’t run a deposition without the lieutenant here as a reporter. So I’m afraid we’ll need to reschedule. I’m available at 1000 hours tomorrow.”
Morais ignored my objection as she walked in and sat down. “Inspector, I’m not here for a deposition. I know what charges I shall face, and I’m ready to face them. But I must explain some things that you need to understand.”
I was doubtful, and I didn’t try to hide it. “Admiral, if you face charges, it will be as an accomplice to Captain Aames; and since I haven’t yet decided whether to charge him, I haven’t yet decided if there was any crime for you to be part of. You may not even need to be deposed; but if you want to claim extenuating circumstances or extraordinary justifications for your actions, please save that for your deposition, if and when.”
“You don’t understand, Inspector,” she said. “I’m not here about myself. As I said, I’m ready to face whatever charges you may press. No, I’m here to try to explain to you about Captain Aames.”
I was intrigued. Aames had surprised me when he had comforted Dr. Baldwin, and again when I understood the observatory that was his office. Behind the acerbic misanthrope, there were depths I still didn’t understand. And this woman had known him perhaps as well as anyone. I had heard from everyone else who was close to Aames, so it only made sense to listen to her.
So I nodded. “All right, Admiral, explain away.”
“Thank you.” Admiral Morais smiled, and suddenly she looked younger and more hopeful. She pulled the guest chair up to the desk and leaned forward on her elbows. She looked at the São Paulo door, and then she lowered her voice in confidence, as if afraid Aames might hear. “Inspector, I have known Nick Aames for a long time. In that time, I don’t think he has told anyone else this story, not even Chief Carver. I was deeply touched when he told it to me, and I have never told another soul. But I think it’s important for you to know this if you want to understand him and judge him fairly. So I shall tell it to you as he told it to me. It was 20 March 2037, in a little town in Alabama.”
16. THE LAST DANCE
OFF-THE-RECORD ACCOUNT OF ADMIRAL ROSALIA MORAIS
COVERING EVENTS OF 20 MARCH 2037
The waltz from von Weber’s Invitation to the Dance played through the speakers concealed in the crannies between the floral-print wallpaper, the stained-oak cornices, and the beige ceiling. This section, Grandma Ruth’s favorite waltz, had been rearranged for muted strings at a slower, somber tempo. Nick sat in the big, soft leather chair in the corner of the parlor, flanked by a pot of lilies on his left and an arrangement of forest greens on his right. Their pungent, woodsy odor enveloped him. The smell of pine usually made him relax, since the woods were the closest thing he knew to a home; but today the scent was overpowering, making his eyes water. At least that’s what he told himself: the moistness in his eyes was a coincidence, and had nothing to do with Grandma Ruth lying in the big cherrywood coffin in the front of the room.
Nick itched in his back, armpits, and knees, but he was too respectful to scratch in front of Grandma Ruth. At fifteen, Nick had finally had a slight growth spurt, so the suit was tight and itchy in all the wrong places; but it was the only suit he owned, the only one his family could afford. The suit was a hand-me-down from Dek, and Nick’s brother hadn’t taken very good care of it; but Nick had spent all morning brushing it clean and stitching up the loose seams. Grandma Ruth would’ve approved of his work.
Dek—Derick, but Nick had called him “Dek” since Nick was a toddler—wasn’t at the funeral. None of Nick’s immediate family were. Dek had laughed at Nick for urging him to attend, and then had laughed again at Nick in his ill-fitting suit. Dad had spent his time stoned since he had learned of his stepmother’s death. Not that Dad was particularly fond of Grandma Ruth, but he was fond of any excuse to get stoned.
And Mom . . . Nick didn’t want to think about Mom. How she had almost smiled at the news of Grandma Ruth’s death. They had never gotten along, and Mom resented Grandma Ruth for “indulging” Nick.
Indulging. Yeah, like feeding him nutritious meals and sneaking him treats. Like talking to him like a person, not like a burden. Like giving
him a book reader, and all the books he could devour; and then when Dad traded the reader for drugs, giving him another one and helping him hide it. Like taking him in every time he couldn’t take life at home anymore and he ran into the woods, looking for anything to distract him from the anger and the beatings and the abandonment, and somehow always finding his way to her house.
Now the only real family Nick had ever known lay in the dark wooden box, her slate-gray curls resting on the cream-colored fabric of the pillow. Mrs. Quintana, Grandma Ruth’s oldest friend, had picked out her outfit: her best navy dress, the one with the tiny white flowers, along with her beloved pearls. Nick hadn’t managed to approach the coffin yet, but he couldn’t look away either. Grandma’s church-lady friends hovered around, occasionally asking if he needed anything but otherwise giving him the solitude he wanted. That was all he wanted today, solitude. And not to cry.
A rocket plane out of Huntsville roared overhead, and Nick looked up, as if he could see it through the ceiling. For him, the rocket plane schedule was as good as the old grandfather clock near the door: he pored over the launch schedules every week, memorizing launch windows, destinations, anything that was on the public networks. That sound was the 1255 launch to the Holmes Construction Station.
Soon the grandfather clock would chime the hour, and it would be time for the service. Mrs. Quintana approached Nick. Usually she wore colorful floral dresses, and her hair stood in dark contrast to the bright colors. Today, her simple black dress had the opposite effect: her hair didn’t look dark, it looked distinctly gray. And her face was pale and lined. For the first time, she looked old to Nick, almost as old as Grandma Ruth.
Mrs. Quintana spoke softly in her accented English. “It is time, Nicolau.” She used the Brazilian form of his name, as she always did. Usually he smiled at that, or even joked back: “This is Alabama, Mrs. Quintana, we speak English here.” But today he didn’t find it funny; he found it comforting. Grandma Ruth had filled out his birth certificate, since Dad had been drunk and Mom had been asleep, and she had filled in “Nicolau,” in memory of her time in Brazil.
Nick rose from the chair, again feeling his suit binding. Mrs. Quintana proffered her arm. Her touch made him feel awkward, but Nick took it just as Grandma Ruth had taught him. Then they walked to the front pew, and they sat for the funeral.
Afterward, the church ladies put on a lunch, and Mrs. Quintana shepherded Nick through it: making sure he had a place to sit, making sure he was fed, doing all the things Grandma Ruth would’ve done for him if she had been there. She also provided a buffer when people came up to offer their condolences. Nick knew there were a lot of them, but he was too numb to keep track. It was all a blur.
But he did start to see a pattern, a split into two groups: close friends and casual acquaintances. Nick recognized many of the close friends, having met them at Grandma Ruth’s house over the years. Even those he hadn’t met seemed to know a lot about him. They asked about his schooling, and they told stories about Grandma Ruth and how proud she had been of Nick. Mrs. Quintana’s son Silvio, a pilot out of Huntsville, spent nearly twenty minutes talking to Nick about transfer orbits.
The casual acquaintances, though, had a different approach. They didn’t say it, but Nick could see it in their eyes: they saw him as “just one more of those Aames trash,” Ruth’s black-sheep step-relations. They were all polite enough—Grandma Ruth wouldn’t tolerate them otherwise—but they weren’t warm.
Nick was used to that. Grandma Ruth was practically the only warm person he had ever known.
Nick picked at his potato salad. The mustard was sharp, just the way Grandma Ruth liked it. At that thought, he lost his appetite. He kept eating, though, popping a piece of Mrs. Quintana’s pão de queijo into his mouth. Nick expected this might be his last meal of the day, if his plans worked out, so he knew he had to fuel up, and he quickly ate two more pieces of the Brazilian cheese bread.
Finally the last mourners left, leaving Nick alone with Mrs. Quintana, the church ladies, and the funeral director. Mrs. Quintana patted his shoulder. “They can clean up, Nicolau. Are you ready to leave?” Nick was too exhausted to speak, so he nodded. They rose, and he took her arm, again feeling like he was doing it wrong somehow. Then he escorted her out of the tiny funeral home, and into the ordinary world of Gurley, Alabama, population 2,306.
Make that 2,305 with Grandma Ruth gone. And soon it would be 2,304.
Outside, it was a disconcertingly bright, cheery day. The breeze was blowing, the scent of fresh-cut hay was in the air, and the sun was doing its best to dry out the hay. The rising and falling trill of wrens was everywhere. It was exactly the sort of day when Nick liked to run into the woods and hide all day, exploring and cataloging everything he found so he could bring his notes to Grandma Ruth for review. But there would be no review today, no notes, and no running. Not into the woods.
Mrs. Quintana led Nick to her blue Subaru truck. It was old and faded, but Silvio kept it in good running order. Often Nick had helped him work on it, learning how all the engine components and electrical systems worked.
Nick held the driver’s door for Mrs. Quintana, just as Grandma Ruth had taught him. Then he walked around the car and got into the passenger seat. As he buckled in, Mrs. Quintana asked, “Shall I take you home?”
Nick thought of home, of Dad in a stupor, Dek in a mood to fight, and Mom . . . For the first time, Nick hoped she might be out on one of her “dates,” some of which lasted days or even weeks. As much as he was ashamed by her actions, he would rather she be gone today. He didn’t want to hear her talking down Grandma Ruth. Not again.
In fact, he didn’t want to face home at all, not yet. Not ever. He was done with that place. So he shook his head. “No. Please, I need to go to Grandma Ruth’s.”
Mrs. Quintana didn’t argue, just drove Nick to the old two-story red-paneled Victorian home that had been Nick’s refuge for most of his life. But when she stopped the car out front and opened her car door, Nick reached out and touched her arm. She turned to him, and Nick quickly drew back his hand as if burned. He didn’t know how, but he had to make her see. “Please, Mrs. Quintana, I have to do this by myself.”
Mrs. Quintana shook her head, but she closed her door. She pulled a small paper bag from her back seat and held it out to Nick. Inside he found leftovers from the lunch: nearly two dozen small pieces of cheese bread. “I see today you are a man, Nicolau,” she said. “You make your own decisions. But I think it is a mistake. You should not be alone today.”
Nick looked away. “Why should now be any different from the rest of my life? I’m good at alone.” But he turned to her and forced a smile so she wouldn’t worry. Then he pulled out his door key and left the car.
The white walls and polished wooden floor of the entryway seemed barren without Grandma Ruth there to welcome him, without the smell of banana bread baking. Nick closed and relocked the big oak door, leaned back against it, and shook. “I will not cry. I will not.” But he didn’t want to cry, he wanted to hit something. Strike back against the pain.
Instead, he counted under his breath. “One . . .” Breathe in. Breathe out. “Two . . .” In, out. “Three . . .” In, and out. He was calm again.
“Don’t be like your father and your brother, slaves to their rage,” Grandma Ruth said. “You’re better than them. I want you to be angry when it’s the right thing to do. Righteous anger can be a powerful tool. But rage controls you. Don’t let anything control you. Count to ten, and be calm.”
“Yes, Grandma.” With practice, Nick had gotten from ten to seven, then five. Now he could calm himself down with three deep breaths.
He looked at the stairs, and then at the living room. Living room first, he decided, entering the place where he and Grandma Ruth had spent so many hours. The room was large, nearly a third of the first floor. The walls were painted a dark-rose color with ivory trim. Nick had helped her to repaint it three years ago, and that trim had taught him to concentrate an
d not do sloppy work.
But you couldn’t see a lot of the walls, because so many of them were covered by bookshelves. Once Nick had asked her why she had all these paper books instead of a reader. She had answered, “A reader is nice, and it’s portable. It’s a marvelous invention. Buying books for the paper is like buying beer for the bottles. It’s what’s inside that gets you drunk!” And then she had laughed, though Nick had been too young to get the joke. But suddenly she had stopped laughing, looked him in the eyes, and added, “But some of the bottles are sure pretty.” And she had shown him some of her favorite “bottles.”
Nick looked them over now. Precious hardcovers and leather-bound volumes. Lavishly illustrated books, colors deeper than Nick’s cheap reader could ever reproduce. Limited editions. A rare signed Torgersen first edition. And science books: astronomy, geology, ecology, physics, and more. Grandma had liked her textbooks in paper so she could write notes in the margins. Nick couldn’t understand all the notes yet, but he kept reading and trying. He and Grandma Ruth had spent so many nights discussing space and looking through her big Cassegrain telescope upstairs. She had taught him to pick out the Holmes Construction Station, the colonies on Luna, and the Chinese colony at L5, as well as the stars and planets; and she had encouraged him to read everything she had on the subject. Nick’s reader was full of sketches he had made of the scenes in the telescope. He wasn’t a good artist, but he tried to capture every detail. “Details are critical, Nick. Learn to see them.”
He wanted to take the books, take them all. There were so many memories stacked on those shelves. But he needed to travel light, and he had all the words in his reader. Those would be memories enough. So he went to the window seat, lifted the lid with its autumn-leaf padded cover, and pulled out Grandma Ruth’s old blue duffel. When Grandma Ruth had gotten sick, when she had finally convinced him that her end was near, Nick knew he could never survive Gurley without her. Never survive his family. He would have to get out, escape farther than he had ever escaped before. And so he had started sneaking out clothes and supplies and stashing them in the big duffel. He unzipped it now and checked inside: clothes, food that would travel, his spare shoes, a small bit of money he had scraped up. He squeezed the bag of pão de queijo into the duffel, right under the most important item: the replacement reader from Grandma Ruth. He couldn’t take the books, but he could take the words.
The Last Dance Page 42
