Even if he could have taken the books, what else would he want? The dance floor? The south half of the living room, the half with the big picture windows, had no carpeting, just a smoothly polished floor. With Nick’s help, Grandma Ruth had polished that floor until she was just too weak to keep up; and after that, Nick had done the job for her. Dance had been her greatest love, even over books and science; and she had taught Nick to dance, and he had grown to love it like she did. He had as many memories there as in the bookshelves.
He couldn’t take the dance floor, but he could take the dance. Nick reached into the duffel and pulled out his reader. Along with Grandma Ruth’s books, it contained her complete music library. He navigated to Invitation to the Dance—the real arrangement, not the well-meaning but flawed funeral arrangement—and he set the reader on the little black table near the stairs and pressed “Play.” The song was difficult, the first waltz composed for listening, not for dancing; but he and Grandma Ruth had loved to dance to it. Nick closed his eyes and swayed to the strings and flutes of the “Moderato” and into the horn fanfare of the “Allegro Vivace.” When the waltz section started in, he held out his hands to embrace a partner who wasn’t there, and he started dancing around the room. Though it was irrational, he was sure he could feel Grandma Ruth’s arms holding him. “It’s all right, Nicky. It’s all right. You have to be strong now.”
“I will, Grandma. I will.” And remembering Grandma Ruth’s final words to him, at last Nick broke down and cried as he danced.
But abruptly the music stopped. Nick opened his eyes and looked to the stairs. Standing there, his finger still on the screen of the reader, was Dek: tall, lanky, dressed in his usual jeans and dirty T-shirt. His greasy hair was lighter than Nick’s, closer to Dad’s blond than Mom’s red. His face was hollow and unshaven, and he wore his customary sneer. “Well, if it isn’t the dancing Nit.”
One . . . two . . . three . . . The last time Nick had lost his temper had been when he had learned what that nickname meant: the egg of a louse, something to be brushed off with contempt. He had rushed wildly at Dek, arms swinging; and his bigger, stronger brother had punched him three times, once in the nose and twice in the ear, then pushed him to the ground, laughing the whole time. Just like Grandma Ruth had said, Nick’s temper had made him weak. He wouldn’t let Dek provoke him again. “How’d you get in here, Dek?”
Dek grinned. “I climbed the old oak out back and dropped onto the balcony upstairs. Then I broke a window pane and let myself in.”
Upstairs? But no, don’t react. Don’t give Dek any ideas. Change the subject. “You should’ve been there, Dek. The church ladies asked after you.”
Dek chuckled. “Yeah. Right. Just them pretendin’ to be polite, for appearances. All them folks in their Sunday finest, they didn’t want me around. Didn’t want you neither.”
Nick was uncomfortable with those words. Dek was right, at least for the casual acquaintances. So he changed the subject again. “Why’d you come here, Dek? Are you saying good-bye?”
At that, Dek laughed out loud, echoes bouncing off the dance floor. “Good-bye? To what? The old lady never liked me. You were always her favorite, favorite little Nit. She and me said good-bye long ago. Everything since has been just more politeness, just empty.” For a moment, Dek looked a little blank, like maybe he felt some loss after all; but then his face brightened again. “No, I just come here before Mom and Dad could dry out and come themselves. Soon as they can, they’re gonna gut this place, sell everything they can. Then sell the house itself. I wanted to get mine before they thought of it. Maybe they won’t even remember this, but I did.”
No! But Dek reached back on the landing and pulled out the one thing Nick really wanted, wanted enough to carry wherever he went, no matter how tired he got: Grandma Ruth’s big reflector telescope. Dek hadn’t even bothered to put it in its case. “You give that here. It’s . . . it’s mine.”
Dek laughed again. “Come and take it, Nit.”
“Give. It. Here.”
“Come and take it!”
Before he knew what he was doing, Nick rushed Dek, trying to grab the telescope. Normally Dek, being a head taller, would just shove Nick to the ground; but with his hands full, he had more trouble than usual, and Nick kept reaching around him, trying to grab the scope. The scuffle escalated, and Dek had to take a step back up the landing. Finally Dek made a big push, and Nick tumbled down the landing stair and slid across the dance floor.
But while pushing Nick away, Dek lost his grip on the telescope. It flew through the air and struck the corner of the little black table. The eyepiece and the finder scope snapped off, and the metal tube dented. The scope bounced off to the floor and landed hard. Nick heard the mirror shatter, and he was sure the sound was his heart shattering as well. Then the tube spun and rolled, strewing broken glass across the floor.
“You little shit, look what you did!” Dek aimed a vicious kick at Nick’s ribs; but Nick scrambled across the floor after the telescope, not sure what to do but wanting to do something, and Dek’s foot caught him in the thigh. In his shock, Nick barely felt it. He cut his hands on shards of glass, but he barely felt that either. He caught the tube, stopped its roll, and picked it up, cradling it in his arms and sobbing quietly.
Dek once again stood at the foot of the steps, breathing heavily, glaring at Nick. “It’s worthless now. Little shit! What you gonna do now, little shit?”
Before he could think about it, Nick answered truthfully, “I’m going to leave. Get out of this town and never come back.” And then, without ever planning it, he added, “Come with me, Dek. You’ve gotta get out of here too.”
And he meant it. Somewhere inside, he still loved his brother, still had a little brother’s awe for a big brother, even despite the beatings. Somewhere . . . “Don’t hate him, Nick. Dek beats you because your dad beats him, and he doesn’t know anything else. He’s frustrated and hurt. Don’t make him mad, don’t let him hurt you. But don’t hate him.” Dek was wrong: Grandma Ruth had never given up hope for him.
But Dek had given up. “I’m going nowhere. You neither.”
Nick sighed, dropped the tube, and pushed himself to his feet. “Yes, I am. I’m going.”
Dek shook his head in disbelief. “What’ll you do? Where’ll you go?”
“Someplace far away, without all the idiots around here.”
“What, we’re idiots? You’re the idiot.” Dek picked up the reader from the table. “Readin’ all this shit, it has your head all screwed up.”
After the telescope, Nick didn’t want anything to happen to the reader, even though it was more durable. He grew very quiet, trying to calm Dek down. “You put that down.”
But Dek ignored him. “You’re a dumb kid. You can’t take care of yourself, and nobody likes you. Where will you go?”
Staring intently at the reader, remembering Grandma Ruth’s stories, Nick finally realized the answer. The one place where competence mattered, and idiots weren’t allowed. “Space.”
Dek laughed, waving the reader around. “Space? You’re not an idiot, you’re a fuckin’ moron! People get killed in space. Is that the kind of shit you been readin’? Ruth sure did a number on your head.”
One . . . But that was as high as Nick could bring himself to count. He exploded, barreling into Dek. This time he surprised his brother, knocking him to the ground. “You take that back!” Although Dek was bigger and stronger, it was the first time Nick struck back, sitting atop his brother’s chest and pummeling him with blows. “Take”—punch—“it back”—punch—“you worthless”—punch—“shit!” Punch. Punch. Punch. Punch. Punch!
Nick’s eyes filled with tears, until finally he couldn’t see where to hit; but by that time, Dek was dazed and sobbing himself, incoherently pleading for mercy.
Nick picked up the reader and inspected it for damage. When he was satisfied, he slid off his brother’s chest and stood up. “If you’re scared, stay home. But don’t make me stay
home because you’re scared.” Then he picked up his bag, slid the reader inside, and stormed out the door. The last thing he saw of the house was Dek on the floor, blubbering.
17. SÃO PAULO
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF PARK YERIM
10 JUNE 2083
By the time Admiral Morais finished her story, she was weeping. My own eyes were watering, and I wiped them on my sleeve. “That poor child,” I said.
Morais straightened up, surprising me. “Don’t. Don’t pity the child; he’s long gone. But now you understand the man. He ran away from a world where he didn’t fit in because he was too careful, too precise for people who just wanted to take whatever they could get away with. I’ve seen his psych profile. Yes, that’s against regulations, but I have my sources.” She paused and frowned. “Had. And I didn’t learn anything I hadn’t already figured out. Nick is obsessed with being right, with trying to control his surroundings by finding right answers, and he cannot understand why other people settle for wrong answers when it gets them what they want. He’s socially maladjusted because he grew up among broken people, so he had no examples of normal. Even Grandma Ruth, much as she loved him, left her mark: he picked up her obsessive perfectionism, which makes him good at his job but also dooms him to be disappointed in an imperfect world. He has attachment difficulties, I can tell you that personally. And he has major trust issues. He can only trust systems and people if he constantly tests them, always expecting to be disappointed. On those rare occasions when someone exceeds his expectations, he forms a deep bond—in his own damaged way. And trust is also why he reacts so strongly to lying: it’s a wrong answer and a violation of his trust.”
She looked over at the São Paulo door, then back at me. “And damaged as he is, he found a place where he could fit in, where his obsessions worked to his advantage: space exploration. And when his temperament wouldn’t let him get along in a world of bureaucrats and clock punchers and other people who didn’t approach space like he did, he found a way to end up here. He has built his own little world here, populated entirely by people he can trust, and who can therefore trust each other. It’s as close to happy as he has been since . . .” She stopped, blushing. “Well, in decades. But even here, he tests his people constantly.”
Morais wiped her eyes. “And I guarantee you one thing, Inspector: right now he’s testing you too. He’s watching to see how you handle your investigation. I hear from Carver that Nick respects what he has heard about you. Can he trust you?” She looked me in the eye. “If he does, don’t let him down.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. Finally I said, “I’ll try not to, Admiral. Thank you. Is that all?”
Morais shook her head, and she stood. “I also have this file to submit for your records.” She pushed a file to the desk.
I opened the file and read it: a full confession. I looked up at her, stunned. “I told you I hadn’t decided to press charges yet. Are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure,” she replied. “Do with it what you will. My lawyer is preparing a copy to file with the Initiative Council. It’s decided, Inspector.” With that, she turned and left the office.
Again I sat alone in my office. I looked at the e-reader on the desk, and I thought of the admiral’s story. Why had Aames left the e-reader here? He couldn’t have forgotten it, I knew that now. Was it some way of clinging to his space, leaving his mark on his desk? Or was it just an accident? But I didn’t believe in accidents when it came to Nick Aames.
No accidents. People he could trust.
Suddenly I felt an irresistible urge, one thing I had to do. It felt like the right answer. I picked up the e-reader, walked over to the São Paulo door, and thumbed the door chime. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and I thought Aames would likely rebuff me; but I stood and waited just the same. After several seconds, the door slid open, and I walked through.
I had expected more darkness, or maybe just a Spartan command cabin, but I wasn’t prepared for what I found: an elaborate simulation of a tropical beach. The deck was covered in a short-pile carpet that was dyed and speckled to look like sand. When I walked across it, it even had some of the give of beach sand underfoot. In place of a bunk there were two metal stanchions painted to look like wooden pilings; and between them was strung a hammock, loosely woven from thick strands of twine. Next to it was a rattan lounge chair.
One whole wall was a giant video display, showing a scene of the ocean at dawn. Gulls circled in the distance, the bright red of the horizon showed the edge of a yellow disk, and waves came rolling to the shore, stopping just short of the wall itself. Over the sound system, I heard the squawk of the gulls, the whoosh of the waves as they rolled in and the hiss of foam as they left, and the distant sound of someone playing a guitar. The illusion wasn’t real enough to convince you that you were at a beach—unless you wanted to be convinced.
And the final touch: palm trees, very tiny palms growing in clay pots. The walls of the room were crowded with bonsai pots on tables and shelves, a dozen miniature palms making the room almost a forest. The whole room smelled of damp earth, fertilizer, and a slight grassy odor. The scene around me was unfamiliar, but the scent reminded me of the rice farm back home.
Aames had to know I was there, but his back was to me as he worked on one of the trees. With his left hand he held up a branch, while with his right he reached out with a small pair of wire cutters. Snip. More than half the branch fell to the deck, where I saw four more tiny branches and a scattering of yellow leaves. Then he put down the scissors, picked up a small spool of wire, and methodically wrapped wire around the branch, supporting it up and away from the trunk.
When Aames was satisfied, he picked up the cutters again, and he snipped the wire, bending the end in line with the branch. Then without turning to look at me, he said, “Yes, Park? Have you come to swing the executioner’s ax in person?”
“No, Captain, I—” But just then a loud screech interrupted me as a gull flew right at us, swinging away from the wall at the last second. Despite knowing better, I flinched. Then I recovered my composure and tried again. “I thought you should have this.” At that, Aames finally turned to look at me. I held out the e-reader. “It has been cluttering up my office for long enough.”
“Yes, cluttering up your office,” Aames said. But he took the e-reader anyway: gently, you might even say reverently. “Thank you, Inspector.” Then he sat down in the rattan chair and started thumbing through books. His eyes focused intently on the screen, seeming to gleam. I felt unimportant, forgotten.
I thought there was something more I should say, but I wasn’t sure what. So I turned away and went back to the open door.
And when I stood there, right on the threshold between the black of space and the red-gold of the rising sun of São Paulo, I knew what I had to say. When I turned back, Aames was engrossed. I wasn’t sure he would even hear me, but I said my piece anyway. “You know, Chief Carver is a very good man.”
Aames didn’t look up at me, he didn’t move; but he replied, “That he is. None better.”
I stepped back into space, and the door to the beach closed behind me.
18. PLENARY POWER
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF PARK YERIM
11 JUNE 2083
I got no sleep that night, and neither did my team; but I promised them that after the next day, they could sleep for a week. I finally had the outline of a solution, and I needed them all researching facts, regulations, and precedents to be sure I didn’t overlook anything. Well, all but McCall and Decker: I still didn’t know if I could trust them, so I assigned them to summarize all regulations related to mutiny. That was useful research, and a mole couldn’t hurt us on that assignment.
I spent most of the night on the comm with Admiral Reed, discussing my plan. Back and forth we went, working around the 1.2-minute light-speed delay until we almost didn’t notice it. Reed would tear my plan apart, and I would rebuild it stronger, sometimes consulting with Matt. Reed would find a hole in my
supporting arguments, and I would send new research orders to my team. Matt pointed out the powerful people who would be upset by this, and Reed only laughed: he enjoyed upsetting powerful people and reminding them that they weren’t above the law.
And by 0640, Reed could no longer poke any holes in my plan. I had an answer for every objection, ready before he even raised it. Reed spent a solid twenty minutes interrogating me, but not a single argument got through.
At 0700, the desk chimed. We had set that deadline for our decision. I looked at the comm screen. “Well, Admiral, will you back me?”
Seventy seconds later, Reed answered, “Park, your case is solid. This plan is fully within your chapter 12 powers. We can make this stick. The only question is: Should we? We can do this, but is this the right thing to do? I can’t answer that, Park. You are the inspector general in charge. You’re my eyes on-site. This is your decision, and I’ll stand by it.”
I felt my weary shoulders lift, my chest swelling with pride. I looked at Matt, and he sat just as straight. He nodded.
“Admiral, it’s right,” I said. “If I can get them to sign on. I think I can.”
Reed grinned when he heard my answer. “Then why are you asking me, Park? Get to it. I’ll start things in motion on my end.” Then his tone turned more serious. “And Inspector? Damned fine work. I got lucky: the right person was in the right place at the right time. Dismissed.” He pushed the call closed.
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