“Most, anyway.”
“Yes. Olivia certainly. Peter and Fran. But I wonder about Susan and Anatoly. After what happened during their last rotation, should we risk the trouble until we absolutely have to?”
“Good point. And we'll still have eight of us available. That's easily a quorum. Or rather, seven.”
Lara frowned, dropped eye contact. “Captain Navarro? You don't think he should take part? It's possible he'll be lucid. In the week since I took him out of stasis, he’s had a few clear moments. We’ve talked about things that made sense. Sort of.”
“I don’t feel good about it, Lara. He could be very disruptive at an important time. And trying to brief him on our status, well, that could be exhausting.”
“Still, I have to try to talk to him. He was our captain, and contrary to what Peter or some of the others might think, he didn’t deserve what happened on Centauri III.”
“He made a mistake. He wasn’t the only one, as you’ll recall. No one blames him anymore. But it’s going to take the kind of medicine only Earth’s doctors can give to bring Miguel out of this. You should let him rest until we’re home.”
Lara knew he was right, and she almost always followed the advice of the man with whom she planned to spend her remaining life. Yet she did not absolve herself of this responsibility. The image of a once-great man lying bloodied and dying in the cabin of Napier while she sat frozen in terror continued to flash before her 15 years later. This was his job she held; this was his right.
I won’t let you fade away like this, she thought.
Minutes later, as she entered the outer corridor of Andorran’s habitation sector and approached Navarro’s quarters, Lara turned her eyes toward space, through a long, deep viewport at the center of which was a crescent Earth.
She was anxious, her greatest tinge of hope soured by a silence from her home world that reminded her somehow of the final hours of approach toward a planet named Centauri III.
“We were happy then,” she whispered. “We were very happy.”
4
D
awn over the Atlanta Federated District. Bryan Drenette despised it.
The start of another day of politicorp machinations, MassGrid interspeaks, a fraud overtrial, a summary execution, four glasses of vodka, and the realization that he was nearing 40 yet was no closer to attaining what brought him to this city in the first place.
The balcony on which Bryan stood was 22 floors above concrete. He stood here on more than a handful of occasions, watched the first tint of orange rise above the eastern horizon and considered how quickly he might bring all of this to a pathetic albeit quick finale.
He hadn’t even bothered to put on underwear this particular morning, stepping out here to light the fattest cigar from his collection, drawing almost every puff into his lungs. There was a time when such a practice amounted to slow suicide. Then cancer was cured.
The capital of the Pan American Community was not yet awake, save a few sanitation Sprints humming in virtual silence through the broad streets along with a smattering of joggers and drunken refugees from the all-night adventure clubs. Even the street symphony was quiet, its soothing if not repetitious melodies to begin when its sensors were triggered by sunlight.
As he inhaled deeply, allowed the pungent smoke to play around in his mouth and drift out in swirls through his nose, a warm hand rested upon his shoulder, and he tensed. Bryan did not turn around to acknowledge his lover of five years.
“Is this a private moment, or would you like us to do it right here?” The woman said immediately before a yawn.
“Last night wasn’t enough?”
“For me, yes. But you never seem to have your fill.”
Bryan managed a slight, smoke-clouded smile, then turned to her. She pulled her robe tight and locked her arms against her chest.
“Cold?” He mocked.
“It couldn’t be more than 11 degrees, maybe 12. I don’t know how you stand it like that.”
“I grew up in the north. This is nothing, Janise. We all have our talents, and resistance to the cold is one of mine. And if pneumonia sets in, I’ll take a pill.”
He wanted to run his hands through Janise Albright’s auburn hair, wrap his body around her tall, thin physique, kiss her alabaster skin and lose himself in her electric brown eyes. But he wasn’t going to do it. She hated the odor of cigars on her body, and he tried to time his indulgence when the sexual urge was non-existent.
“Used to be you waited until after breakfast to start smoking,” she said. “Now you’re in a cloud of it before the sun’s up. Why?”
He flicked ash over the balcony and forced a cough.
“Because I have a lifetime of anger that won’t let go. Because for the last six years I’ve sent common thieves to their deaths. Because my life as I know it could end any moment. And because I have a lover who takes everything from me except my love.” He paused to watch the sting in Janise’s eyes. “The cigar forces me to breathe.”
He took another deep puff, and then a hand crossed in front of him and snatched the cigar. Janise took a long draw of the tobacco, allowed the smoke into her lungs and held it, then blew it back in Bryan’s face. She flicked the cigar over the balcony and went inside his suite.
“Fuck,” he said under his breath, returned inside and turned on the door shield behind him. “I’m not going to apologize for that. Accuse me of anything you want, but not of being a liar. We’ve been down this road.”
She unrobed and sat on the end of the bed. “Yes, and you could have prevented it. We were never supposed to be anything more than accomplices. The rules of the game were laid down right from the start. I don’t understand why you need to piss me off.”
He shrugged. “I don’t. Honestly, I don’t. I’m … I’m tired, Janise. I wake up and I’m tired. Sick, more likely. I was so sure we’d have made the difference by now. But every day ends with the repetition of the day before and … I’m tired.”
“Listen to me, Bryan. A lot of us feel we’re not all that far away from turning the corner. When Andorran finally returns …”
He cut her off. “Mythology. Andorran is mythology, just like anything else we can’t see with our own eyes. We walk around in this mad illusion of a perfect world plotting to turn it upside down, clinging to a desperate notion that Andorran is the key to breaking out the truth. The reality is we’re nothing more than background scenery in a symphony of chaos. We want to be heard, but we’ll always be drowned out by the music.” She had no response, so he chuckled. “So concludes my pontification for this morning. I’m going to shower. Join me?”
“No. I think I’d rather eat. What would you like for breakfast?”
“Doesn’t matter, Janise. And don’t put yourself out. Get on your Fountain and order in, or better yet, have Matilda fix something.”
“Squire food is erratic at best.”
He took matters into his own hands. “Matilda?”
“GOOD MORNING, BRYAN.” The mechanized voice was fragile, soothing and yet embedded in the coarsely distinctive Australian accent for which it had been programmed. Matilda’s voice fell from a hidden speaker above the bedpost.
“What’s on the menu, Matilda?”
“TODAY WILL BE QUITE BUSY FOR YOU, SO I HAVE ALREADY BEGUN PREPARATION OF BREAKFAST. BELGIAN WAFFLES, FRESH RASPBERRIES AND VEAL SLIPS. AFTERWARD, IF YOU WOULD LIKE, I WILL ALSO MAKE CLOTHING SELECTIONS THAT ARE MOST SUITABLE FOR THE LIKELY EXECUTION YOU WILL OVERSEE.”
“That sounds good, Matilda, but I don't think I can handle a heavy load this morning. Just enough to get me going. Leave me a couple of slips to go along with coffee, and I'll have what I need. But I think my guest will want the full complement.”
“UNDERSTOOD, BRYAN. COFFEE HAS BEEN BREWED. I'LL HAVE THE SLIPS MOMENTARILY.”
He was appreciative of Matilda's nurturing desire to see him served a complete breakfast – indeed, it was inherent to her progr
am – but Bryan knew it made practical sense to curb his intake on mornings such as this. After all, carrying a full stomach into a Class 1 BluCard fraud overtrial was always a recipe for nausea. He didn’t wait for Janise’s approval of the menu and went straight into the shower without another word to her or to his LifeSquire unit.
Water pulsed in spirals against him, exactly at the outrageously frigid temperature to which it had been programmed. It pounded hard against his flat chest, then rushed down over his chiseled abdomen as a translucent blanket, and he released a deep, guttural sigh just as he did every morning at this time.
Finally, he dropped his head into the spray and shook it violently as the chilling water thoroughly awakened every synapse of his mind. As he kept his eyes closed and turned his back against the spray, Bryan whispered:
“SS link. Morning report.”
He felt a gentle whirr of energy as it stirred his brain, and then the subdonic stream chip implanted behind and just above his right ear became his third eye.
Out of the darkness of his mind emerged words, sights and sounds, all firing upon him at a rate faster than he could have comprehended by studying a vioptric display.
“Welcome to MassGrid uplink! Brought to you today by the Sympatico Group. At Sympatico, the 23rd Century is already here. First up this morning, news from the Pan American Community and its protectorates...”
His conscious mind looked down upon a highway of visuals from all across the united regions of the PAC: Canada, America, Mexico, New Salvador, Northern Panama, and all those other rejuvenated states that once tried to go their own ways, control their own destinies, despise their neighbors simply because political maps said they should. Now they were approaching their 20th anniversary as one politicorporate entity.
He saw faces, schematics, mountains and oceans, dividend reports, BluCard biosystems updates, vallor inflation gradients and virtual vacation offers.
“... which brings the count to an amazing 55 million satisfied patrons in 26 months ... anticipate beautiful spring weather today with highs nearing 17 in the AFD and 18 to the south ... DisneyCorp today will declare four-time Alton Award-winner Redeye Poppins has breached his 6-year, V24 million contract and will seek an immediate overtrial. Poppins reportedly vanished from his San Diego triplex ... MassGrid Subgroup for the PAC is expected to upgrade its internal microweb links by altering its primary transponder codes, thereby allowing greater consumer access to the WorldMarket's vallor credit stores ... and said he expects the team's lineup change to have no bearing on tonight's skyball semifinal matchup between Guadalajara and Santa Fe ... these wonderful pictures from last night's graduation ceremonies at District South Senior School, as thousands of excited 15-year-olds make that exciting transition into the real world. And, of course, the Pan American Community will be with them every step of the way ... Overseas, there is growing anticipation that the Trans-Euro Collective will upgrade ...”
The entire report, which consisted of more than 400 entries on at least 120 different subjects, was completed in 90 seconds.
Bryan could have slowed the transmission to receive layered coverage of specific entries. But nothing struck him as being particularly urgent, and he knew his mind would eventually sort through it all anyway, replay it over the course of the morning. And what he wouldn't see in playback would nevertheless be stored in his conscious memory, accessible at any instant.
“Release SS link,” he said as he stepped from the shower and reached for a towel.
“Farewell from MassGrid. And remember, the future is secure in the Pan American Community.”
The bathroom's silent air blowers warmed him as he dried off, and they cleared the mist from the mirror above the sink.
In routine silence, he finished his business: A sheet of shaving cloth gently massaged and removed his day-old beard and dissolved his nasal hairs; a touch of petrozine oil toned down the effect of the 22-year-old scar just below his left temple; and a custom-fit scalp brush gently combed and gelled his hair.
A compartment opened along the wall to his right, and an artificial arm stretched outward holding a large mug of coffee. He grabbed it delicately and sipped cautiously. He sighed, stared at the mirror for almost 30 seconds, then sipped again.
“Matilda?”
“YES, BRYAN?”
“How long have you been my LifeSquire?”
“SIX YEARS, TWO MONTHS, 22 DAYS.”
“In that time, how would you say I have ... changed?”
“THAT WOULD CALL FOR A SUBJECTIVE ANALYSIS, BRYAN. I'M AFRAID THAT IS NOT WITHIN MY PROTOCOL.”
Bryan offered a mocking laugh. “I couldn't care less about protocol. You're mine, Matilda. I'm not going to replace you because you overstepped bounds at my request.”
“I UNDERSTAND FULLY, BRYAN. BUT TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTION, I WILL NEED TIME TO RESTRUCTURE MY PROTOCOL PARAMETERS. MAY I RESPOND LATER IN THE DAY?”
“Yes,” he said sharply, then restrained himself, lowered his voice. “Yes, please. I would appreciate it, Matilda.”
Bryan had not requested she do so, but Matilda took the initiative to determine his ensemble for the day, and it was displayed on a moving rack at the front of the wardrobe.
“Yes, this will do,” he said softly. The shirt was violet silk, no collar, no buttons. The pants were cotton black, triple-pleated. The cummerbund was a gray-on-white argyle pattern, formal and yet subdued. Together, Bryan knew, they set the right tone for what would be expected of the PAC's Chief of Domestic Security.
He sipped the last of his coffee and attached his Fountain to a small pockmark between his temple and adjacent to his right eye socket. The pale node, which was no more than a half-inch in diameter, sealed itself against his flesh, and a tiny, almost imperceptible green beacon ignited. The amp trigger inside provided him a vioptric presentation of all images and data flowing into his subdonic stream chip from MassGrid.
“I may be in the mood for recreational amping by midday, Matilda. Select a program I haven't used before and have it ready, will you?”
“INDEED, BRYAN.”
“Thank you,” he said under his breath, then found Janise in the living room, dressed and enjoying a double helping of waffles.
She was ready for corporate battle – above her beige daysuit was a crimson sarong, selected from the half-dozen she kept in Bryan’s suite. Her hair was pulled back.
“I thought this was your week working on the home link,” he said.
“Yes, it is. But sometimes I just like to look good. Oh, and I just did something very generous for you. I heard about a small Subgroup in the Cuban protectorate that actually sells the cigars you’ve been looking for. Only six vallors each. Not bad for a rare find. I’ll post their WorldMarket link, then do as you will.”
“Thanks. I’ll stock up. It’s only a matter of time before the only ones on the market are that odorless junk I’m forced to smoke at Dome. I’m off!”
“So early?”
“Going to walk. Work out the tension before another damn overtrial. And then more prep work for the PAC anniversary week, even though it’s four months off.”
Janise left her waffles and came to Bryan, offered a gentle kiss to one cheek. “Don’t let this job overwhelm you. We’re going to need you fresh and ready to go when the time comes. I’m worried about what’s happening to you.”
“Me? I’ll be fine. Although I’d be much better off if I knew your concern was more for me than for the role I’d play if Andorran ever returned. I’ll link with you later in the week.”
He didn’t hear her response, nor did he hear the door slam behind him. He numbed himself for another day of repetition in the world of politicorps.
5
T
he hardest part of facing Captain Miguel Navarro was to look at the man now and remember who he was. Lara Singer refused to reconcile the notion that someone who was once one of Earth’s 10 most recognized faces now drifted inside a mental s
torm.
When the door to his living compartment slipped open, Miguel was visible in the shadowed darkness, lying on his side, his fearful brown eyes locked in an aimless stare. Lara stepped inside the tiny quarters, activated the yellow ceiling panel by voice, brightening the otherwise gray metallic environment.
As she looked upon him with pity, Lara remembered their first encounter – still the most nerve-wracking day of her life.
Six months before Andorran's departure, the international crew made its first full assemblage after months of specialized training. Yet Lara was the only crewmate meeting her captain for the first time. She had not slept, her stomach too knotted to allow it. Navarro, after all, was more than just her supervisor, more than a high-ranking ASTROcom official.
Navarro was an international hero.
He had been General of the South American United Air Force. Destroyer of the universally feared New Dawn terrorists. Visionary. Philanthropist. In short, one of the few men who would be remembered through history simply by his last name.
She remembered how he entered that conference room with such magnetic presence, but immediately cast himself as a humble, even soft-spoken man who could bring a wave of relaxed confidence over all around him.
Navarro had done such a job to bolster her confidence then, and she wanted desperately to do at least as much for him now. She quietly took a seat beside his bed.
“Captain Navarro? It's Lara. How are you doing today? Can you sit up?”
Although the man had only been out of hibersleep for five years of this journey, he aged much more dramatically. Taking into account the preservative effect of hibersleep, Navarro had the body of a 58-year-old man. He could have passed for 80. His complexion – once a healthy, firm Brazilian tan – was pale and marked with blotches. His hair was milky as moonlight.
“Captain, we're almost home. We made it back. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”
“Home? I think I know where that is,” Navarro said softly and rose from his pillow. He rolled the tip of his tongue over his dry lips. “Can't remember how many years ... well, perhaps I do. That's right. Sixteen years in Sao Paulo. Left ... left just before ...”
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