by Haber, Karen
“And you won.”
Before he could respond, the music changed to a fanfare of horns. The dance platform lowered gently until it was level with the rest of the ballroom floor.
Narlydda and Yosh came to rest facing the main entrance. Slowly, the door petals irised open to reveal Ashman, glowing in red silk pants and tunic. His skin was silvery, seemingly translucent. Narlydda expected to see his veins pulsing, silver-blue, just beneath the skin.
Ashman ignored the clamor of the guests and made his way toward Narlydda.
“I’m so glad to see you,” he said eagerly. “So glad you’re here.”
“That’s very flattering.” Narlydda paused, uneasy. He seemed as guileless as a small boy. “I’d been wondering where you were.”
“Were you?” He smiled in delight. “Come talk to me, Narlydda. I want to hear about your work. About you. I think in some ways, we’re very much alike.” He took hold of her arm possessively. His touch was surprisingly strong.
Tavia Emory bore down upon them. “This is a party, Victor. You mustn’t ignore the other guests.”
Narlydda flashed her a grateful look. “Yes,” she said. “You have so many people here who are so anxious to see you—they’re all bored with me already.” She forced a yawn. “And I’ve been up since dawn. I’d really like to lie down. But don’t forget our appointment, Tavia. Tomorrow, before I leave.”
“You’re leaving?” Ashman seemed thunderstruck. “But I thought we were going to take a shuttle ride up to see Moonstation to survey the plaza and—”
“All commercial and private flights to Moonstation have been canceled,” Tavia said curtly. “You know that. Even the Emory fleet has been denied clearance. And besides, Narlydda has work to do.”
“Yes,” the artist said. “I have commitments and work at home.”
Ashman looked so crestfallen that she almost felt sorry for him. But the urge to get away was stronger.
“Oh.” He looked at the floor sadly. Then he brightened. “Well, maybe I’ll see you before you leave.”
“Of course.”
He waved and, with Tavia at his side, moved on into the crowd.
Relieved, Narlydda watched him go. He was an odd one, all right: spooky, even for a mutant. She looked around, but Yosh had disappeared. A pity. Narlydda would have liked to thank him for the dance, but she didn’t see a trace of him in the swirling mix of partygoers. Never mind. She could find her way back to her room alone. In five minutes, she was alone, safe behind the glazed pink-and-gold door.
Parties! The small talk. The patience and bright talk required of her despite the endless, presumptuous rudeness on the part of grotesque strangers. Why had she come here? How she longed for the quiet of her own home.
Gladly, she put aside her party finery and crawled into the huge bed. The covers were pale pink and feather-light. A soothing floral scent wafted toward her from the pillow. She fell into a comfortable slumber, dreaming at first that she was walking along a moonlit landscape, Skerry at her side. In silence, they walked, hand in hand. But as they approached a fork in the path, Skerry released her, moving away on a separate trajectory. “Don’t go,” she called. “Come back.” But he dwindled until he was only a bright spot of light on the horizon. And then gone. But wait … he’s coming back. Yes, riding through the white haze of the desert, moonlight on him, atop a silver horse. But it’s not Skerry. No. The face is pale, eyes silvery. It’s Ashman, and before she can speak, he dismounts and pulls her toward him, into his own private world, and he is touching her without touching her. She is silvery green, bathed in moonlight, sighing with delight at his mindtouch, dancing in his arms to strange music. His hands, when they reach her, are gentle, so gentle at first. And then less so, but that’s good too. And the small voice behind her eyes which is saying no, no, not this one, stop it, this isn’t a dream, that voice is very faint, very weak, and after a time, she doesn’t hear it at all. The only thing she can hear is her own blood pulsing as she dances in the moonlight, naked, in the middle of a silvery dream desert, with Ashman.
The California desert air sizzled, even in January. Michael hurried into the building, grateful for its refrigerated cool. He shivered as the sweat evaporated from his body.
I can’t believe Melanie’s here, he thought. It’s good to see her. A welcome distraction from the business of the investigation. Hope I wasn’t too hard on her. Hard to know how to act with her.
He walked quickly toward the main auditorium, repeating the chant for calmness. Ahead of him, the black doors loomed like sentinels.
Here goes everything.
Michael took a deep breath, pushed open the old-fashioned double doors, and entered the auditorium. The room was shabby and badly in need of repainting, with a mottled, greenish tint to the walls. Down front, the congressional subcommittee sat in the isolation that authority confers: suspended five feet above the crowd on a curved, raised platform.
“Michael Ryton! Calling Michael Ryton,” the wallscreen announced.
Nerves jumping, he hurried down the narrow aisle, aware of every eye in the place trained on him. Michael stood before the video terminals that lined the base of the front platform to confirm his identification. Placed his hand against the palmpad for fingerprint check. That completed, he took a seat beside Bill Sutherland. The congressmen stared down at him imperiously.
Kate Fisher, the salty consumer advocate and Democratic representative from Rhode Island, presided. Next to her sat Roland Johnston, D-Mississippi, Tami Feldman, D-New York, Jason Jordon, R-Wisconsin, and Darlene Timons, R-Oregon.
“Talk about a packed jury,” Michael whispered to Sutherland. “They’re notoriously antibusiness.”
Bill Sutherland gave him a sympathetic smile.
Kate Fisher glared over her old-fashioned lenses framed in silver and gold chromium.
“Mr. Ryton, it’s my understanding that you requested the opportunity to make a taped sworn deposition rather than appear here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why?”
“Well, I’m a busy man, and—”
“Too busy to appear before a congressional inquiry? My goodness, that’s busy indeed.” Representative Fisher smiled frostily. Beside her, Representative Johnston snickered.
Michael kept his face impassive.
“Mr. Ryton,” Representative Fisher continued. “Your company specializes in space engineering, does it not?”
“Yes.”
“You have completed several contracts for NASA, and have constructed Brayton generators for Moonstation?”
“That is correct.”
“Has your firm constructed any of the environmental dome units on Moonstation?”
“Only two subsidiary units to store mechs.”
She bore down on him. “Will you describe what safety features are standard requirements on these dome units?”
“We use an extruded polymer, a half-meter thick, heat and cold tempered, designed specifically to withstand artificial gravity and atmospheric pressures in vacuum and pressurized environments.”
Fisher sighed as though the details bored her. “Were you familiar with the materials used for the dome unit that imploded?”
“Only in passing. The materials were all standard, as far as I could tell.”
“Could tell?”
Bill Sutherland cut in. “I respectfully remind the congresswoman that Mr. Ryton was not present during the fabrication of this dome, nor involved in the contract. His father agreed to act as subcontractor for Aubenay—”
“Yes, yes, we know all that,” Fisher said. She turned toward her chalk-white deskscreen. “Play back Captain McLeod’s testimony.”
McLeod? Michael felt a chill. The screens before him came to life with a dozen images of a woman in a purple uniform. She had a heart-shaped face, short, dark hair, and blue eyes. It was a face from out of his past. His dreams. Kelly McLeod.
“I looked up and saw the dome cracking. …” the recorded image said. M
ichael stared in wonder. She hadn’t changed in fifteen years. The soft lips. The pale skin. She was still lovely. He closed his eyes. Opened them, and saw her. Not the image, but Kelly herself. She was sitting at the far side of the first row of spectators, wearing a purple shuttle corps uniform, which made her seem official and yet appealing all at the same time. Her dark hair was cut shorter than he remembered, curling around her face. Her eyes, deep blue, sparkled as he remembered. Her face was pale.
Kelly. Here, now. Michael’s heart began to pound.
Her eyes met his. Her mouth opened in shock. What was she thinking?
The drone of the recorded testimony ended. Michael became aware of the silence surrounding him. Representative Fisher stared at him severely.
“Have you any response, Mr. Ryton?”
“Uh, no. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
Michael’s cheeks reddened. “Could I hear the testimony again?”
Fisher sighed in disgust. “Replay.”
The tape began again: Kelly’s clear alto voice soberly recounting the implosion at Moonstation. When it ended, the congresswoman looked at him expectantly.
Concentrate, he told himself. Moonstation. Stress on the dome supports.
“When was the dome last checked for fatigue and for faults?” Michael asked.
Fisher turned to an aide behind her. He glanced down at a notescreen, then replied, “Six months ago, regular maintenance.”
“With all due respect, we recommend a twelve-week maintenance survey in vacuum environments,” Michael said.
“Mr. Ryton, it’s difficult to take your position seriously,” Fisher said. “How can you recommend additional safety checks now, considering that you and your father were involved in supporting legislation fifteen years ago that removed safety regulations on space engineering?” Her tone was frankly hostile.
Michael bristled. “That’s misleading and untrue. We only lobbied for reduction of certain unnecessary measures. …”
“Unnecessary to whom?” Fisher said. “Would the Moonstation casualties still be alive and among us now if those safeguards had been in place?”
“I have no idea.”
“No idea?”
Bill Sutherland broke in. “I again respectfully remind the congresswoman that Mr. Ryton was neither the primary contractor, nor the engineer assigned to this project. Without additional information …”
“And I again tell you that we’re aware of these facts,” Fisher said sharply. “Nevertheless, Mr. Ryton, you refuse to see a connection between your lobbying efforts and corresponding relaxation of industry standards which might have resulted in this tragedy?”
“Absolutely,” Michael said. “The measures we addressed concerned the engineering of generators and factory equipment. Not environmental domes.”
“But didn’t they have long-term effects upon industry standards?”
“I doubt it. But more specifically, I don’t know.”
“How convenient.” Fisher gave him a look of pure malice. “Nevertheless, these fatigue flaws to which you allude sound like an attempt to shift attention away from the materials your firm generated. Couldn’t the materials have been flawed to begin with? The engineering substandard?”
Michael’s face turned red with anger. “They never would have been allowed out of the plant. As my lawyer has said repeatedly, my firm was a subcontractor for this dome. I suggest you interview the primary contractor.” He glared back at Fisher. It was Aubenay’s dome, and his problem.
Fisher subsided abruptly into icy professionalism.
“Very well, Mr. Ryton. Thank you. You may go. For the time being.”
Warily, he rose from his seat. He glanced across the room, hoping to catch Kelly’s eye again. But the seat in which she had been sitting was now vacant. She was gone.
Melanie left the press box quickly. A headache was rapidly gaining strength behind her eyeballs. She rubbed her forehead and wondered where she’d put her alpha blockers. The interrogation had been brutal, with all the signs of a real witch-hunt, just as she’d feared. And her brother was the prey they were after. Michael had defended himself well, but she was worried just the same. Even if he was innocent, once her compadres in the media got finished with him, he’d be lucky if somebody let him make screen components in Little Korea, much less manufacture Moonstation domes. And what was she going to do about this story? How could she report the public “lynching” of her brother in glorious, living videotape?
Her lapscreen buzzed. She flipped it open.
The image of Randall Camphill appeared, staring at her.
“Ryton, we’re sending Ralph Ferron to relieve you,” he said. “I want you in this office, pronto.”
Melanie nearly dropped her screen. “Relieve me? Why?”
“I want you to accompany Nesse to Emory Foundation.”
“Emory Foundation!” She stared at her boss in confusion.
“Yeah. I finally worked out an agreement with Mrs. Emory to do a series of interviews with her and that supermutant, Ashman.”
“The strange guy with the silver eyes? You’re kidding.”
“No. Get back here. Now.”
“But—”
“But what?”
She’d almost said “What about my brother?” She stammered for a moment. “Uh, the investigation is heating up. …”
“Ferron will cover it.” Camphill’s eyes were icy. “Unless you’d prefer I sent somebody else to Scottsdale?”
Melanie shook her head fervently. “No, no. Of course not, chief. I’m on my way.”
“Good.” His image vanished.
Well, so much for watching her brother be chewed on by the congressional lions. A small voice in her head told her she was being disloyal, that she should have refused the assignment and stayed. Maybe so. But to refuse Randall C. was certain death careerwise. She knew that. And besides, she was confused enough about her feelings toward the family. Maybe a cooling-off period was a good idea. Michael would be fine without her. She’d leave a message for him and try to return as soon as she could. That supermutant had to be a fake. Maybe she and Nesse would wrap up this story quickly, and she could get back here by the end of the week. Sighing with relief, Melanie bundled her equipment together and punched in a request for a taxi. Sometimes her life felt like one long, revolving shuttle ride.
CHAPTER NINE
.
Kelly McLeod opened her eyes and stretched in the morning sunlight. Nine o’clock. She just had time for breakfast. In the corner of the room, her message screen blinked in blue letters. She hadn’t bothered to check it last night. Yawning, she padded over to it and hit the replay switch.
The image of Melanie Ryton appeared. She looked nervous. “Kelly, I’ve got to leave—I’ve been reassigned to a different story. I didn’t get a chance to tell Michael, I can’t find the screen code for his hotel, my shuttle is about to leave, and besides, I can’t afford to let anybody know how we’re connected. So please keep your eye on him for me. If you need to reach me, try AF7951-CABLENEWS. I’ll try to get back as soon as I can. Thanks.” She nodded and the image faded.
“Damn,” Kelly muttered. Melanie’s got to be kidding, she thought. The last thing I want to do is keep an eye on her brother. I thought I’d made that clear. She has a hell of a nerve—funny, I don’t remember her being that way in high school. Seems like she’s made up for lost time. Well, regardless, Michael would just have to look after himself, because Kelly would be far, far away.
She dressed quickly in a standard purple shuttle corps uniform. Hair neat, a touch of lipstick, and she was ready. As she walked toward the commissary, Kelly reviewed her plan. She would ask Landon for a leave of absence until the subcommittee had finished its preliminary investigation. If they hanged Michael Ryton from the shuttle’s landing gear, at least she wouldn’t be around to see it. She’d given her testimony. What more did they need from her?
After a quick cup of coffee from the
commech, she hurried to her shuttle commander’s temporary quarters in the next building. Luckily, Landon was in, and his assistant, Marc Hershman, buzzed her ahead.
“Colonel?”
Landon looked up from his screen. “Come in, McLeod.”
She set her jaw in determination, walked in, and sat on the narrow red chair in front of his desk. The room was filled with pink memorypaks and triple-column printouts. Screenwork. The bane of every shuttle jockey’s Earthside rotation.
“Sir, I request a change of assignment.” Her voice shook on the last word.
He stared at her a moment, eyes glittering. Kelly had the uncomfortable sensation that he could look right through her.
“What do you mean?”
She shifted uneasily in her seat. “Sir, I don’t think that I’m really being useful now that my testimony is on record, and I could be working—”
“You are working.”
She nodded quickly. “Yes, I know. But I don’t see why—”
“You know your duty, McLeod.”
“Then I request leave.”
He leaned toward her. “Why the sudden wanderlust?”
“It’s personal.”
“I assumed that.” His expression softened. “What’s going on, Kelly? Something wrong? You and Grant not getting along?”
“What difference would that make?” she asked sharply.
Landon sighed. “You’re not helping me out, Kelly. I can’t release you without a damned good reason. Now stop wasting my time. And yours.”
Kelly hesitated. Could she trust him?
“Come on, Kelly. Or else I have to deny your request automatically.”
She had no choice. When she spoke, her voice felt tight in her throat. “I knew one of the witnesses.”
“I see. Who?”
“Michael Ryton, sir.”
Landon’s eyes widened. “Ryton? How well?”
“Very well, sir. If you know what I mean.”
Landon sighed. He reached across the tan acrylic desk and turned off his screen.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
