The Quiet Pools

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  “Malena Graham is dead, but her death will have meaning if only we can read the warning in it. Malena Graham is gone, but there are nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine more tragedies that can still be averted.

  “I say this to the family of Earth: When a child goes astray, a good parent will use a firm hand to bring them to heel. The greater the danger, the firmer our hand must be. We must speak the hard truths. We must set limits. Those who see must act, or those who are blind will stumble.

  “I say this to the pioneers of Memphis: We have learned from our mistakes. The Earth is healing. The disease which divided us has been defeated. Now we will correct one last mistake, by saving you from yours. This day, I have struck at the heart of Memphis, in the most protected refuge of Allied Transcon. And I will strike again, and again, until the fantasy is shattered and the demon destroyed—because I love you.

  “Listen to me: There are no other Edens. This Earth is all you need. You may not leave.”

  CHAPTER 23

  —GAC—

  “…notions of progress…”

  It was the emptiest, loneliest night Christopher McCutcheon could remember.

  Outside the house, a drenching winter rain was sweeping the dusty streets, the fat droplets beating against the windows when the wind gusted. Hiding out from the storm in their vehicles, two stalwart microcam crews, competing independents, waited at the mouth of the cul-de-sac, hoping Christopher would make an appearance or agree to an interview. It was a small mercy that there were only two—the morning after the concert, there had been eleven cameras waiting for him when he started for work.

  The attrition was largely Allied’s doing. As part of its response to Malena’s murder, the company had gone to war with the media on his behalf. Management dispatched spin doctors and jackmen to divert their attention elsewhere, and loosed its attorneys to end the use of the bootleg concert recording (the source of which was still not known, though signs pointed toward Papa Wonders).

  No doubt he was becoming old news, and soon even the last holdouts would lose interest. Still, he felt trapped. The house was at once the only place where he was guaranteed privacy and the last place he wanted to be.

  Christopher knew, though it was no comfort, that his dilemma was largely self-created. He had squandered most of the compassion offered him in the wake of Tuesday’s horrors. Brittle-tempered and bitter-tongued at best, inconsolably self-hating at his worst, he had exhausted the sympathy of his friends by the end of the first day and the patience of his supervisor by the end of the second. She banished him from the complex late Thursday with orders to take the weekend off and see a staff facilitator when he returned Monday.

  “You’re all turned inside out, Christopher, with the ugly parts on the outside and the good stuff tucked away,” was her blunt assessment. “Get your attitude adjusted and come back in tune, because I need you on task.”

  The oddest part, looking back, was that he had known exactly what he was doing. As if he wanted to make them despise him as much as he despised himself. As if making them reject him would confirm his harshest judgments of himself and make him feel as miserable as he thought he ought to.

  And he had succeeded. He was quite alone, and he had never felt quite so awful.

  Jessie was somewhere in the city with John Fields, the fifth time in two weeks they had disappeared on a formal evening date. And Loi was in the moon room’s whirlpool with a new playmate, the lion-maned son of a Dallas client. From time to time, Christopher could hear the splash of water, a titter of laughter, from behind the privacy-opaqued glass door.

  It should be me in there with her, he thought wistfully, wishfully. Could have been.

  Loi had been home Tuesday night when Tidwell delivered him to the front door. She had seen him struggling with his conscience, witnessed the body blow as he learned that his name and music were linked to a bloody murder that was top of the queue on every net. She had offered him motherly consolation and caught the full force of a broadside of bile for her trouble. He had been too busy being unapproachable, unlovable, to accept the comforts she offered.

  No, he could not blame her for leaving him to his own devices—though, in truth, neither could he quite forgive her.

  Or himself, he realized. Or I wouldn’t be sitting here in the pit making myself listen to them play.

  “Music,” he said.

  “What kind of music?” asked the house AIP.

  “Loud music,” he said, sinking down further in the cushions.

  Better alternatives were scarce. He had already run the list of programs in storage without finding anything that could command his attention. Daniel Keith was locked in a late-night conference with Karin Oker and the senior selection staff; he would not be free until after Saturday’s memorial service and Sunday’s postponed send-off ceremonies.

  And Christopher’s usual diversion had no appeal at all—he had not picked up the Martin since leaving the stage at Wonders, and it seemed unlikely he would again soon.

  “This is no good,” he said aloud.

  The music ceased. “What would you like?”

  “An answer.”

  “I’m sorry. I did not hear the question.”

  Christopher snorted. Baiting the house AIP? A game for ten-year-olds. Is that how low I’ve gone? “Show me the mail list,” he said.

  The frozen patterns on the main display faded and the list sprang into view.

  “Kill one through five,” he said, scanning. “Parasites. Kill seven. Tell eleven to fuck off.”

  “That would be considered rude.”

  “I know. Do it, anyway.” He squinted up at the wall. “I’m gonna be brave. Show me number eight.”

  The list vanished, and the face of Lenore Edkins appeared. He was in his Building H office, and frowning.

  “Christopher—I had hoped to tell you myself, but apparently you’re not in the complex today,” Edkins said. “Good news can keep as well as bad, but I thought you’d want to know. Maybe you’ve already guessed. ‘Caravan to Antares’ will be in the Memphis hyper. Through the front door. You’re relevant now.”

  Edkins tried a smile. “For what it’s worth, I think you could have cracked in on artistic merit—the best work I’ve seen from you. Anyway, congratulations. Maybe the circumstances aren’t the best, but I know how much you wanted it.”

  Somewhere in the middle of the message, Christopher’s mind switched off, and something wild and ugly took hold of him. Giving voice to a cry that began as a growl and ended as a shriek, he seized an onyx carving off the end table. In a single seamless motion, he came to his feet and hurled the carving overhand with all his strength at the wallscreen.

  His throw was wild high, and the carving buried itself with a small puff of white dust in the soft plasterboard above the screen. It was over that quickly, the impulse grounded in one explosion of sound and movement, leaving him feeling drained and wobbly-legged.

  As he stood staring wonderingly up at the hole, Loi appeared at the door of the moon room. She was dripping wet and wearing only a troubled expression.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Sorry,” he said, turning toward her. “I’m all right. Go back to your friend.”

  She looked past him briefly, her glance taking in his redeco-ration. “Then what was the screaming about?”

  “I was celebrating,” he said wryly. “Primal victory cry.”

  “Celebrating?”

  He dropped into a chair. “I’m going to live forever. The company just told me so.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Are you under?”

  “No,” he said, trying to manage an embarrassed smile. “Unless self-pity is a drug. Which it probably is. Please—go on back to your friend. I really didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll—I can leave the house if you want.”

  She frowned, studying him. “Only if you need the distance. Not for me.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  She hesitated. “Mark won’t be stay
ing,” she said. “We can talk later if you need to.”

  Looking at her glistening body, Christopher remembered something Daniel had said when struggling to explain why he wasn’t comfortable around Loi. “She’d make a lousy lifeguard,” he had said finally. “She’d kneel on the edge and hold out her hand, but she’d never jump in to do your swimming for you.” Christopher had bristled in loyal defense, only later realizing that Daniel had been right.

  But it was a trait, not a fault. Or if it was a fault, it was an innocent one—of expecting from others what she expected from herself. Loi had built her life on self-reliance. To need rescuing was a humiliation; to offer a rescue, an insult. The edge of the pool was as far as propriety would allow. It said something about how she saw him now that she was offering her hand a second time.

  Shaking his head slowly, Christopher said, “Thanks, but I don’t think you can help.”

  “Don’t close me out, Chris.”

  Plea or caution? He couldn’t quite decide. While he debated, she retreated two steps and disappeared behind the closing door. A moment later there was a splash.

  Caution, he decided.

  “Would you like to see any further mail?” asked the AIP.

  Christopher laughed brittlely. “No.”

  “Would you like to select alternate music?”

  “No.” He was silent for a long moment, trying to read the feeling in his body without putting words to it, trying to grasp his experience of his own life. Is this where you want to be? Is there anything right about who you are this instant? he asked, and the answers were reflected back to him as echoes of sorrow. No. Not the tenth part.

  Then what are you going to do about it?

  Male laughter in the distance. He drew a slow deep breath, his eyes closing briefly. “Judy?”

  The AIP responded to its name. “Yes, Chris?”

  He sighed. “See if you can reach Eric Meyfarth.”

  Meyfarth did not call back, Jessie did not come back, and Mark did not leave until after midnight.

  By that time, Christopher had retreated to the darkness of his bedroom, trying to pretend he was tired. When Loi slipped into his room, he tried to pretend he was asleep. She stood by the bed for a long time, watching him, saying nothing. Just when he thought that she was about to leave, she spoke.

  “Would you like some company?” she asked gently.

  He opened his eyes and looked up at her, his eyes suddenly damp. “Yes,” he said hoarsely, pulling back the sheet.

  Loi slipped into bed easily and snuggled against him in a position born of compromise and experience, lying on her side with one arm hugging his chest, one leg hooking over his. Her skin was silky and warm, and her hair smelled faintly of spa oils, but not at all of Mark.

  Despite their nakedness, the embrace was chaste, the intimate space they shared the creation of two friends, not two lovers. She wrapped him in a safe, comfortable cocoon built from her love and her body and her energy, and her presence was balm for his pain. He was so grateful for the gift that he almost began to cry.

  “I called Dr. Meyfarth,” he whispered, the words an offering.

  “Sssh,” she said, turning her head to kiss his shoulder. “Sleep.”

  Christopher closed his eyes and listened to the echoes of his unhappy thoughts, now fading beneath the sound of their breathing, each breath deeper and more tranquil than the last. Sooner than he would have guessed possible, he was asleep.

  Loi was gone when he woke in the morning—she did not like to share a bed for sleeping, so he was not surprised. But the touch of peace that she had given him remained, nestled against the resolve he had found on his own. Between the two, it was a little easier that morning to face both the day and himself.

  Eric Meyfarth did not make it easy.

  “I got your message,” he said when he called back. “What’s up, Chris?” His tone, like his expression, was pointedly neutral.

  “Can I see you?”

  “That depends,” said Meyfarth. “Why?”

  Asking had been hard enough. Christopher had not expected to have to explain himself. “Because if I saw someone else, I’d have to waste all that time getting to where we left off.”

  “I appreciate the compliment,” Meyfarth said dryly.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “But I’m not quite persuaded,” he went on. “The last time I saw you, you were a bit skeptical about my usefulness.”

  Christopher looked away. “I wasn’t ready to be helped.”

  “True enough. What’s changed?”

  “Nothing. Except for the worse. And that’s what has to change. I don’t want to feel like this.”

  “You said much the same thing a few weeks ago, in my office. But you broke your contract with me and walked out when it got tough.”

  “I—” The quick defense died on his lips. “I guess I did. Old habits die hard.”

  “Sometimes they don’t die at all,” Meyfarth said. “What assurance do I have that you’re serious this time?”

  Knitting his brow and frowning, Christopher considered. “I don’t know. None. I have to hope you’ll trust me. Which comes harder the second time around, I suppose.”

  Nodding, Meyfarth said, “You know that I’m going to go right back to the sore spots, right back to your father and your family.”

  “I know. I just don’t know how much I’ll be able to help you.”

  “Why is that, Chris?”

  “Because I don’t know how much I know.”

  “Ah,” said Meyfarth. “I’m confident that, at some level, you remember everything that’s important to remember.”

  “How can you say that? You can’t know.”

  “No, I can’t—not with complete certainty,” said Meyfarth. “But it’s something I’ve come to believe about people. Inside every one of us is the frightened four-year-old, the nine-year-old explorer, the restless adolescent, and the twenty-year-old dreamer we once were. Remembering is easy. It’s the forgetting that we have to practice.”

  “It comes naturally enough to me.”

  Meyfarth shook his head. “You’re self-taught, I assure you. The heart of your problem is the pretense that all you are is what you are now. You’ve been living unconnected to your past.”

  “I just don’t archive things like other people do,” Christopher said defensively. “Look, I have trouble remembering what happened two years ago, let alone twenty. I wish I had more stories about my childhood. I wish I had more stories about my father. But I don’t. I’m lost when the conversation turns to people telling funny anecdotes on themselves. I just don’t remember that sort of thing. I don’t know what I was like when I was ten. And I don’t have anyone to help me remember.”

  “You don’t need anyone,” Meyfarth said simply.

  “I need something. You, anyway.”

  Meyfarth shook his head. “You know where the gold is buried. I can only guess. If you need a map, you have to look in your own life. Have you ever kept a diary? Letter archives? Any family video albums lying around?”

  “No and no. Not many pictures.” He paused. “And when I look at them, I can only see this little boy that I can’t really remember being.”

  “Because you won’t let yourself. If you were connected to your past, those pictures would make you feel, not remember,” said Meyfarth. “You’re a curious one, Chris. You don’t even get emotional about your emotions.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “It is. Which is why they all come out as anger.”

  Christopher looked away.

  “You need to be reconnected, Chris.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “We don’t. You do.” Meyfarth pursed his lips. “I was hoping to get what I needed talking to you. But the trust is coming a little hard, Chris. I think you’re going to have to show me something before we can pick up our sessions.”

  “What?”

  “How long has it been since you talked to your father?” />
  “Uh—a few weeks.”

  “Your sister?”

  Wincing, Christopher admitted, “A couple of years.”

  “Okay,” Meyfarth said, nodding. “Here’s my offer. I can slot you at two, Monday—if sometime between now and then, you give your sister a call and ask her what kind of kid you were. Or something equally risky. What do you say?”

  Christopher’s wince deepened into a grimace. “We’re not close.”

  “I didn’t expect that you were, considering.”

  “This one’s not my doing. My sister isn’t exactly my biggest fan. I never have quite figured out why.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Meyfarth said. “Your sister holds a piece of you. Reach out and claim it back.”

  Christopher met the arty’s gaze with a wondering look. “I never looked at it that way.”

  “Probably she hasn’t, either.”

  It was hard to believe that any piece of him which Lynn-Anne Aldritch might hold could be of much value. Because of their history, she was more like a cousin—a cousin who had seemed like a friend in their uncritical youth, but who had drifted away on the judgments of maturity. And all the growing up that seemed to matter had taken place in her absence.

  Lynn-Anne was fifteen when Christopher was born, a dark-eyed, thin-bodied girl who rarely smiled, at least for a camera. The four of them—his father, Lynn-Anne, Deryn, and himself— were not together long, and Christopher remembered little of the time they were. Lynn-Anne left the B Street house when he was five, first taking an apartment in Portland, and then late admission to Bennington College, a continent away. And she never really came back into his life.

  After Bennington, it was New York Metro for a year, Toronto for two, and then back to New England, settling at last in Bangor. Somewhere along the way, she replaced their father’s surname with their mother’s, bringing her in line with custom. She had never married, in fact had always lived alone, except for her first few months in Toronto, when she joined a household of women on exclusive Center Island.