“We can talk tomorrow if you prefer. And please, I’m a Ph.D.—I don’t need to be called ‘Doctor’ outside of a classroom.” The Unitek VP came a step farther in.
“I’d rather get it out of the way,” Elspeth said, wincing as she heard the tone of her own voice. She wondered if the visit had something to do with her own brief conversation with Gabe’s friend at lunchtime. “I’m on my way to the hospital.”
“How is your father?” Alberta strolled across the forest-green carpeting.
Elspeth picked up the crystal and went around her desk the opposite way, bending to replace it in its rack. “As well as can be expected,” she answered. “I don’t expect he’ll see Christmas. I appreciate what you’ve done for him, however. And for me.” She was surprised at how level her voice sounded, even to her own ears.
“We—appreciate—the compromises you’re making on our behalf. I’m very glad I caught you here, actually. I’m going over Colonel Valens’s head a bit to tell you this, but I’m in favor of full disclosure. Expecting scientists to work with partial information is, well, silly. And Fred should know that.” Alberta tilted her head inquiringly as Elspeth straightened from replacing Woolf’s crystal in the rack.
Something uncoiled in Elspeth’s belly. As if drawn by an invisible thread, she took a step toward Alberta. “Full disclosure?”
Alberta nodded, pulled a data slice out of her pocket, and pressed it to the reader on Elspeth’s desk. “Here.”
Frowning, Elspeth came forward and placed her thumb on the interface plate, keying her monitor back on. “What is it?”
“Data on the project we need the AIs for. Assuming you can make some for us. By the way, I’d like for you to avoid Casey for a while. She’s not well, as you saw, and she’s under a tremendous amount of emotional stress. We have no objection to you socializing with coworkers outside the program. But—assuming Colonel Valens can do it—we want to see to her medical needs before we start confusing the issue.”
Message received. Stay out of the way until we know where the potential loose cannon is pointing. Elspeth nodded. “As you wish,” and turned to the image projector.
Light flickered for a moment, and an image—a machine? a space station?—resolved itself in the air over Elspeth’s desk. “Lights out,” she said absently, leaning forward. “What’s that supposed to be?” She poked at the hologram with a finger, expecting it to expand to show detail of the section she indicated, where a fat revolving disk connected to an axle or a shaft.
It enlarged, indeed, and also peeled back, showing cross sections. “A spaceship?”
“A starship,” Alberta corrected, smiling. “That’s the Indefatigable. It doesn’t exist.”
“Design schematic? And what’s the difference? Spaceship, starship …”
“What you see before you is a VR mockup. It’s designed so that it simulates the real thing almost exactly, in handling capabilities, schematics, and so forth. You do know about the Chinese colony ships launched over the last seven or ten years?”
“The so-called generation ships? Yes, I do.” Elspeth picked up her teacup again, forgetting it was empty. It would have been hard to miss the portentous announcements, the media frenzy, the images of red flags in serried ranks snapping in a crisp spring breeze. Even in jail. She didn’t raise her eyes from the display. “Between their space program and the military actions … Well. I suppose we should expect an invasion of Russia any day now.”
“Irrelevant, but yes. This ship, the Indefatigable. As I said, it doesn’t really exist.” She reached out and tapped up another display. “Since governments got out of the space game, everything has to pay for itself. Corporations won’t gamble money where there’s no return. But smart companies, forward-looking ones, have always known that sometimes you can’t see where the money is going to come from. And if the Chinese are going to the stars, then we bloody well are, too.”
This image was lower resolution, but Elspeth somehow found her breath caught in her throat. Something about how the hard sunlight of space played along the curve of what must have been an enormous wheel … She set the teacup down on her interface panel, uncaring. It clicked on the cool crystal.
“And the difference between a spaceship and a starship … lies in how far away they’re intended to go,” Alberta continued after a momentary pause. “This one does exist. Did. You’re looking at Le Québec. She was destroyed on her first test flight.”
“Destroyed?” That brought Elspeth’s chin up. She blinked for focus, meeting Alberta’s peculiarly intense eyes.
Alberta smiled. “Pilot error. Pilot inadequacy, more exactly.” Rapidly, she flicked through more images. “This one is the Li Bo, taken by telescope. Also destroyed, as was her predecessor, the Lao Zi.”
“Ah. So. I sense a naming trend—those are Chinese ships?”
“Yes. This is Huang Di. She’ll be ready for launch by the end of the year.”
“How do you know that?”
“We have assets. So do they. We need to be able to test our second ship by New Year’s.”
Elspeth thought about it for a moment only. “You need a better pilot? How fast does that thing go?”
Alberta ignored the question. “We visualize a tailored-human/AI team. We’ll use drugs and nano-and biothera-pies to improve the human pilot’s response times, although there are some medical barriers to that. The AI, of course, can respond at processor speeds, but we’d like to keep a human involved because of judgment calls. And also, well, there’s a trust issue.”
Elspeth nodded. I’d rather know my ship was being flown by a person than by a computer. Does that make me a racist? “You must be talking about a drive that will move a ship at near C. Given how uncluttered space is.”
“Actually, it’s capable of moving at an uncalculated rate we suspect to be exponentially higher than the speed of light.”
Elspeth blinked. “How?”
And Alberta grinned. “There’s one of the many problems. We don’t know.”
Sins become more subtle as you grow older: you commit sins of despair rather than lust.
—Piers Paul Read
2113 hours, Monday 11 September, 2062
Bloor Street West
Toronto, Ontario
I sit on the beige-carpeted floor of Gabe’s apartment with a tweedy couch cushion under my butt, watching cartoons and drinking Irish coffee out of a speckled stoneware mug. I’m mulling over—again—what “the ghost of Richard Feynman” told me today when Gabe strolls into the living room.
“What’s on?”
“Hannah and Tucker.”
“Genie loves that one. Especially the flying horse.” He sits down one cushion to the left and behind me, leaning forward to put his own coffee cup on the floor.
“Girls in bed?”
“Yeah.”
I set my mug aside. He’s reaching out to lay a hand on my shoulder when I lean forward and push myself to my feet, pretending not to notice. Going into the kitchen, I call back over my shoulder, “Ice cream?” even though it’s cold and the windows are open. We bought some on the way back from the restaurant.
“No thanks.”
When I come back, he’s pulled the cushion so it rests between his feet. I give him a dubious look. “I’m too old for high school seductions, Gabe.” It doesn’t come out with the wry tone I want it to have.
He shows me the upturned palm of his hand. “Sit, get neck rubbed, do not complain.”
“Ah.” I sit. Gabe can actually touch my back without my wanting to spin around and put my left hand through his face. Well, except for this morning. It’s a thought I don’t need. I push it back.
Very few other people can touch me like that. “I’ve got a T-shirt on.”
“Take off the sweater, then.”
I set the ice cream down and take a long sip of my coffee first, not sure if I wish I had put more alcohol in it or less. Pathetic, Jenny. There are sixteen-year-old girls less pathetic than you. He notices my
gooseflesh in the chilly room, and hands me the afghan from the back of the sofa. It’s blue and white, a tapestry of cats.
Pathetic.
Well, nothing new there. I ball the sweater up and throw it into the corner. Gabe swills coffee and sets the mug aside. He chafes his hands together until I can feel the friction heat and then lays them on my neck.
I gasp. His hands are warm as towels heated in the microwave, and they seem to know and find every knot and bit of pain. “Have you been doing your physical therapy?”
“Sort of.” He touches the outline of the nanoprocessor that links into my cervical vertebrae, reminding himself of where plastic ends and Jenny begins.
“You need to take the arm off at night, Maker.”
“I take it off when I sleep.” I hate taking it off. It’s like a reminder that it’s not really part of me, and I can’t stand that. It took me enough time to stop wanting to skin myself to get the metal and plastic out from under.
There’s low concern in his voice again when he continues. “How are you dealing with seeing Barb again? That was a shock, the two of you standing side by side …”
My breath comes harsher, and I can tell he feels the shifting tension in my back. His touch is light at first and then firmer as he leans into the knotted muscles. I have a pretty good pain threshold. He knows where it is, and he pushes it, but he never makes me squeal.
“I dunno, Gabe. I … hell. You know I still think it’s her fault Nell died, no matter what she says. No matter what she thinks she got away with.”
“Yes.” He strokes the back of my neck, fingers through my hair.
I keep thinking about everything Richard told me. Everything I wish I could be telling Gabe. “And she’s smart. She’s always been the smartest one.”
“Thing with people like that, is this: they’re smart, sure. But they get to thinking they’re smarter than anybody else. And somebody catches up to them eventually.”
It hasn’t happened yet. But his touch is soothing, and I don’t say anything else, just then. Halfway through, he gets up and brings me a glass of water and more bourbon, and starts in again. The ice cream is a syrupy puddle in the bottom of a glass bowl. I didn’t want it anyway.
Finally, he sighs, leans back, and cracks his knuckles. “Any better?”
I’m floating. I don’t dare move, because I know that as soon as I do, the pain will start again. Pain is a funny thing. Once you live with it a little while, you forget it’s there. You just feel tired and out of sorts, but you don’t really notice anymore and you don’t really know why. Pain is boring. And then the cessation of it comes as an epiphany, almost stunning—like falling in love.
Gabriel Castaign saved my life. He saved my soul. He knows the single worst thing I ever did in my life and he takes care of me anyway, even though he doesn’t know I did it for him.
“Mon Ange,” I say—mean old nickname, though not as bad as the pun he hanged on me—letting my head droop low, stretching my neck. “Thank you.”
He reaches out and runs his fingers through my hair, the same way he tousles his children’s. My heart squeezes tight in my chest. I’ve had too much to drink, and too many surprises, and it’s a long bittersweet unguarded moment. There are big threats for facing. Tomorrow. Richard saying, “I need you, Ms. Casey. My friend is in trouble, and you’re a woman of honor.”
And Valens. Vegetative state. Could be, rabbit. Could be.
Then words are out of my mouth before I have a chance to think about them. “I always wanted to tell you something.”
My throat closes up behind like the proverbial barn door. His hand falls still in my hair, and I know that everything—decades of everything—was in my voice. “Jen,” he says on a breath. “Shit. Jenny. I know.”
Slowly, carefully, I turn my head to look at him out of the corner of my good eye. Sweat prickles across my skin. He’s regarding me out of eyes like blue arctic water, two days’ growth of beard shading the lower half of his face. He never would have gotten that scruffy back in the old days. “What do you know, Gabe?”
A long sigh. “I know what you want to tell me. I’ve known for years.” His hand slides down the back of my neck to rest on my shoulder. My skin tingles under his touch.
“You said I was your best friend. Kiss of death.”
He breathes in and out: thoughtful. “I was twenty-eight. What does anybody know at twenty-eight? And you didn’t seem to want me to know.”
“I didn’t.”
“I figured you had your reasons. So why tell me now?”
I sigh and roll my shoulders forward and back, feeling the first twinge of returning discomfort. “Because I’m an idiot and I keep thinking life is like a drama and if I’m going to die beautifully—or pathetically, for that matter—I want …” Dig a little deeper, Jenny. I wish I’d stopped a few words sooner. I wish I hadn’t opened my mouth up at all.
“Are you going to hold the way we met against me forever?” There’s low humor in his voice, painful to hear, almost inaudible under the tinny music from the holopad.
“Did I ever tell you I almost got married once?” I turn farther, holding the eye contact even though it hurts my neck to twist that far.
His hands are gentle on my shoulders as he bends me away and coaxes me to settle back between his knees again. I have no idea why I’m doing as he’s urging me, but it feels good. He smoothes my hair again and I lean on his knee, hiding the scarred side of my face against his jeans. I’m starting to shiver, dammit, and I can’t stand it. Can’t stand his pity, and can’t make myself pull away from the careful pressure of his hands.
“You didn’t. Who to?”
I close my eyes. “I was nineteen. Carlos Conseca, his name was. I gave him his ring back when they shipped me out to South Africa. He’s still alive, as far as I know.”
“You ever think of looking him up?”
My spine crackles when I roll my shoulders back. “I’d rather let him keep his illusions.”
“Jenny,” he says. He disentangles himself and slides down onto the floor beside my sofa cushion, letting his right arm fall around my shoulders. Despite myself, I lean into the caress. “Look, I know why you never said anything when we were in the service, and I appreciate it. Or when I was married. What about afterward?”
The speechlessness stretches, elastic, images flickering over the holopad across the room. I watch the little winged red horse leap boldly off a cliff, rising into flight over our heads, the hologram filling the room. I reach for the remote and mute the sound of wingbeats.
“I couldn’t handle the rejection, Gabe.”
“And you were sure you’d be rejected?”
I shrug, an attempt at callousness wasted on Gabe’s warm, massive presence. “I know what I look like.”
“Idiot.” He kisses the top of my head. He smells of coffee and sugar; it catches in my throat like a hook. His hand is under my chin, and he lifts my mouth to his …
That’s something else about the enhancements I carry. Feedback.
His lips brush mine, petal-soft, contrast to the roughness of his beard, and a wave of euphoria starts to rise. I suck on a long, rattling breath, flush-heat racing through me. God, how long has it been since I kissed anybody? My body tautens, one hand and then the other coming up to braid in his curls, and he leans into me as subtle fire quickens in my belly and tingles through the whole of my body, pooling here and there. Just a kiss, a little kiss, lips barely parted and his breath riding mine, and I’m shivering, weak with desire. The tension in him, the whisper of a purr tells me my response surprises and excites him. But as he moves to pull me closer, I turn into him, drawing my knees up, then bury my face in his shoulder.
“Mon ange,” I mumble, sick with old, clotted terror. “I can’t.”
“Oh?”
The words come out in little hitching phrases. It takes me a long while to get them organized. “Not right now. Not when—I could be dying.” Not when I don’t know what I’m being man
ipulated into. Not when you could be used against me. Again. “I can’t do that to you.” Or the girls. Not after Geniveve. “Because I’m not going to be happy with just a roll in the hay, you know.”
“Je sais.” Dead serious around a smile.
“And what about—Elspeth?”
A smile that widens and warms. “Nous sommes tous adultes, Genevieve. Les antiquités fichues, en fait. Je pense qu’elle ne soignera pas.”
“Je ne sais pas. Tu sait que je t’aime.” The look in my eyes has to tell him everything.
“Oui. Je sais cela aussi.”
“Gabe.” So many things I could say, and I can’t bear to lie to him. Not again. Not tonight. “I’m too scared.”
And he scrubs my hair forward, into my eyes, before leaning forward to pick up the remote still lying by my hand and turn the sound on the animation back on. “Nous parlerons de ceci encore quelque temps, Jenny Casey.” We’ll talk about this again sometime. Wry tone, softening, and mon Dieu, I love this man. “Ball’s in your court now.”
If I live that long. Sometimes, I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut.
Sometimes.
But there is joy in Mudville, as he sits up with me most of the night. We watch children’s programming, where the world is wholesome and bright and the good guys win in the end.
Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.
—Henry Louis Mencken
0900 hours, Wednesday 13 September, 2062
Allen-Shipman Research Facility
St. George Street
Toronto, Ontario
Valens’s gloved hands brush my hair forward, gentle and sure as a lover’s. And I am not thinking about Gabe. Not. Thinking about Gabe. “Will you put me in touch with the doc who’s been doing your follow-up, Casey?”
“If you insist. What are we doing today, Fred?” He’s much more fastidious than Simon. I lie near-naked under the sterile drape, facedown on a table, and the room is a cold, antiseptic operating theater. Observers range in the gallery above, but I try not to let it bother me. It’s not like it’s the first time. “Nice facilities you have here.”
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