Hans came out of his isolation after six days, somber and unshaven, blond beard bristling and face wreathed in a dreary scowl that gave nobody confidence, least of all Martin. He asked for a private session with Hakim and the remains of the search team. After, he emerged from the nose to brush past Martin and Erin Eire in the corridor, saying nothing.
“He hasn’t taken a lover since he became Pan,” Erin said.
Martin looked at her. “So?”
Erin blinked. “So it’s unusual. He’s not exactly been chaste, Martin. A lot of Wendys go for bulk over brains.”
“He’s not stupid,” Martin said.
“He’s still acting like a jerk,” Erin said.
“Maybe he’s waiting for the right girl to come along,” Martin said, aware how silly that sounded.
Erin hooted. “Oh, sure. Somebody he’s never met before.”
“We’ll have visitors soon,” Martin said, face straight.
“Spare me,” Erin said, grimacing over her shoulder as she departed.
Ariel laid her meal tray on the table across from Martin in the cafeteria. New watch schedules posted by Hans had placed her in an opposite sleep cycle; he was having dinner, she breakfast, but the food appeared much the same.
The ship was not yet up to the broad variety of meals it had once offered; what they were served now was bland but filling, a brownish bread-like pudding varied occasionally by soups.
They exchanged minimal greetings. Ariel made him uncomfortable by focusing on him when he wasn’t looking.
“What do you think of Hans now?” she asked when their eyes met.
“He’s doing fine,” Martin said.
“Better than you?” she asked.
“In some ways,” Martin said.
“How? I’m curious. I don’t mean to embarrass you.”
“I’m not embarrassed. He’s probably more canny than I am, more sensitive to the crew’s swings of mood.”
She tipped her head in a way that implied neither agreement nor disagreement.
“And you?” he asked.
“Reserving judgment. He is more canny than some Pans we’ve had. Rosa approves of him. She talks about the duty to our leader in her sermons.”
“Sermons?”
“I haven’t been to one, but I hear about them.”
“She’s preaching?”
“Not yet,” Ariel said, “but close. She’s counseling. Helping some of the crew face up to the Skirmish and what it means.”
“Blaming the moms?”
“Not implicitly.”
“Blaming them at all?”
“She doesn’t even mention them, from what I’ve been told. She talks about responsibility and free will and our place in the broad scheme. Maybe we should go and listen.”
“Maybe I will,” Martin said.
“Maybe Hans should go, too.”
“Do you want me to spy on her for Hans?”
Ariel shook her head. “I just think it’s significant, what’s happening.”
“It’s inevitable, maybe,” Martin said under his breath, and got up to go to his quarters.
Theodore Dawn visited his dreams, and was full of talk, some of which Martin remembered on waking.
They sat in a garden, under an arbor in full flower, Theodore in a short white tunic, his legs tanned from long exposure to the summer sun now at zenith over their heads. They were eating grapes; they might have been Romans. Theodore had been fond of reading about Romans.
“Something terrible is about to happen to Rosa,” Theodore said. “You know what it is?”
“I think so,” Martin answered, letting a grape leaf fall to the pebble gravel at their feet.
“The worst thing that can happen to a prophet is not to be ignored and forgotten; it’s to have her cause taken up and chewed by the masses. Whatever she says, if it doesn’t fit, will be chewed some more; some opportunist will come along and forge a contradiction, polish a rough edge of meaning, and then it will fit. People believe in everything but the original words.”
“Rosa isn’t a prophet.”
“You said you knew what’s happening.”
“She isn’t a prophet. Just look at her.”
“She’s had the vision. This is a special time for you.”
“Nonsense!” Martin said, angry now. He got up from the marble bench and adjusted his robe clumsily, not used to its folds. “By the way, is Theresa here with you?”
Theodore shook his head sadly. “She’s dead. You have to be alive to die.”
Paola Birdsong and Martin found themselves alone in the tail of the ship, having completed a wand transmission test for the mom, and with no further instructions, they sat and talked, glad to be away from the glum business of the crew.
Their talk trailed off. She looked away, olive skin darkening, lips pressed together. Martin reached out to stroke her cheek, make her relax, and she leaned into the stroke, and then tears came to her face. “I don’t know what to do or how to feel,” she said.
She had been loosely bonded with Sig Butterfly. Martin did not want to inquire for fear of opening wounds, so he kept silent and let her talk.
“We weren’t deep with each other,” she said. “I’ve never really been deep with any lover. But he was a friend and he listened to me.”
Martin nodded.
“Would he want me to feel badly for him?” she asked.
Martin was about to shake his head, but then smiled and said, “A little, maybe.”
“I’ll remember him.” She shuddered at the word “remember,” as if it were a realization or betrayal or both, remembrance being so different from seeing directly, remembrance being an acknowledgment of death.
It was natural for him to fold her in his arms. He had never been strongly attracted to Paola Birdsong, and perhaps that was why holding her seemed less a violation to his memory of Theresa. Paola must have felt the same about Martin. The embrace became more awkwardly direct, and they lay side by side in the curls of pipes, the burned smell almost too faint to notice now.
Where they lay was dry and quiet and isolated. Martin felt a little like a mouse in a giant house, having found a place away from so many cats; and Paola was herself small, mouselike, undemanding, touching him in a way that did not discourage, did not invite. The momentum of the situation was carried by instinct. He did not undress her completely, nor himself, but rolled over on top of her, and with a direct motion they joined, and she closed her eyes.
Neither of them cried.
Martin made love to her slowly, without urgency. She had no orgasm to match his, which was surprisingly powerful, and he did not press her for one; it seemed this was what she wished, only a little betrayal of memory at a time, a little return to whole life. After, with no word of what they had just done, they rearranged their overalls.
“What have your dreams been like lately?” he asked.
“Nothing unusual,” she said, drawing her knees up in her arms and resting her chin on them.
“I’ve been having pretty vivid dreams. For a long time now. Pretty specific dreams, almost instructive.”
“Like what?”
