The Quiet Pools

“This is a different subject,” Jessie said.

“What?”

She looked down. “You were right about the baby. I wasn’t being fair to you that night.”

“Well—” Christopher was nonplussed. “Then what are we talking about?”

“I want to know if I can propose a new addition to the family.”

Christopher felt a sudden wave of panic, which he made a noble effort to suppress. “I don’t understand something. Is this a theoretical discussion? Or are we talking about someone specific?”

“Don’t be dense, Christopher,” said Loi. “Jessie would like to ask John Fields over Saturday for dinner and a discussion.”

“The cyclist? From the club?”

“Yes. He was here once—you met him.”

“Are you fucking him?” he asked, incredulous.

“Not yet. He wants all of us to talk before we get involved. He’s very principled.”

The door to Christopher’s sympathies, which had been weakly propped open, suddenly slammed shut. “No,” he said harshly, jumping to his feet.

“Chris—” Loi began warningly.

“No dinner, no discussion, no John Fields. We’re just learning how to be three. We’re not bringing someone else in.”

“Chris, if Jessie is unhappy, we may lose her,” Loi said. “Is that what you want?”

“What does she have to be unhappy about? She’s had everything handed to her. She said it herself—she’s got freedom, privacy, a comfortable home, money—our money. She’s got time enough to go cycling every day, to watch every damn crier made in the last century, to go looking for sparking buddies in every neighborhood inside the loop—”

“Christopher,” Loi said sharply.

“I thought you liked John,” Jessie said meekly.

“I like John all right for somebody I spent ten minutes talking to once,” Christopher said. “But that’s a long way from saying, ‘Sure, come on, move in, by the way, Jessie likes it hard.’ ”

“I didn’t ask—”

“You’d better figure out what’s wrong with you. You’re grabbing for people like zoners grab for pills. First Loi, then a baby, now John—people aren’t teddy bears, goddammit, you can’t start a fucking collection. Does John know what you’re going to want from him? Does he know that six months from now you’re going to whisper, ‘Guess what, I’m fertile,’ just as he’s about to come?”

Christopher was shouting at the end, but barely aware of it. The room was suddenly chaos—Jessie crying, cringing, Loi shouting and trying to drag him away from her. He shook off her grip and turned on her, his angry words a snarl. Loi grabbed at his wrist again, and only then did he realize that he had been shaking a clenched fist at her, at Jessie, that his body was coiled and charged to strike at them, to smash them down.

In horror and shock, he backed away, dropping awkwardly into the chair where he’d been sitting. Jessie took that moment to escape, running up the stairway and disappearing into her room.

“Jesus,” Christopher whispered, covering his mouth with his hands and staring at the carpet.

“Where did that come from?” Loi asked, her voice hard and unsympathetic.

“I don’t know,” Christopher said. “You know I’ve never done that before—”

“Once is enough.” She frowned unhappily. “I never thought I’d see you come on like lord and master of a feudal castle. What in the world is going on with you?”

“I—I just got a little too wound up. The way Jessie’s been—”

“You can’t blame this on her.”

“Everything I said is true,” he insisted. “I just—didn’t say it very well.”

Loi shook her head dismissively. “I don’t think you said one word about what you really feel.”

“We’ve got what we need right here,” he said, looking up at her with a plaintive expression. “If we have to make some adjustments, all right, we’ll make them. But bringing someone else in is crazy. That’s going to change everything.”

“Don’t you realize that you just changed everything? You lost control at just the idea of talking about expanding the family. You went so blood-crazy that you were ready to hurt us to have your way. That isn’t healthy, and you know it.”

“I don’t have to do this and I’m not going to,” he said stubbornly. “You can’t guilt me into saying yes.”

She shook her head. “I’ll tell what you have to do,” she said softly but firmly. “If you want to stay part of this family, you’re going to have to go to an R.T. and start working on this.”

Christopher was numbly silent for a long time. “This scares me, Loi. I don’t know if I want to know what’s inside me that could make me do something like this.”

“You scared us.”

“I know,” he said.

Loi studied him. “I’m going upstairs to be with Jessie,” she said finally. “Let me know what you decide.”

“I think she needs to go, too,” he said as she started away.

“You’re not in any position to set conditions,” Loi said pointedly.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were. Get your own house in order, Christopher. Then maybe your opinions on Jessie will matter to me again.”

CHAPTER 13 —UUC— “… for the silent Earth.”

Eyes closed, Hiroko Sasaki endured the final touch-up of her makeup and powder. The corporation’s image doctor, a round-bellied American named Edgar Donovan, hovered nearby, fretting.

“You have to remember that no matter how much Minor smiles at you, he’s not your friend,” Donovan said. “The smiles don’t go out to the audience. When they cut to him, it’ll be for a raised eyebrow or a frown.”

“I will remember.”

“And don’t be surprised if he tries something to provoke you. You took a lot of power out of his hands by insisting on a live interview. He’s going to try to get that back.”

“I fully expect so.”

“I’m not saying you were wrong, mind you,” Donovan added. “The board’s delighted that you finally agreed to come out of the shadows and stand up for the company. And I’m delighted with the conditions—live, ninety minutes, and here at Prainha. That’s as close as we can get to a level playing field. Which tells us how much RCA wanted this one.”

“Yes,” Sasaki said. The makeup artist stepped back, her work finally complete, and Sasaki opened her eyes. She looked around the inner office until she found Mikhail Dryke, a silent spectator in a window well. “Are you ready?”

“We’re ready,” Dryke said.

Sasaki smiled a brave smile. “Then I will go face the jaguar.”

Except for his eyes, Julian Minor, senior correspondent for RCA Telecasting’s Newstime, looked more like a terrier than a jaguar. Barely 170 centimeters tall, with a round-heeled walk and close-cropped fuzzy beard, he seemed unequal to the attention he received when he entered a room.

But on camera, the walk and the height were irrelevant, and the beard became a mask which served only to focus attention on Minor’s eyes. His eyes unmasked the hunter in him. They could punctuate a comment with an angry flash, puncture a defense with a skeptical smirk. From just a meter or two away, the challenging intensity of his gaze could paralyze thought.

It was a candidate for the Russian presidency who had given Minor his nickname. Emerging from what would