The Quiet Pools

“Then I’ll tell him,” Tidwell said, and smiled a tight smile. “Then he will know whom to blame for the intrusion.”

Almost a third of the seats were empty when the lights went down for Bonnie Tevens and Ambika. Daniel Keith watched from behind the annex glass as they took the stage. Their high-gloss black clothing dazzled in the spotlight, but the sounds from their wind controllers were more subdued, aping a traditional flute (Bonnie) and oboe (Ambika).

Shortly, Greg emerged from the darkened club to join Keith at the window. “Where’s Chris?”

“Gone,” said Keith. “Dr.—Tom Grimes, one of the colonists, dragged him away.” Tidwell had had, at most, a couple of minutes in private with Christopher before Ambika arrived and chased the two men from the dressing room. Christopher had little to say when he emerged, and his frame of mind was unreadable, except that he was obviously uncomfortable with the hail-fellow-well-met praise that swirled around him. He and Tidwell had left quickly, almost an escape.

“Is he coming back?”

“It didn’t sound like it.”

“Too bad,” said Greg, rattling the plastic-cased chipdisks he held in one hand. “I made a couple of quick copies for him. Oh, well. I’m going to do some touch-up edits tonight, and he can have the whole banana tomorrow.”

“Let me have one of those, then,” Keith said.

“Sure. I can’t break down until after the second set,” the tech said, peering through the glass. “Are you staying?”

Keith patted the end of the guitar case which was leaning against the wall beside him. “I got custody of Claudia,” he said. “A responsibility I’ll be glad to be done with. I think I’m going to just run it past Chris’s place and go on home. Unless you were really asking for help?”

Greg shook his head. “Sandy’s staying, and that’s all the extra hands I need. Take baby home.”

Outside, a half dozen bodies were blocking the stairs as they shared a pep-pack. They made way for Keith to squeeze by, but only barely, and then went back to passing the stick and giggling. Keith headed down the street toward where his flyer waited.

Halfway down the block, his ears pricked up at the sound of quick, light footsteps behind him. Keith spun around, suddenly on alert, to find himself confronting a redheaded girl in a black leather jacket, short boots, and black jeans. In the streetlight, she was a black ghost with a sallow yellow face.

“You’re not the singer,” she said, her features contorting with surprise.

“No.”

“Damn. Is he gone already?”

“I’m afraid so,” Keith said, and started to turn away.

“Wait,” she said. “You have to tell me something. He’s a Memphis colonist, isn’t he? He has to be.”

“No,” Keith said. “He’s not.” The denial was automatic and emphatic.

“But you’re all from the Project, aren’t you?”

That denial was automatic, too. “He’s from Oregon. I’m from Illinois.”

“I can read,” she said, pointing toward his shirt.

Keith looked down to see his AT-Houston ID dangling from his shirt pocket. “Look—” he began, giving himself a mental mule-kick as he unpinned the badge.

“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t any secret in there. And I’m a friendly.”

“Look, ah—”

“Jinna.”

“Jinna,” he echoed. “Like I said, Chris is gone. I’m just playing porter for him. Sorry to disappoint you.”

She took a step closer. “I’d really like to meet him. Couldn’t you take me along where you’re taking that?”

“Sorry. I can’t help you.”

Her voice shifted into a husky timbre. “I haven’t given you a reason to yet.”

“Look—”

“Yes—look,” she said, opening her jacket. Underneath, she was naked—or nearly so. From her small rounded breasts to her slender waist she was heavily skin-painted, a feral jungle of flowers and vines intertwined with a sinuous green python. The snake’s glowing eyes—a jeweled piercing through the left nipple, lit with its own light— argued for the painting being a permanent laser tattoo.

She let the jacket fall closed and stepped closer, within arm’s reach. “Is that your flyer?” she asked “Take us up to a thousand and put it on auto. I’ll give you a thank-you in advance.”

Keith shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

She reached for his crotch, stroked the fabric over his bulge. “You ought to find out what you’re turning down. Come on, step out of the light and I’ll audition.”

Annoyed at his own response, he pushed her hand away angrily. “What do you want from Chris? What do you think he can give you?”

“I just want to meet him. We’re twins, inside. I could tell it when he sang. We want the same things. We hurt in the same places.”

Keith studied her. “What was your prescreen score?” he asked, guessing.

She held her head defiantly high. “They didn’t test for what I’m best at. And you’re about to make the same mistake.”

“We can’t get you on board,” Keith said bluntly. “Nobody can. No matter how hot a fuck you are.”

“I hear there were sixteen stowaways on Ur.”

“Oh? Did you look that up on DIANNA?”

“You know it wouldn’t be there. They don’t want anyone to know. But I have a friend who knows someone who got on. His parents get dispatch mail every month, but they’re not allowed to tell anyone, or Allied will cut them off. So there has to be a way.”

“If there is, I don’t know it,” Keith said. In fact, there had been twenty-eight stowaways, most of them Takara construction crew or orbital staff. The irrepressible rumors were right, but they had the story all wrong. “I’m sorry, Jinna. I know it hurts. I’m hoping for Knossos, myself.”

“I just want to meet him. To tell him I understand how he feels.”

“You don’t know how he feels,” Keith said sharply. “Songs are stories. Stories are lies.”

Her face took on a desperate cast. “You don’t have to take me anywhere. Just give me his address, so I can call him. So he can decide if he wants to meet me. I’ll still do you.” She pulled her jacket open again, and the eyes glowed at him.

Keith paused, considered. “No. I don’t think he needs that right now,” he said, backing away into the night. “Good night, Jinna.” He gestured with his free hand. “But don’t read me wrong, that is one truly special snake.”

CHAPTER 20 —UAC— “… chance and fate…”

For Malena Graham, it had been an adventure, a happy floating party. Leaving the Allied Transcon compound for the first time, riding the tram toward the city of towers, exploring the unfamiliar streets between the Rice station and the club-after six weeks cooped up in the training pressure cooker, it was all delightfully, refreshingly new.

To be sure, the Noonerville nannies weren’t happy about seeing pioneers going into the city, but they did not try to forbid it. Instead, they settled for pressing locator bands on Malena and the others and extracting from them a promise to steer clear of the screamer clubs and the North End neighborhoods.