The Quiet Pools

But she did not mind the ride, even though Evan had had little to say since they lifted off, even though it seemed to her that they had been in the air a long time and had left the city far behind. He had not made her wait, and his hands were warm and strong, his fingers knowing. Even with his attention divided between a car and a woman, he was keeping them both flying.

Presently, he began to neglect her in favor of the Courier, just as she got that falling-fast sensation in her gut, a sensation that was unpleasantly enhanced by the alcohol and polypep soup in her bloodstream. Before her distress could mount to a dangerous level, however, there was a slight bump and the hiss of a leaky landing coupler.

“Here we are,” he said, and hopped out into the night. As he came around the flyer to her door, she struggled to a sitting position and peered out through the window. There were no lights, and the light of the waning moon betrayed no structures.

“Here where?” she asked as he opened the door.

“It’s a surprise,” he said.

“I have to get dressed,” she said, reaching for her clothes.

He reached faster and tossed them to the far side of the flyer. “There’s no one here,” he said with a grin.

“I need my chair, at least,” she said, twisting sideways in her seat and smiling up at him.

His eyebrows flashed. “No, you don’t,” he said, suddenly seizing her wrist and pulling her roughly from the flyer. She fell gracelessly to the ground, barking her bare legs on the door frame.

“Goddammit, what are you— Evan, stop!” she shrieked.

Ignoring her protest, he dragged her several meters across the stony hard-packed dirt, away from the flyer. He left her there for a moment, shaken and confused, while he returned to the flyer to shut the passenger door— killing the only light—and retrieve something from the trunk.

She watched, doing nothing, her mind barely grasping the danger she was in. She could not flee, she could not hide, and only if he were horribly careless could she overpower him. Her shockbox was in the pocket of her skirt, hopelessly out of reach. The only way out was through Evan—placating him, persuading him, somehow satisfying him. And she did not know what that would take.

“Evan, it can be good without being rough,” she said as he approached her. Her voice was shakier than she had hoped it would be.

“Oh, I can’t fuck you,” he said, circling her, his tone sarcastic, his words taunting. “I’m sure I’m not good enough for one of the Chosen.”

Scrabbling in the dirt, she twisted as he moved to keep facing him. It was then that she saw what he held in his right hand—a stout stick as long as his forearm and as thick as his thumb. Fear cleared the fog from her mind.

“We can do it right here, Evan,” she cooed. Come on, come on in, come close enough for me to reach you. She tugged awkwardly at her skirts. “It’s all right. Let’s do it. I can make you feel wonderful.”

He laughed. “You don’t know yet who I am, do you? I didn’t bring you out here to fuck you. I brought you out here to kill you.”

The impossible words glanced off her, unprocessed and undigested. She stared at him dumbly.

“You think you get everything you want, don’t you?” he went on, his voice now calm, his tone amused. “Blessed daughter of the Earth, touched by the gods. Little queen of time and space. What’s so fucking special about you?”

He moved so suddenly she could barely see him, one quick step toward her, the stick raised high. She flung up an arm as the stick came down and there was a horrible sound, crack-crack, like two saplings snapping, splintering, except the sound was wet and muffled and the saplings the twin bones of her forearm.

Malena cried out in shock, wondered for an instant why she felt no pain, and then screamed as the distorted arm fell limply into her lap and a hundred million nerve endings awakened from their shock. A warm wetness spread over her thigh, and she saw with horror that her skin had been laid open by the blow, as by a razor edge. Moaning, she looked up at him wonderingly.

“You don’t look so special now,” Evan said, hovering out of reach. “You look just as scared as any poor slob. I saw a guy hang himself by accident once. He had the same look on his face—like he was surprised to find out he could die. Funny, it was sex that got him in trouble, too.”

“Please—”

“Please what? Please let you go? Please don’t kill you? Are you hoping it bothers me to see you bleeding? Dream on, Malena dear. I want it to hurt. This is the end of your life, Chosen One. I want it to last forever.”

With her good hand, Malena tried fruitlessly to staunch the flowing blood. “Oh, God—”

“Save it,” he said coldly. “Don’t even try. You can’t talk me out of it. This isn’t a lark. I didn’t wake up this morning and say, ‘Gee, what a great day to recycle some poor trot.’ I’ve been ready for weeks. You’re a gift, a pure sugar treat for a good boy.”

“You’re crazy!” she shrieked. “You’re fucking crazy!”

“Thank you! I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t said that at least once.” He leaned in closer to her. “But you’re wrong. I’m not crazy. I just hate your guts.”

His arm went up, the stick came down, and the razors sliced deep into her good shoulder. She did not have the breath to scream. Blood ran, spurted, streaking dusty skin. She could not lift either arm.

“No—”

“You still don’t know who I am, do you?” he hissed. “I’m the leveler. I’m the collector of debts. I’m a soldier of the Earth. I’m the hands of Jeremiah, and you’re the Chosen. I chose you. I chose you to die.”

He whipped the stick in a blinding-fast sideways stroke, and she screamed as the side of her head exploded with thunder and fire. She spun away, collapsing into a quivering huddle, the web of light in her eyes fast fading.

An immeasurable moment later, the murderous dragon’s tail came down once more, across the back of her neck, shattering the bones of her spine and the delicate tissues within. She jerked soundlessly. But it was only reflex, for whatever was life and consciousness, whatever was Malena Graham, was gone. All that remained was the slow death, the quiet transformation from delicate machine to dust.

CHAPTER 21 —GAA— “…the greater good…”

The murder of Malena Graham was news that would not wait for morning, and so it was a short night for many in the Project family.

Hiroko Sasaki, on Takara to receive a deficiency report from the supervisory circle and tour the nearly completed Memphis, went directly from her suite to the transportation office to arrange a shuttle home.

Still wearing his striped pajamas, Edgar Donovan settled in his office node and began calling contacts in the media, even as he monitored the first fragmentary reports on Newstime and the black traffic on the private corporate net.

A shattered Thomas Tidwell, receiving special handling from Houston corpsec, shed his Thomas Grimes persona and fled to the quiet security of Halfwhistle by means of a corporate screamer.

Sleepy-eyed morale counselors and group dynamicists, huddled in a Building H conference room, debated whether to hold the pioneers over until the shock had been absorbed or to empty Noonerville early.

An unlucky senior facilitator headed for Virginia with an insurance check and the vain hope of shaping the Graham family’s public posture.

And Mikhail Dryke, heart-weary and discouraged, came back to Houston from Prainha, feeling as though it