The Quiet Pools

“That’s what you get when you put those two together,” said Dryke. He gestured at the screen. “Are you ready?”

“I suppose.”

Dryke nodded. “File fourteen, display,” he said, thumbing his recorder to on.

Larger than life, Evan Eric Silverman sat calmly in the back of the Ranger cruiser, talking to the officers in the front seats.

“This is just the beginning,” he was saying. “Number one. Somebody keep score. We’re going to stop them. We’re going to push them right to the edge—”

It was midnight in Prainha, 4 a.m. in Northumberland, and 1 p.m. the previous day on Takara and Memphis, orbiting high above the mid-Pacific. But technology and the wishes of Hiroko Sasaki had erased the differences that night. The four people waiting with Sasaki in her garden meeting room were all sharing the same moment with the five skylinked to the gathering, all waiting on the same report.

“We are ready, Mr. Dryke,” said Sasaki, consulting the digital slate resting on her lap. “You may begin.”

“Thank you, Director,” said Dryke from the tank in Houston. “I won’t belabor this. We got into Evan Silverman’s library about seven hours ago. The only defenses in his system were commercial repellents, which were taken down without damage to the files. About four hours ago, the Texas State Police handed over image copies of all the libraries, including Silverman’s contact logs. We’ve parsed them six ways to November, and there’s no evidence he was working with anyone else or at anyone’s direction.”

“Let me be certain I understand,” said Sasaki. “There is no evidence of Mr. Silverman having contact with any person or organization on our Homeworld watch lists.”

“That’s correct.”

“There is no evidence of any communication or contact with Jeremiah.”

“That’s correct. Understand, though, that no evidence means just that. The files could have been purged before Silverman went out that night—a good wipe utility wouldn’t have left us anything.”

“Was there an AIP which could be questioned?” Sasaki said each letter individually, eschewing the acronym.

“No. Silverman lived alone.”

“Do you have any conclusions?”

Dryke frowned. “One thing we did find in the library was a clip file on Jeremiah—all of his pirate speeches, coverage of the tank truck gag here a few months back, and the like. I’m inclined to think that anyone who would take the trouble to wipe out damning evidence would probably get rid of the merely suspicious as well. So I expect that the reason we didn’t find anything was that there wasn’t anything to find. We’ll run the files for embedded code, of course, before we close the book.”

“It is your judgment, then, that Mr. Silverman acted alone, and on his own initiative.”

“Yes. Based on what I’ve seen today.”

“There has been speculation by the media that Mr. Silverman may in fact be Jeremiah,” said Sasaki. “Is there any reason to give this speculation credence?”

Dryke snorted. “Julian Minor is an idiot. No. None at all.”

“One final question: Do we know for certain that Mr. Silverman knew Ms. Graham’s involvement with the Project?”

“He knew,” said Dryke.

“Are you basing that on his word alone?”

“No. On the fact that he was boasting about it when the Rangers picked him up. If he didn’t know before he left the bar with the woman, then she either told him or gave herself away somehow.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dryke, on behalf of the committee,” said Sasaki. “I know that this has been a long day for you. If you will allow me, I would like to close one other matter. Has there been any change in the status of the open gateway at the Munich operation?”

“No change,” said Dryke dourly. “There’ve been a fistful of attempted penetrations, but all amateurs. It looks like the big fish saw the hook.”

“I am told by Mr. Reid that it is through the exercise of discretion that they live to become ‘big fish,’ ” said Sasaki. “Please have the gateway closed and the operation terminated. The staff will require the navigation package to be available when they begin reporting after the New Year, and any further delays in its installation will endanger that.”

“Yes, Director.”

“We will contact you in the morning if we have further questions—please notify me immediately if there are new developments.”

“Of course.”

Sasaki touched her slate, and the Houston link was broken. There was a prolonged silence, more subdued than respectful, in the garden room in Prainha.

“Mr. Tidwell,” said Sasaki at last, frowning. “Are you there?”

“Yes,” came the reply, ferried across the Atlantic by the sky-link. “Yes, I am.”

“Do you have anything to add?”

Tidwell’s eyes were dull, and the words came slowly. “I was fond of Miss Graham. I deeply—regret—her death. That said, I do not see what I can contribute to this discussion.”

One of the men across from Sasaki stirred. “Can I ask what he was doing in Houston in the first place?”

“Mr. Tidwell?” asked Sasaki. “Did you hear that?”

“I had—made a judgment—that in order to truly know the colonists, I would have to share their lives—their experience.” He paused. “I meant to leave in three days, when the class was released.”

“Does sharing their lives include dating twenty-year-old girls?” The question came from a woman sitting to Sasaki’s left.

“I am satisfied that Mr. Tidwell’s involvement in these horrible events is tangential and entirely incidental. Further, that his involvement with Miss Graham was consistent with the purposes he named,” said Sasaki, her tone a sharp rebuke. “I have asked for his observations because he is in a position to speak to the present atmosphere in Houston, and for no other reason.”

The woman lowered her eyes and was silent.

“While in Houston, I saw a marked and growing polarization,” said Tidwell, stepping into the empty space. “Lines of allegiance have hardened. You hear bitter words on both sides, little communication between them. Emotions have outdistanced reason in too many minds. I am forced to say that I am not surprised that this happened. It was an undeclared war. No longer.”

“Can you plot the curve?” asked the woman.

“Pardon me?”

“How long will the Houston operation be sustainable?” she asked. “Will we be able to move three more classes through by March?”

“I see,” said Tidwell. “I am not well versed in the business of prediction.”

“Noted,” Sasaki said. “I would appreciate your assessment, all the same.”

Tidwell loosed an uncomfortable sigh. “The undeclared war was fought, I might argue, by gentleman’s rules. If Evan Silverman presages a new group of players who recognize no rules, it seems to me that it will be a near thing. There are wolves at the door.”

“Thank you, Thomas,” said Sasaki. “You may leave us now.”

“May I ask a question of my own?”

“Of course.”

“Why is Malena Graham so important? I was told today that twenty-nine people attached to the Project have died in accidents and other incidents this year, including three colonists. At least six of those deaths were murders. I am not aware that the committee was convened on the occasion of each or any of those cases. I’m beginning to wonder if you’re not more concerned about my involvement than you’ve admitted.”

Sasaki briefly showed a tired smile. “You have answered your own question, Thomas. Malena Graham is so important because she demonstrates that the rules have changed. She is the first colonist killed simply because she was a colonist.”