The Quiet Pools

inconsolably self-hating at his worst, he had exhausted the sympathy of his friends by the end of the first day and the patience of his supervisor by the end of the second. She banished him from the complex late Thursday with orders to take the weekend off and see a staff facilitator when he returned Monday.

“You’re all turned inside out, Christopher, with the ugly parts on the outside and the good stuff tucked away,” was her blunt assessment. “Get your attitude adjusted and come back in tune, because I need you on task.”

The oddest part, looking back, was that he had known exactly what he was doing. As if he wanted to make them despise him as much as he despised himself. As if making them reject him would confirm his harshest judgments of himself and make him feel as miserable as he thought he ought to.

And he had succeeded. He was quite alone, and he had never felt quite so awful.

Jessie was somewhere in the city with John Fields, the fifth time in two weeks they had disappeared on a formal evening date. And Loi was in the moon room’s whirlpool with a new playmate, the lion-maned son of a Dallas client. From time to time, Christopher could hear the splash of water, a titter of laughter, from behind the privacy-opaqued glass door.

It should be me in there with her, he thought wistfully, wishfully. Could have been.

Loi had been home Tuesday night when Tidwell delivered him to the front door. She had seen him struggling with his conscience, witnessed the body blow as he learned that his name and music were linked to a bloody murder that was top of the queue on every net. She had offered him motherly consolation and caught the full force of a broadside of bile for her trouble. He had been too busy being unapproachable, unlovable, to accept the comforts she offered.

No, he could not blame her for leaving him to his own devices—though, in truth, neither could he quite forgive her.

Or himself, he realized. Or I wouldn’t be sitting here in the pit making myself listen to them play.

“Music,” he said.

“What kind of music?” asked the house AIP.

“Loud music,” he said, sinking down further in the cushions.

Better alternatives were scarce. He had already run the list of programs in storage without finding anything that could command his attention. Daniel Keith was locked in a late-night conference with Karin Oker and the senior selection staff; he would not be free until after Saturday’s memorial service and Sunday’s postponed send-off ceremonies.

And Christopher’s usual diversion had no appeal at all—he had not picked up the Martin since leaving the stage at Wonders, and it seemed unlikely he would again soon.

“This is no good,” he said aloud.

The music ceased. “What would you like?”

“An answer.”

“I’m sorry. I did not hear the question.”

Christopher snorted. Baiting the house AIP? A game for ten-year-olds. Is that how low I’ve gone? “Show me the mail list,” he said.

The frozen patterns on the main display faded and the list sprang into view.

“Kill one through five,” he said, scanning. “Parasites. Kill seven. Tell eleven to fuck off.”

“That would be considered rude.”

“I know. Do it, anyway.” He squinted up at the wall. “I’m gonna be brave. Show me number eight.”

The list vanished, and the face of Lenore Edkins appeared. He was in his Building H office, and frowning.

“Christopher—I had hoped to tell you myself, but apparently you’re not in the complex today,” Edkins said. “Good news can keep as well as bad, but I thought you’d want to know. Maybe you’ve already guessed. ‘Caravan to Antares’ will be in the Memphis hyper. Through the front door. You’re relevant now.”

Edkins tried a smile. “For what it’s worth, I think you could have cracked in on artistic merit—the best work I’ve seen from you. Anyway, congratulations. Maybe the circumstances aren’t the best, but I know how much you wanted it.”

Somewhere in the middle of the message, Christopher’s mind switched off, and something wild and ugly took hold of him. Giving voice to a cry that began as a growl and ended as a shriek, he seized an onyx carving off the end table. In a single seamless motion, he came to his feet and hurled the carving overhand with all his strength at the wallscreen.

His throw was wild high, and the carving buried itself with a small puff of white dust in the soft plasterboard above the screen. It was over that quickly, the impulse grounded in one explosion of sound and movement, leaving him feeling drained and wobbly-legged.

As he stood staring wonderingly up at the hole, Loi appeared at the door of the moon room. She was dripping wet and wearing only a troubled expression.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Sorry,” he said, turning toward her. “I’m all right. Go back to your friend.”

She looked past him briefly, her glance taking in his redeco-ration. “Then what was the screaming about?”

“I was celebrating,” he said wryly. “Primal victory cry.”

“Celebrating?”

He dropped into a chair. “I’m going to live forever. The company just told me so.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Are you under?”

“No,” he said, trying to manage an embarrassed smile. “Unless self-pity is a drug. Which it probably is. Please—go on back to your friend. I really didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll—I can leave the house if you want.”

She frowned, studying him. “Only if you need the distance. Not for me.”

“I’ll be okay.”

She hesitated. “Mark won’t be staying,” she said. “We can talk later if you need to.”

Looking at her glistening body, Christopher remembered something Daniel had said when struggling to explain why he wasn’t comfortable around Loi. “She’d make a lousy lifeguard,” he had said finally. “She’d kneel on the edge and hold out her hand, but she’d never jump in to do your swimming for you.” Christopher had bristled in loyal defense, only later realizing that Daniel had been right.

But it was a trait, not a fault. Or if it was a fault, it was an innocent one—of expecting from others what she expected from herself. Loi had built her life on self-reliance. To need rescuing was a humiliation; to offer a rescue, an insult. The edge of the pool was as far as propriety would allow. It said something about how she saw him now that she was offering her hand a second time.

Shaking his head slowly, Christopher said, “Thanks, but I don’t think you can help.”

“Don’t close me out, Chris.”

Plea or caution? He couldn’t quite decide. While he debated, she retreated two steps and disappeared behind the closing door. A moment later there was a splash.

Caution, he decided.

“Would you like to see any further mail?” asked the AIP.

Christopher laughed brittlely. “No.”

“Would you like to select alternate music?”

“No.” He was silent for a long moment, trying to read the feeling in his body without putting words to it, trying to grasp his experience of his own life. Is this where you want to be? Is there anything right about who you are this instant? he asked, and the answers were reflected back to him as echoes of sorrow. No. Not the tenth part.

Then what are you going to do about it?

Male laughter in the distance. He drew a slow deep breath, his eyes closing briefly. “Judy?”

The AIP responded to its name. “Yes, Chris?”

He sighed. “See if you can reach Eric Meyfarth.”

Meyfarth did not call back, Jessie did not come back, and Mark did not leave until after midnight.

By that time, Christopher had retreated to the darkness of his bedroom, trying to pretend he was tired. When