The Quiet Pools

hair thinner and darker. But there was something in the eyes that was the same.

“I expected you, Mr. Dryke, but not this soon. Take off your hat and stay awhile—”

There was something oddly theatrical about the man’s demeanor, something scripted about his words and tone. But where was the audience?

“Did you get that?” Loren was calling from the kitchen. “Mr. Dryke, did you get that?”

Dryke heard him through the helmet, not the coder. “Get what?” he called back.

But Loren was already descending the stairway with quick steps. “Dru says all the lines from here are lit up. Land and sky—Dru? Dru? Damn, I’m losing her. This place must be shielded.” He stopped short of the landing and blinked. “Jesus Christ. There’s somebody here.”

“Ready,” said a woman’s voice from nowhere.

“Thank you, Lila,” the man said calmly. “This is William McCutcheon, speaking for Jeremiah and the Homeworld—”

The whole chamber is a tank. Dryke spun around and looked at the ceiling behind him. A three-eyed camera limpet hung from the ceiling above the stairway.

“As you can see, I have visitors this morning. As you might guess from the weapons they carry, I did not invite them. Mikhail Dryke, chief of the security forces for Allied Transcon, has invaded my home to arrest me. My crime—”

“No!” shouted Dryke, whirling. “No more fucking speeches!”

Behind him, Loren wordlessly retreated halfway up the stairs. “Dru?” Dryke heard him saying. “Dru?”

“Do you really think that you can stop us?” asked McCutcheon. “That your efforts have made any difference at all? Do you think I count so much, that you have only one enemy? I’m just one link in the chain, one cell in something larger. When I’m gone, someone else will step in to take my place.”

“And someone else will step in to take mine,” said Dryke. Something had snapped inside him, like a switch being thrown.

He no longer cared if his words were being broadcast to the world, no longer could bear to be taunted and lectured.

“You don’t understand what you’re fighting.” McCutcheon’s tone was dismissive.

In that moment, Dryke realized that he had made the decision on the train. He realized, too, that if he let McCutcheon go on talking, the moment would slip away. Later, he would want to tell himself that he had been driven past the edge by rage and fear, necessity and fatigue. But the truth was that it was a willful act. He touched the white fire and let it fill him. Only afterward did it burn.

“Wrong, Jeremiah. I do.” He raised his gun and pointed it at the middle of McCutcheon’s chest. “This is for Malena Graham.”

He fired four times, four neatly spaced and carefully aimed shots, then lowered his arm slowly to his side. He stood, swaying on his feet, and watched the shattered shell of William McCutcheon die, and felt cheated because triumph tasted as bitter as defeat.

Ripping his helmet off, Dryke threw it aside, turned his back, and started up the stairs. Loren was staring at him. “Dru?” Dryke said as he reached the kitchen. “How much got out?”

“Just the first ten or twelve seconds,” she said. “I jammed the skylinks and Ramond got the lines through Pacific. What happened?”

“Can you put a message up for me to the Director?”

“I can do better than that. I can get her direct.”

Dryke shook his head, aware of Loren’s watching eyes, though he would not meet them. “I don’t want to talk to her,” he said. “Just tell her for me that Jeremiah is dead.”

CHAPTER 25 —CUC— “…the footprints of lost souls.”

Dr. Meyfarth’s counseling room had been a comfortable space, an almost cluttered space. But since Christopher’s last visit, the clutter had vanished, and everything that remained was now pure eggshell white—the cradle couch, the low table with the recorder ball, Meyfarth’s molded chair, the padded corner pit, the carpet, the ceiling, the walls.

It was now a confrontational environment, offering no distractions and allowing only one focus—the interaction between technologist and client. Christopher wondered briefly if Meyfarth had made the change with him in mind. But this time, he needed no encouragement to talk.

“She wants me to believe that my father bullied my mother to the point that she killed herself, and then went ahead and did what he had to, to get what he wanted. I’ve been thinking about this since Saturday night, and I just can’t accept that picture.”

“Then don’t,” Meyfarth said. “The facts aren’t clear, and you’re not obliged to share her beliefs.”

“I think the facts are clear. My father loved Sharron—my mother.” The amendment was a conscious jab at his sister, whose cutting words were still playing in his thoughts. “I know he did, no matter what Annie says.”

“The point is, that’s your sister’s particular family grief. Accurate or not, it doesn’t have much to do with you.”

“Lynn-Anne thinks it does.”

“None of us is responsible for the circumstances of our birth. That doesn’t heal your relationship with Annie, I know,” said Meyfarth. “But you don’t have to make peace with her to come out ahead.”

“How’s that?”

“You can take away from this the understanding that she’s bracketed you and your father together and that the hostility she shows you is only partly your fault. In fact, it’s safer for her to vent that hostility on you than on him, so you can probably expect more of the same if you try to press contact.”

Christopher nodded slowly. “If she could learn to separate the two of us, then maybe we could work out whatever real grievances she has with me.”

“It would be a good starting point, at least.”

“And I’m sure there are some,” Christopher added.

“There almost always are, between siblings,” said Meyfarth. “In any case, I think we can let this go for now —unless you’d rather not.”

Christopher crossed an ankle over his knee as he answered. “No. This doesn’t feel like it touches my problems with Jessie and Loi.”

“On the whole, I agree,” said Meyfarth. “What is the climate in the house now? When we talked Saturday, you led me to think that it wasn’t very pleasant for you.”

A wry smile formed on Christopher’s lips. “Not very pleasant for any of us, I guess. Loi surprised me this weekend—kind of took pity on me. But Jessie—I can’t get near her. I can’t even get her attention. Almost as though she has her back to me, if that makes any sense.” He gazed intently at the carpet beyond his feet. “And it hurts,” he added quietly.

“Is she still seeing John?”

Christopher’s head bobbed slowly in affirmation. “I expect her to tell us any day now that she’s moving out,” he said. “I’m not quite sure why I didn’t see it before, but she’s never been as serious about the trine as Loi and I were.”

“Are you sure you’re being fair? She wanted to have a baby with you.”

“But only as long as it looked like it’d be easy,” Christopher said, raising his head and looking plaintively at Meyfarth. “She wants a lot, you know? But what is she giving back?”

“What does she want? ‘Listen to me. Tell me your feelings. Be affectionate.’ That’s too much?”

“This was the first bump we ran into, and she’s already given up on me.”

Meyfarth cocked his head and said nothing, inviting Christopher to follow the thought.