Christopher should not have been surprised when he saw where their journey had taken them, but he was, all the same. He knew with the first glimpse of the little Forest Grove hub-port, knew with the first breath of air as they crossed from hot-winged screamer to waiting flyer.
But until the thin ribbon of U.S. 26 and the scattered houses of Manning flashed by below, until Tillamook State Forest spread out beneath them and a mist-wrapped Hoffman Hill loomed out the right-side windows, Christopher refused to accept the knowledge.
At that point, though, he had no choice but to embrace it. They were taking him home.
There were four vehicles already crowded into the clearings flanking the house, and easily a dozen people in sight—ferrying cases from inside to the square-backed silver van, standing talking in knots of two or three, or just watching as the flyer bearing Christopher floated in to settle on the much-trampled grass between the muddy track of the old road and the garage.
Christopher had long since given up demanding—or even pleading for—explanations. He docilely followed Lange inside, sat in the living room chair Lange pointed him to, watched mutely as white-gloved men and women meticulously erased any signs of the intrusion with vacuum and buffer and an endless supply of square yellow cloths. How long had they been there? Where was his father?
Presently, Lange returned, trailing behind a black-haired dart-eyed man with a wrestler’s build and a soldier’s walk. Christopher stood up to meet him.
“Are you Dryke?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Getting ready to leave,” said Dryke. “I’ll take the rest of your questions when you’ve answered mine. Come with me, please.”
He led Christopher to the office and, asking Lange to wait outside, closed the door behind them.
“Sit at the desk.”
Moving tentatively, Christopher complied.
“Ask the AIP if it knows you.”
Christopher swallowed. “Hello, Lila.”
“Hello, Christopher,” Lila said. “I wasn’t told you would be visiting. How long will you be staying?”
“I don’t know,” said Christopher, looking to Dryke.
“Ask for your messages.”
“Lila, are there any messages for me?”
“No messages, Christopher. Should I update your address to this location?”
“No.”
“Ask it to replay the last message sent to you by Jeremiah.”
“I never—”
“Ask it.”
He did, and the center panel of the comsole darkened into an image of William McCutcheon. “Hello, Christopher. This is your father. You’re not being paid enough if you’re still working at this hour—”
“Lila, you made a mistake,” said Christopher. “That’s my father.”
The display went white. “I’m sorry, Christopher,” said Lila. “Which Jeremiah did you mean?”
Suddenly fragile, Christopher looked up into Dryke’s intent gaze. “It made a mistake.”
“No,” said Dryke.
“You think my father is Jeremiah?”
“There isn’t any question about it. Do you expect me to believe you didn’t know?”
“I don’t believe
Dryke nodded. “Lila, show Christopher Jeremiah’s last transmission.”
It was his father again, sitting in a room Christopher did not know. “This is William McCutcheon, speaking for Jeremiah and the Homeworld. 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—”
“Lila, where is my father?” Christopher asked suddenly.
“He was shot by Mikhail Dryke on Sunday morning,” Lila said. “I infer that he is dead.”
With a cry of anguish, Christopher vaulted out of the chair and lunged at Dryke. The older man turned the charge aside easily, spinning away and giving Christopher a shove that carried him hard into the wall. By the time Christopher picked himself up and turned, he was facing five men and three weapons.
“Fagging bastard. Where is he? What did you do with him?”
“Buried him in the earth,” said Dryke. “I would tell you where, but that could prove awkward. I’m sorry.” He turned to one of the newcomers. “Tell Ramond I want the rest of the house files wormed out and this AIP reset. Now.”
The man nodded and left, and Dryke turned back to Christopher. “I don’t know that I believe what you told Donald. Even if I did, I don’t know how much sympathy I’d have left for you. You’ll understand that if you have any idea of the grief that Jeremiah caused.
“I do know I don’t trust you. I can’t. If it was my choice, you’d be going with us, and disappearing, at least until
He stepped closer. “But I’ll warn you right now, don’t come near Allied property, or anyone in the Project. I don’t think I even want to hear that you’re back in Houston. That would put thoughts in my head that you don’t want me to think.
“Your resignation will be final in ten days—thank you for that, it’s tidier. You’ll even get one more check, I suspect. But your passes, codes, and credits are dead as of now. You can send someone to pick up your car.”
They kept him waiting in the bedroom while they finished their work. When the only noises Christopher could hear were outside the house—voices, the banging of equipment being loaded, the whistle of lifters—he opened the door and found himself alone.
He walked through the silent house slowly and reached the front window in time to watch the last vehicle, the silver van, clear the scorch pad and disappear over the treetops. He stood at the window for a long time, though there was nothing more to see. His body jangled with an impotent fury. They were gone, and he could not touch them.
And his father was dead, and he did not know how to feel.
CHAPTER 26
—AAU—
Christopher could not stay in the house. It was too uncomfortable, too jarringly wrong, to be in his father’s space and not feel his father’s presence.
Even the characteristic smell of the house—part aromatic cedar from the closets, a hint of sesame oil from the kitchen, his father’s soaps from the bath, the char of burnt wood from the fireplace—had been upset by the cleaning. It smelled now of alcohol and cleanser, and another faint chemical scent—the strongest in the kitchen— which he could not define.
Heedless of the temperature outside, Christopher went through the rooms opening all the movable windows and both doors, changing the blowers at the top of each dome to exhaust. Then he left the house behind and walked into the forest, his fists buried deep in the pockets of a jacket borrowed from his father’s closet.
For a time, he ordered himself not to think, allowing the mountain to wrap itself around him. The air was damp and cool, the ground soggy underfoot. There was a steady patter as drops of water fell from the tree crowns high overhead to the carpet of trillium and humus. A few birds called lonely sounds from the branches far above him. Now and again, his approach flushed a nimble-quick chipmunk from a tangle of ferns and brush.
The farther he went into the forest, the more his steps slowed. His purposeful passage, tramping a line
