The Quiet Pools

run.”

“Yeah,” Christopher agreed. “Fine. But how do you do it, Daniel? How the hell do you get from here to there?”

Keith smiled, chewing. “I only do theoretical, Chris. Practical’s up to you.”

Though music was playing throughout the house when Christopher McCutcheon arrived home, he seemed to be alone there. But Jessica quickly appeared as he entered, her body tucked into black slacks and blouse, her long hair pulled together at the back of her neck into a golden waterfall.

“Hello, Chris,” she said cheerily, intercepting him near the door with a hug.

The hug lasted until it triggered recent memories, and Christopher stepped away. “Where’s Loi?”

“With a client, previewing a commissioned piece. Barring disaster, she’ll be home at seven or so. Can you survive without dinner until then?”

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

“I haven’t seen you to talk to since Sunday morning. How did your set at Alec’s go?”

“Not too badly, I guess,” he said, continuing past her. “Alec seemed happy, anyway. Of course, all he cares about is that he does more business with me there than he was before I started.”

“Did you do ‘Caravan to Antares’?” she asked, following.

“Yeah. Last song of the night. Just me and the hard-core.”

“And?”

“I don’t think they quite knew how to take it.”

“It’s a terrific song,” she said earnestly.

A crooked smile, thrown back over one shoulder. “So long as no one from Allied hears it. I’m going to check mail, okay?”

She stopped following and let him escape. “Okay, Chris.” Her poignant expression was wasted; he did not see it as he settled in front of the housecom.

“Mail,” he said, absently noting Jessica’s footsteps on the stairs behind him as the sole message came up.

“Hello, Christopher,” said William McCutcheon, looking out at him from the display.

His father’s face was not a friendly one—eyes too piercing, jaw too stern and angular. But his voice, warm and cultured, moderated the effect.

“I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that Allied was in the news today,” the senior McCutcheon continued. “This business with Homeworld reminded me that you haven’t been up to visit since you started there —what, six months, seven months ago? Why don’t you come up this weekend.” Not a question. Something closer to a command. “You can tube up Friday night and leave early enough Sunday not to disappoint your followers. Don’t bother with a rental. I’ll pick you up in Portland.”

The display dimmed, and Christopher sat back in the chair, thoughtful. The break had been more complete than his father had acknowledged. There had been no meaningful contact in nearly three months. Moreover, it was not mere neglect, but a conscious choice not to risk an open fight, not to face his father’s fury.

Even at twenty-seven, on his own for a dozen years, Christopher dreaded his father’s disapproval. When he decided, after much agonizing, to come to Allied, Christopher had not sought either his father’s permission or his approval. Permission was not required, and approval was not likely. Not from the man who had made Christopher refuse the selection option won in a tenth-grade cybernetics contest. Not from the man who had spent Ur’s sailing day climbing Saddle Mountain, safely out of touch with the net and out of the reach of any Diaspora zealots.

Christopher had sent the news wrapped in a tissue of justification, and his father responded with an acknowledgment empty of both criticism and congratulation. The rules of the compact seemed clear: You are my son and I love you, but I cannot love this choice you’ve made.

But now his father had broken the contract of silence with an invitation. A summons, couched in the civilities of family. The confrontation Christopher had thought he had avoided loomed before him.

“Chris?” Jessie’s voice, timid and tentative, intruded on his thoughts.

He twisted in the seat to see her sitting on the stairs, halfway between floors. “What’s the matter?”

“That’s what I was wondering. Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad?” he asked, delaying an answer.

“About last night.”

He pursed his lips, polled his feelings. “Nah,” he said, and shrugged.

“I could use just the littlest bit more reassurance than that,” she said.

“Like?”

She stood up, a far more flattering pose for her figure. “Will you come upstairs and make love with me?”

He hesitated, polling another set of readings. “With pleasure,” he said, bounding out of the chair wearing a playful smile.

It wasn’t too difficult to see that they were still involved when Loi and seven o’clock arrived.

CHAPTER 4 —AUC— “… the bandits of Allied Transcon…”

It was called the Director’s Residence, but it might as well have been called the Director’s Refuge. Located on the western edge of the compound, three kilometers from the cluster of towers and pyramids which housed the Diaspora staff, the small white Minano-designed bungalow was off-limits except at the explicit invitation of its sole occupant, and such invitations were rare. No more than a half dozen of Prainha’s 35,000 residents and employees— including those whose task it was to clean the bungalow—knew how Hiroko Sasaki lived.

Sasaki had no kin or roots on Earth, no purpose but the Project, no life outside of Prainha. Anything else that might be, that might be desired or desirable, was on hold, tabled until that which must be, was. For now, she was what she did. She spent as many hours as she could in the warren, driving herself and the Project staff toward efficiency, toward excellence, demonstrating by example the level of commitment she expected, the Project demanded. When she felt herself reaching her limit of patience or energy, she withdrew, retreating to the bungalow to rest and restore.

To serve effectively in that role, the bungalow was, as it must necessarily be, a world apart. Her world, private and personal. Its thick soundproofed walls closed out the sound of the multi-gigawatt laser lifting the T- ships skyward. Its only windows, a broad expanse of sloping plex across the face of the overthrust second story, faced the jungle, as though denying that the entire Prainha compound existed.

But that was as close as Sasaki cared to get to what remained of the great Amazonian wildlands. Born in the first of the satlands nearly half a century ago, Sasaki had never learned how to live with or in large spaces. Even the bungalow was uncomfortably, embarrassingly spacious. She used only three rooms of the bungalow’s fourteen, and spent most of her time in just one, the second-floor greatroom behind the wall of plex.

Sasaki had filled the spaces she did claim with objects she loved, with as much beauty as could harmoniously coexist there. From the Sorayama original on the north wall, a chrome dolphin gracefully leaping from the sea, to the pastel rice-paper bunjinga by Gyokudo which filled the south, the greatroom was a living museum. The Imari porcelain, the bronze of the Galloping Horse of Kansu, the pre-Revolution Valenciennes lace—each image, each piece, vibrated with life. Each was one breath of the yearning, one thread in the weave. She touched them, and they touched her. And the touch helped make her whole.

So, too, did the touch of Lujisa, one of the few who were not only permitted but invited to enter the Director’s Residence. Sasaki had an ageless body, supple and sleek. But at the end of a sixteen-hour day filled with Jeremiah and the Homeworld, negotiations with Beijing to lease the Memphis hyperlibrary and with the astronauts’ union to avoid a threatened strike, and conferences on six of the six thousand suits pending against Allied Transcon, enough stress had penetrated through her meditative calm to knot muscles and snarl the flow of energies through her body.