cryogenic chamber where she slept Annie saw their common physical features. But her mother’s hair was darker, auburn colored. Her own hair was, as her father had always called it, a dark honey blond. Specific memories she didn’t have, but general memories—love, warmth, friendship. To have another woman in whom she could confide— it was a dream and soon, when it would be the appointed time for the Awakening, it would be reality. She had read books, seen videotaped movies, where mother and daughter disagreed, where enmity had replaced love, dis-trust replaced respect. It was something she could not comprehend. And yet her mother would be like her sister. Only four years older physically than she when the Awakening would come.
She poured some of her tea, Michael’s cup first. “Where will you go?” “I marked the point on the mountains and when I came back up top I shot an azmuth on it. I can’t really be too precise as to the distance. But the direction, I’ve got that.”
“Will you take one of the motorcycles?”
“I can use Dad’s maps of the strategic fuel reserves—I’ll be all right.” “You can take some of the dehydrated food. I’ll prepare it for you. When are you thinking of—“ “Today—in a few hours. If there was a crash and there’s someone out there, well—maybe I can—“¦
“I know—you sound like our father. You look like him. Sometimes I think you think like him.”
He smiled.
“But you don’t smoke cigars. I can help you get your gear ready—what will you need?”
“I’ve got my guns—and I’ll take an M-16—“
“Take one of the Gerber fighting knives.”
“I was planning to.”
“I’ll pack some socks and underwear and things for you.”
“All right.” Michael nodded. “Will you be all right?”
“Alone? But I’m not alone.” Annie smiled. “And you’ve been gone before.”
“This’ll be for a longer time.”
“Give me a time limit—so I know when to start worrying.” Michael Rourke laughed. “All right, if I’m not back in fourteen days, then start worrying.”
“If you’re not back in fourteen days,” and she sipped at her tea—it was very hot, “I’ll do more than worry,” she promised. The Awakening was to be on Christmas Day and that was seventeen days.
She stood outside the Retreat, the motorcycle— one of the big Harley-Davidson Lowx Riders, blue—between them. It was cold and she hunched her shoulders under the quilted midcalf-length coat she had made for herself two years earlier, the wind blowing up the road leading away from the Retreat, whipping under her nearly ankle- length skirt, making her bare legs cold where her stockings stopped just below the knee. A shawl— she had crocheted it herself—was wrapped around her head and neck, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her coat. She watched Michael as he finished securing the last of his gear aboard the bike. She had helped him check it, had prepared a spare parts kit for him just in case.
“Well.” Michael smiled. “I guess this is it.”
She looked at her brother a moment. He wore one of her father’s spare leather jackets. Slung across his back was the Magnum Sales Stalker, scope covers in place. In a crossdraw holster by his left hip bone was the smaller, scopeless, .44 Magnum Predator. She had helped him to secure the M-16 to the bike. On his right hip was the Gerber Mkll fighting knife. She had given him another knife from her father’s stock—an A.G. Russell Sting IA, but not black chromed like the one that helped to form her father’s battery of personal weapons. This was natural stainless steel finish. “I wish you’d take a double action revolver or a semi-automatic pistol.”
“I’m happy with these. I know how to use them—even Dad told me I was a good shot with them.”
“But Daddy never liked you just carrying single actions—too slow to reload.”
“I’ll be all right, Annie—now don’t worry.” He smiled. She walked around behind the back of the bike, inspecting it once more with her eyes. She put her arms around his neck, felt his arms encircle her body, pulling her close. She wondered what the embrace of a lover would be like. At nearly twenty-eight, she had never known that. She felt Michael’s lips brush her cheek. She took his face in her hands, her hands cold in the wind, and kissed him full on the lips, fast. “I love you, Michael—you’re the only brother I’ve got. Be careful.”
Michael Rourke laughed. ifThat the only reason you love me—because I’m the only brother you’ve got?”
She laughed, burying her head against his chest—the shawl worked down from her head as he stepped away to mount the bike, the wind caught her hair. She raised her arms to capture her hair with her hands, holding it back with her left hand. Michael mounted the Harley and gunned the engine to life.
He looked at her once, smiling. “Be seein’ ya, Annie,” and then he turned away. She stood there, the bike starting down the road away from the Retreat, watching him. He looked back once and she waved at him. She kept watching, wrapping the shawl around her head again, stabbing her hands into her pockets, shivering in the wind, but watching him until she could no longer see even a speck of movement that might still be him. ‘t Alone, Annie Rourke turned around and started back into the Retreat, opening the interior door after closing the exterior door, killing the red light and then closing the Retreat door behind her.
In the winter, there was little to do. No garden. She neatly folded her shawl and set it on the edge of the kitchen counter to be put away later. She took off her coat, setting it across the top of one of the stools—the one Michael usually used.
Standing in the cold had made her want to go to the bathroom, and she started across the Great Room. But she stopped, staring at one of the cryogenic chambers. Not her father, or her mother, or the Russian woman Natalia—Natalia was very beautiful. As she—Annie—stabbed her hands into the pockets of her skirt, she stared at another face. Paul Rubenstein. He was not handsome, but she liked the set of his face. She remembered him almost not at all, except that they had all played cards together and Faul Rubenstein had told her she was a very pretty girl and she had giggled.
She smiled thinking of it.
Later she would check the small paper-making operation. Later she would fix a little dinner for herself. Later—later she would go to the bath-room. She stood watching Paul Rubenstein instead.
She was her father’s daughter, she had always known, and before Michael had even begun to realize it, she had realized it.
John Rourke had played God.
John Rourke had let her age to nearly the age of Paul Rubenstein. He had picked Paul as her mate, or husband, but who would marry them? Her father? Was being master of the Retreat like being master of a ship? Or perhaps if the Eden Project did return, the commander of the Shuttle Fleet could perform some sort of ceremony.
She had accepted her father’s decision, not because it was his decision, but because for some reason she could not understand, she had found herself staring at Paul Rubenstein a great deal, fantasizing what his voice would sound like, wondering if the cryogenic sleep would somehow alleviate the eyesight problem which caused him to wear the wire-rimmed glasses which were with his things in the storeroom. She had^washed the glasses once, buffed the lenses. She had wanted to do it.
She looked away from Paul Rubenstein, smil-ing, laughing a little as she whispered, “My intended.” Annie looked at the face of Natalia Tiemerovna. She—Natalia—was her brother’s
“intended,” and Annie knew that. She had considered that a great deal. Michael had talked about their father and “the Russian woman” many times. Annie had decided that her father had been in love with two women—their mother and “the Russian woman.” But something inside of her, and something too in the face of the sleeping “Russian woman” made her feel inside of her that playing at being God wouldn’t prove quite as easy as her father might have thought. She no longer had to urinate. Instead, she started back toward the kitchen—she wondered if Paul Rubenstein would like her cooking. She stopped beside the counter, unbuckling the web belt with the military flap holster from around her waist, the Detonics Scoremaster always carried there when she left the Retreat whatever the reason. She set the gunbelt down beside her shawl, picked up her apron and began tying it about her waist. She could fix something exotic—Michael liked only bland things. A spinach souffle—she could start with that.
Chapter Ten
He had traveled for five days and in two more would turn back, he had promised himself. He would not abandon the search, but rather return to be with Annie for the Awakening. Then perhaps he and his father both could search, Paul Ruben-stein staying behind with the women to protect the Retreat. He had often fantasized what
