When the mood began to lift, and Jeremiah became aware once again of who and where he was, he felt the tune slow and stop, breaking off awkwardly in the middle of a phrase. He could not have said with any confidence how long he had been playing—when he looked up at Mrs. Mayflower he would not have been particularly surprised if she had aged ten years.
She had not aged ten years, but the last ten minutes or so did not seem to have done much for her mood. She had clenched her jaw, and was frowning an inscrutable frown.
“The glass,” Jeremiah said to her, realizing it himself as he formed the words. “It broke.”
They stood there looking at each other for a moment, and the longer Jeremiah looked at her, the less sure he was what her expression meant—whether he had just been damned or forgiven. The spell broke with the sound of someone clearing his throat when it did not need to be cleared. Roosevelt the butler was standing in the doorway of the small music room, holding a silver tray in one hand, on which was perched a tall thin glass of the orangest orange juice Jeremiah had ever seen. He stepped into the room and lowered the tray by Mrs. Mayflower’s side.
“Roosevelt,” she said, and her voice was ice, “replace my banjo and show our visitor out.”
* * *
Jeremiah stumbled out of the hidden passageway into the normal passageway and attempted to catch his breath as Roosevelt the butler slammed the hidden door shut behind him. He was not sure how to process what had just happened.
The glass had broken: after all these years of banging and battering, pain and disappointment, he had felt that indestructible ShopGlass, somewhere deep in the trance of that music, shatter like the thinnest sheet of ice skimmed from a puddle, almost of its own accord. That meant—at least in theory—there was no longer anything between Jeremiah and Real Life. But: so what? Or perhaps more importantly: now what? What did one do in Real Life? How did one behave? How were things different? This service hallway, for example, looked just the same as it always had—gray and uninviting and slightly damp.
And for his part, Jeremiah didn’t feel particularly different. He pinched his forearm. It felt real enough. But it had always felt that way—hadn’t it? He took inventory of himself and found that—as far as he could tell—things were all very much in line with the old status quo.
After several minutes spent in such pursuits, Jeremiah reached the conclusion that—glass or no glass—he was going to have to come up with some plan of action, go somewhere, do something. He couldn’t very well stand in this hallway for the rest of his Real Life, pinching his forearm. In Real Life, as in life, there were matters to attend to.
For example: Grubel had instructed Jeremiah, in no uncertain terms, to report back to him immediately after speaking with Mrs. Mayflower. But that was not a conversation Jeremiah was eager to have, and he reflected that there was as little point in reporting what had happened as in hiding it. Grubel would find out soon enough from Mrs. Mayflower’s own mouth, and when he did, Jeremiah’s stay on the Einstein IV would be extended for 2 or 20 years, depending on your preferred inertial frame of reference.
Further fast thinking and fast talking and desperate legerdemain was not necessary or even useful. The ax was no longer about to fall: it was falling, and was en route to his neck. At the very least, he supposed, it was falling in Real Life. And if he was now Really Alive, he might as well act accordingly.
Jeremiah decided to leave the office closed and check a few other items off the list of matters still unresolved. He set off to find Henry Chapin, who was dying, with the air of a man putting his own affairs in order.
* * *
“Nothing? You mean nothing interesting,” said Mr. Chapin. His voice echoed in the abandoned pool room—Jeremiah had found him there taking his usual morning swim.
“I mean I found nothing at all,” Jeremiah said. “The box was empty.”
In response Mr. Chapin dried his arms with such vigor that Jeremiah was afraid even the plush towels of the E4 might damage his skin.
“You still won’t tell me why you need to know?” said Jeremiah.
Mr. Chapin shook his head, spraying a little water in the process. He sighed and pushed his knuckles into his eyes.
“This is quite frustrating,” he said.
“Mr. Chapin,” said Jeremiah. “Henry. Does this have anything to do with your medical news from Earth?”
Mr. Chapin’s head snapped up.
“How do you know about that? I haven’t even told Sara yet.”
“I saw one of your waves from Earth. I wasn’t trying to snoop,” said Jeremiah. “Not on you at least.”
“I see. I suppose in a certain sense this makes things easier.”
“Is there any hope?”
“It appears not. Funny, isn’t it? Humanity has come so far: we can extract energy from empty space with the Quantum Caterpillar Drive, and block gravity with Inertial Dampers and build big, comfortable ships that push the speed of light. But when it comes to our own bodies, we’re still the clumsiest of amateurs, futzing around.
“Do you know, Jeremiah, I didn’t even want to come on this cruise? The world had already changed so much on me. I wanted to just take the two or three years the doctors could give me and get to know the place again before I left it. But Sara wouldn’t consider it—she couldn’t. She couldn’t accept the idea that we wouldn’t try every measure available to us. And I was touched, of course—that she loved me that much. So I agreed and we bought our tickets. But now things have turned out as I suspected they would, and I’m going home to die in a world even stranger to me than the one I left.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jeremiah. He wanted to say something else—something more—but what else was there to say, even in Real Life?
“That’s not the worst part, though. The worst part is leaving Sara alone. We never had any children—which was my fault, entirely my fault. I spent our fertile years possessed with the self-righteous conviction that bringing a child into a world as broken as ours was the height of cruelty. Oh, I’d never lied to Sara about the fact that I didn’t want children. The terms were all spelled out clearly in black and white when she signed up. That’s how I thought of it. But marriage is a contract that’s under constant renegotiation. After enough years the whole ‘party of the first part’ and ‘party of the second part’ starts to blur—which I suppose is the whole point. Do you understand what I’m getting at, Jeremiah?”
“Not really.”
“I mean that because I was principled and stubborn, I’ll be leaving my wife all alone in this world, and she seems to have taken a shine to Roof, and I want to know whether to aid and abet that attachment or not.”
“Wow,” said Jeremiah. “That’s—enlightened of you.”
“Good God, Jeremiah, I don’t mean right now. If he so much as holds her hand while I’m still drawing breath it will be pistols at dawn. I just mean arranging things for after I’m gone. Removing obstacles, paving the way. Inviting him out to the lake and things like that. But before I pave the way I need to make sure that he’s a good man. By which I mean, a man who will treat Sara well. A man who’s worthy of her—to some approximation.”
“Isn’t this really Sara’s decision?”
“Well of course,” roared Mr. Chapin, “I’m not talking about selling my wife into slavery. I’m talking about opening a few doors. If she wants to walk through them, she can. And if she doesn’t, then she won’t.”
“All right, but doesn’t Mr. Roof have something to say about it too?”
Mr. Chapin took a moment to catch his breath.
“Yes, and I know what you’re going to say: he doesn’t seem particularly enamored of her. Yet. Sara has a way of growing on you—a romantic nature that works on you while you don’t know what’s happening. You won’t believe me—her passion is buried deep—but it’s there.”
“I believe you,” said Jeremiah.
“Anyway, that will all take care of itself. Or if it doesn’t, at least I tried. So.”
“So?”
“So no one takes a two-year cruise through deep space in a tin can while 20 years pass on Earth just for fun. If Roof is not sick, what’s he doing here? Running from legal trouble? Outliving someone he’s wronged? Waiting for an investment to mature?”
“Surely at this point you’ve done everything you can do except ask him? Isn’t it time to bite the bullet?”
“We’ve been over this,” said Mr. Chapin. “You know Roof—you know how he is about manners and customs. If I break the unwritten rule, not only won’t he answer, but he’ll be so offended that he’ll never want anything to do with me again—or Sara. It’s time to accept defeat.”
He stood up from the deck chair. Jeremiah did not like to see his shoulders so stooped, his head so bowed.
“I’m going to finish my swim,” said Mr. Chapin. He looked at his own arms, legs, hands. “There are many supposed pleasures I’ve tired of—things I won’t miss when my life is over. But swimming I will miss.”
He walked to the pool and dove into the water.
* * *
“Photos of you,” said Jeremiah to Mrs. Abdurov. “Look.”
He handed her the camera pen, which she paired with her PED. She took a few steps towards the back of her room and turned her back, as if to put up a privacy screen. When she turned back, her eyes were gleaming.
“He knew,” she said. “Vor Drinkwater knew I would send you to open box, so he taunts me like this. He even digitally alters photos to make me look sour and angry.”
“He’s not taunting you—he’s in love with you. He keeps these photos in his safe deposit box because nothing else is more precious to him.”
“You are sweet, stupid boy, Jeremiah. You leave the thinking to me. I wanted to avenge my Marya Jana in front of her own cold eyes, but time is run out for me—we arrive on Earth tomorrow. Goodbye, Jeremiah. Thank you for inept help, but now this is job only I can do.”
“What job are you planning to do, Mrs. Abdurov?”
“Is best you know nothing. This is a personal matter. A matter of vory.”
“Are you planning to harm Mr. Drinkwater?”
“You go now. Don’t worry, nothing comes back to you.”
“You cannot harm Mr. Drinkwater,” said Jeremiah.
“Oh?” Mrs. Abdurov said, drawing herself up to her full height and looking Jeremiah right in the nipples. “Who are you to tell me this?” She acceded to the height difference and glared upwards into his eyes.
“Mr. Drinkwater is under my protection. If you attempt to harm him, you’ll have to go through me.”
Slowly and sweetly, never breaking eye contact, Mrs. Abdurov reached up with both hands and placed one on each of Jeremiah’s cheeks.
“Then this is goodbye, my sweet stupid boy. The next time we meet, is as enemies.”
She took her hands back.
“You leave my room now,” she said.
* * *
Jeremiah returned to the suite just in time to catch Katherine about to leave for lunch service. She had already changed into her uniform and was sitting on the sofa, putting on her shoes.
“I’ll be out of your way in a second,” she said.
“Katherine,” said Jeremiah, “I have to tell you something.”
“No you don’t.”
“It’s a done deal. I’m going to have to stay on for a full cruise.”
“I’m sorry,” Katherine said.
“I’m not, because I sure as hell don’t want to spend 20 years on Earth without you. Now I know I haven’t—”
“Jeremiah—”
“Wait, I’m not finished. I know I haven’t deserved you. I still don’t. But I have changed. And I’ll keep changing. I’ll—”
“I’m leaving the E4,” Katherine said. “This is my final 2/20. For the last however many years I’ve been putting all my savings and retirement funds into Golden Worldlines stock. Now that we’re back in communication range I had a chance to check the quote, and think I’ve got enough to make a go of it. I won’t be rich or anything, but I can start a life on Earth.”
“But Katherine—”
“Don’t make this harder than it already is, Jeremiah. I have to go to work now.”
Which she did.
27
Without Further Ado
Still Saturday (1 day until arrival)
Jeremiah had already visited the passenger dining room, where the talent show was to begin in three hours. The PA system was online. The refreshments were well in hand. Luis and crew were assembling the stage and hanging the curtain. There was nothing left for Jeremiah to do but wander and think about Katherine.
Real Life was turning out to be a bit of a mixed bag—the glass that had kept Jeremiah from it had also protected his heart from a depth of revelatory pain that dwarfed his other misfortunes and discomforts. If he made them Domenican lizards, Katherine was Godzilla. If he made them fire, Katherine was a supervolcano. If he made them swords and spears, she was a hydrogen bomb mushroom clouding in his heart.
The prospect of spending two years without her was excruciating. But the thought that those two years would mean 20 for her—that their worldlines would diverge forever, that they would number their hours and years differently, never again sharing so much as a calendar? Well that was intolerable, inconceivable, not to be considered.
As for Battle: Battle was nothing, a garnish of horseradish on a dish already so bitter that Jeremiah could not possibly swallow it.
But there was nothing else on the menu, and still three hours to kill, so Jeremiah walked, and walked, and walked.
* * *
The ship began to bestir itself as the dinner hour grew closer. Jeremiah fetched the bandora from Katherine’s suite and returned to the dining room, where he hid behind stage left. It was hard to sit there with a musical instrument in his hands and not even strum it, and Jeremiah worried that his mind would drift and his fingers would repeat their recent rebellion, with disastrous results. After a while he set the bandora aside.
There in the wings of the stage, invisible himself, he commanded a clear view of the dining room. The chefs and servers arrived, and then the first few passengers. As dinner service began in earnest, it turned out Jeremiah had positioned himself with an excellent view of Katherine’s tables in particular.
Jeremiah knew he should not be spying on Katherine like this, and not just because it was discourteous to her. This surveillance was no good for him either—these glimpses of her smiling and chatting were torture in the moment and were not destined to become happy memories. They burned his soul just as the fumes of the lacquer coming off the stage burned his lungs, with that deep pain that presages permanent damage. But he couldn’t help himself, and as the dining room filled up and dinner entered its full swing, Jeremiah did not even want to blink for danger of missing a single glimpse.
* * *
Finally, when the desserts had been served and cleared, the last dregs of coffee and tea abandoned, the final sips of port swirled in the bottoms of the glasses and tossed back, Jeremiah stepped on the stage and up to the microphone. The suffering of his lungs and heart was eased for just a moment by the few gasps of genuine astonishment from the diners—who in that moment had become the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice booming over the PA system, “welcome to the First Ever—as far as we know—Golden Worldlines Passenger Talent Show.”
Silence greeted his remarks, then a slow smattering of applause that built until most of the dining room was actually standing to deliver their ovation. The passengers seemed to harbor very little doubt about the level of talent they were about to witness. As the clapping died down, members of the crew filtered in through the doors at the back of the dining room. They lined up in rows starting against the back wall until they would have encroached on the guests and their tables if they went any further, at which point those who were passing through the doors remained in the doors, creating not just an obstruc
ted view for those caught behind them, but a blatant violation of any sensible fire code.
“Some administrative details,” said Jeremiah. “The list of acts is posted here.” He pointed to the small table at the foot of the stage. “When your act is on deck, please set up backstage while the act before you is performing.” He pointed left and behind the curtain. “And with that, please join me in welcoming our first act, Mrs.—”
Jeremiah paused. Mrs. Mayflower, at her own insistence, was slated to open the show, but she was nowhere to be seen. Had her lack of practice given her a change of heart? Was she still recovering from whatever shock Jeremiah had delivered by daring to play her banjo? Had she, at the moment of truth, decided that she did not in fact wish to display her talents for the benefit of these billionaires less fortunate than herself? Or was she arriving even now, parting the gasping crowd of crew and striding into the dining room, her gaze wandering neither left nor right and her chin held high, assisted in this exercise of focus by a huge circular ruff of stiff lace protruding from the collar of her deep purple dress, which looked as if she had excised it from an Elizabethan portrait? Was she furthermore proceeding towards the stage this very moment, hands clasped in front of her, as if walking up the aisle towards coronation, sleeves trimmed with ermine?
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