capable of harming him. She saw the negative telemetry from his uniform and knew his heart was stopped. She knelt by him and tried to see if his uniform was functioning to keep him viable. She now had two victims to transmat and only one medical cocoon. She worried that Horss's condition would be too critical for his uniform and augments to treat. She could see the pulsing of his class-1 as it started to react to his death.
Demba stood to reacquire sight of Samson. She didn't see Samson! As she stepped away from Horss's body, it vanished in that optical manner typical of a transmat: a bluish haze, then instantly absent, followed by a muffled clap of air into vacuum. For a moment she assumed Baby took them both, winked them to the yacht, but then her thoughts cleared well enough for her to realize Baby wouldn't initiate such action. Baby was, in fact, trying to get her attention by shiplink.
"No," she said to Baby's request to transmat her. "Someone else has taken them. I want to know who. I'll see if they'll take me."
She waited. She was alone in the African Space Elevator. The sunshine was gone from the world. In the gathering shadow of evening the grid of bluish haze that was a transmat reference field could be seen forming in front of her and hunting toward her. She turned around to face one of the windows. She looked out upon the darkening plain with its black dots of vegetation, scattered herd animals, and faint tracery of a city that once existed beyond the outlying buildings of the elevator complex. She could see the brighter habitats of humanity shining in space at a Lagrange point, as the shadow of Earth took away the blue light scatter and made the atmosphere more transparent to the universe.
===
She turned around, sensing the presence behind her. Fidelity Demba stood on a balcony overlooking a dark bay of an unseen ocean. From the starry night and the ephemeris of her data augment she had determined her exact location on Earth: a small city on the west coast of an island in the Florida Archipelago. She had been waiting until night fell on this meridian of the planet. The interfering stranger had made her wait, his android butler attending to her comfort, but she was no less irritated with him - and with herself. She, an admiral of the mighty Navy, was made to feel virtually helpless and unimportant, and in fact she was just that: helpless. She could call her yacht and sail away this moment, but to where, to what kind of future? She would never board the Freedom again. She would never voyage into that dark unknown. She would never command a mission. She would probably never see Archives again, not that she would miss it so much. She would have Baby for the few months he would live until the chaos of life killed him. She might have her private staff, those few loyal servants who trained her and medicated her, keeping her viable in the bloody precarious way of life that was the Union Navy. But eventually, or sooner, she would disappear, perhaps in death, perhaps into some unknown hell. And so, for what time remained of her freedom, she would not hurry to make decisions, not worry about the Galactic Hub Mission. She was only really interested in Samson and in her own reactions to him. He had broken something in her, opening her to impossible possibilities.
= = =
Demba stared for many moments at the dark man who had come to stand near her in the gloom of the balcony. She waited for him to ask his questions and make his demands. She had surprisingly identified him by image from her data augment. He was famous. Even so, it bothered her irrationally that it was him. She knew he lived here. She judged he could have a reason for doing what he did, interfering, as though he policed the Forbidden Planet. He did reside here with special permission. Yet, she was disturbed for some further reason that wouldn't resolve itself. Perhaps she was expecting too much of her mental faculties after what had happened to the child. She was broken now, and both intrigued by it and frightened by it.
/
The female Navy admiral didn't speak but only stood there, looking at him yet not looking at him, perhaps lost in thought. Pan was unnerved by her silence, or was it something else? He had seen her clearly in the images from the spy probe he sent to the space elevator. Her voice had been less distinct, although her words were rendered intelligible by the equipment. Something beyond her profession disturbed him. She was, of course, a completely unexpected arrival: cause enough for his elevated sensitivity to her. Even more unexpected was the boy.
The boy, who came screaming into his transmat node! What a horrible injury! Pan hoped it was only an accident, yet the minor wounds seemed oddly mismatched to the gruesome severing of his leg. He didn't want to think Navy officers would be so cruel they would harm a child, but he must keep that possibility in mind. The combination of the Navy and the wounded child would cause consternation for anyone. Pan would suffer the danger of the Navy if he could save the life of a child.
/
Demba studied her host with part of her mind still distracted by thoughts of the child. She kept her distance from the man, perhaps not comfortable to stand under his greater height. His light, loose clothing contrasted with his dark skin. His face and hair suggested a south Asian heritage, but certain subtle features placed him as non-Earthian. His calm posture probably came from age and experience, yet he revealed some unease which implied that even more anxiety was being masked. He must feel great concern; few civilians encountered Navy admirals. He was a musician and she judged him a person of deep emotions because of music. He was trying to show courage in confronting an admiral of the dreaded Navy.
"Where is he?" she finally inquired. "Where is Samson?"
/
Everything was already changed but now it changed again, changed more. The sound of her voice brought Pan's thoughts to a halt. He stared at the Navy officer for an unmeasured time, wondering why she disturbed him beyond the obvious reasons. Then his thoughts reset as he collected a description of her, tried to analyze it, and tried to know if perhaps she should appear familiar to him. She was not as tall as he thought most of her kind were. She was possibly of African ancestry, with short hair, large brown eyes. She was young but she was very old; he could see it in her eyes, eyes that seemed to peel him down to his soul. She seemed to know who he was. He didn't know who she was, but he wanted to know. He now wanted desperately to know who she was, and he suspected her name would not help. She must be someone who mattered to him. The mere sound of her voice seemed to have kicked the first stone down the slope to start an avalanche.
"The boy?" he queried absently, still too distracted.
/
"How is he?" Demba worked hard to sound calm and in control. She had her yacht and its transmat. She only needed to ping for Samson's location, wink them both aboard, and, yes, Jon Horss, too - assuming he was now alive.
/
"He was a brave child," Pan replied, shocked again by the fresh memory of the medical ordeal, "but I wasn't much comfort to him. He is lightly sedated now. He'll be moved to the Mnro Clinic shortly." He took a deep breath to refocus his intent. "Would you answer some questions for me?"
/
"If I can." Demba tried not to imagine Samson's state of mind. "You should consider carefully what you do and what you want to know. This is a warning, not a threat."
/
"Who are you?" Pan asked.
"My name is Fidelity Demba. I am - or I was - the Chief of Navy Archives. I also serve on several councils that review Navy policies, procedures, and programs. I'm not someone with any power to speak of, if that might concern you. But I am someone with powerful enemies."
"Who is the boy?"
"Would you introduce yourself?" she asked. "I think I know, but few things in life are sure."
"My name is Pan. I am the Opera Master of Earth. Who is the boy?"
/
"His name is Samson." Demba could barely keep her voice from rising with the level of her concern for the boy. "I found him near the African Space Elevator. He doesn't remember who he is or how he came to Africa." She forced her voice lower. "You won't believe me but that is the truth."
"How was he injured?" the Opera Master asked.
The question came uncolored
with accusation and Demba was gratefully surprised. She checked her new emotions before trying to answer. The memory images of what happened to Samson again sent little shockwaves through her throat and into her chest. She had to take a deep breath while feigning calmness and control, which her augments could not quite guarantee.
"I can't explain his injuries," Demba replied. "I didn't cause them but I feel responsible. Is Captain Horss viable?"
"Unknown at the moment. I put him in stasis. Should I offer treatment, or let the Navy take care of it?"
"I don't think one choice is better. What will happen to Samson?" Anxiety now rose at the thought of losing the boy, of losing the chance to solve his mystery. But someone would solve it, and she might keep in touch to learn the solution. It was probably far simpler than her imagination allowed.
The man took a long time to think about his answer, time that made Demba feel even more anxious. What could Samson matter to her? But then what else mattered anymore? She had Baby. She might have Samson. And Horss had asked her that painful question: why had she never wanted to have a child of her own?
"Would you like to spend some more time with Samson?" the Opera Master asked. "He was asking for you."
She could have answered his unexpected question in an instant, but the shock of seeing her answer's implications made
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