by Sharon Webb
"Our deepest sympathy goes out to his family in their time of anguish. This inquiry is now closed."
Silence struck the room. Then Margaret stood abruptly. "It's all over, Silvio. You can forget about this now."
Very calm, very quiet, the boy stood next to her. He looked at Kurt for a long moment, and in that moment Kurt saw something flicker beneath the artless baby veneer- something so old, so malevolent, that he felt a sudden chill.
"I don't forget. Ever," Silvio said. And then the look of virgin innocence slid back again, and a chubby thumb crept to his lips.
* * *
After the others left the conference room, Kurt waited until he and Mortimer were alone. "I want to talk to you."
Mortimer leaned back in his chair and eyed Kurt. "I thought you would."
"You don't really believe it was an accident."
Mortimer was silent for a moment; then he said, "MacDill has a good record. We're going to keep it that way."
"By ignoring the evidence?"
"By avoiding public arousal and panic, young man. There are thousands of parents out there who expect me to keep order here. They expect me to guarantee the safety of their children. Guarantee. No matter if that child is here or home on pass."
"And you think the way to do that is to ignore a child like
Silvio."
A faint smile quirked the edge of Mortimer's lips. "And you think the answer is to drag in the judiciary." He leaned forward in his chair. "Did you stop to consider the results of that? If people believe that this death wasn't an accident, then they'll choose-many of them-to believe that the old troubles are starting up again. Another thing: today should have taught you something. The question of the McNabb boy's guilt would surely be raised. Would you want him to go through that?"
"But-"
"Listen to me." He fixed Kurt with a penetrating look. "What could be gained by proving the guilt of a five-year-old? A five-year-old is a legal innocent."
Kurt's eyes widened. "Then you believe Silvio did it too."
"Do you think the way to help the child is to have his record marred for all time?"
Kurt sat back and stared away for a moment. Then he said, "You had your mind made up before you walked in here, didn't you? Is that why you tried to discredit me? Make everyone believe I was biased?"
"People are always biased, Kurt-one way or another. I wanted you to examine your motives."
He curled his lip. "And that's all you had in mind?"
To his surprise, Mortimer laughed. "Of course not. I was using that to strengthen my position… my decision. I admit my bias, you see." Then, solemnly, "It's too bad you acted so impetuously. If you'd come to me first, it could have been handled in a different way; the child could have been quietly referred to doctors. I'm afraid you complicated things unnecessarily. You really left me no choice."
"And so, you're just going to pretend it never happened- pretend everything is fine."
Mortimer leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling before he said thoughtfully, "Did it occur to you to wonder why I'm telling you these things?" He gave Kurt a quick look. "No, I didn't think so." Then abruptly, "I know you've been chosen by WorldCo for training. And your training might as well start now. You will not be dealing in absolutes. You're a fool if you think that everything is black and white."
"But… in this case-"
"In no case," he thundered. Then more quietly, "There are no absolutes. And in the end, you have only your own judgement to rely on."
Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Even if it's wrong?"
"Especially if it's wrong. Do you think you can put it to a vote? You're not dealing with a democratic system here. You live in an oligarchy. Better to be wrong and take the consequences than to blow with the wind."
As Kurt stared at him, Mortimer leaned forward and fixed him with an iron gaze. "Let me tell you something, young man. Someday you are going to be faced with a problem that affects the lives of many people. You're going to have to take responsibility for your decision. And you're going to have to live with it. When that time comes," he said deliberately, "I hope you can."
* * *
By the time Margaret got back to her class, she was exhausted. She felt hot and out of sorts. Brushing a lock of hair from Silvio's face, she sent him to his seat where a group of children cut bright paper into strips with round-nosed scissors as the substitute teacher watched.
Margaret thought of asking the girl to stay on for the rest of the day. It would be so wonderful to go home now, to stretch out and go to sleep. She wasn't feeling well. Not at all well, really. Margaret glanced at the clock. Not much time left though. She supposed it would be best to stay.
The girl left, and Margaret sat down at her desk. Story time was next, but she just didn't think she could manage that. Her head was beginning to ache. She decided she would just let them keep on cutting and pasting for as long as they would.
Time passed until she was startled by a boy at her elbow. "I'm thirsty."
She stared at the clock. It was past time to take them for a drink and then to the bathroom. She stood and looked around the room. "Water fountain time." She tried to make her voice cheery, but her head felt awful.
The children fell into a ragged line, and she marched them out to the low water fountain that stood on a concrete strip between two of the temporary buildings. "Don't push," she said automatically.
Sally was next in line at the fountain. She put a hand quickly to her mouth and leaned over the stream of water, her pigtails swinging with the motion like braided ears. Suddenly, Sally stiffened and threw a hand to her mouth. Her face flushed as Margaret watched. "What is it? Sally, what's wrong?"
The child's mouth worked, but no sound came out, and to Margaret's horror, a dreadful gray-blue color spread over Sally's face. Choking. Oh, God! She was choking.
Running to her side, she grabbed Sally from behind. Trying desperately to remember her first aid, Margaret pressed a fist into the child's stomach.
With a little whoofing sound, something flew out of Sally's mouth, and the child began to cough and sob simultaneously. In near panic, Margaret whacked and patted the girl's back until both of them had recovered enough to breathe normally again.
Margaret looked at the excited cluster of little faces around her and shooed them back into their water fountain line. Then kneeling before Sally, she took her shoulders. "What did you have in your mouth?"
The little girl looked away, then coughed-this time more from guilt, Margaret decided, than from choking. "What was it, Sally?"
"A bead."
"A bead!" She ought to know better than that. "Do you have any more?"
"Well… one."
"Show me."
The child fished into a minuscule pocket and brought out a shiny ebony bead.
Margaret took it. "Why did you put that in your mo
uth?"
" 'Cause it's magic. Silvio said." Then Sally clamped her hand over her mouth and shook her head.
"What? What did Silvio say?"
Sally's eyes were wide now. "I can't tell. The magic turns to bad if I tell."
"Nonsense." Her voice was sharper than she meant it to be. "There isn't any magic in that bead. Magic is just a made-up thing, Sally."
"Huh-uh." The pigtails swung as she shook her head. "It turns to bad if I tell. I could die… like Jorge."
Margaret rocked back on her heels and stared at the black bead in her hand. As she stared, she suddenly saw quite clearly in her mind a string of black beads in a dead boy's hand-a string of beads that ended in a silver crucifix.
The pounding in her head intensified. She could smell them-smell the roses. She was drowning in the smell of them. "Stevie," she said under her breath. "Stevie…"
She had been paddling the little boat. Stevie sat in the bow, facing her, chubby legs stretched out. She looked around quickly. They were out farther than they were supposed to be, but Daddy and Charlotte hadn't noticed.
The sun was hot on her body and her suit was nearly dry now. She leaned forward and said slyly, "Know where we are?"
He shook his head.
She rose, half-crouching, clinging to the boat with one hand, pointing with the other to the place where the water was blackest next to the tangle of roots from a half-submerged cypress. "That's a gator hole." She clutched at the boat with both hands now and began to rock. "Ole gator lives down there, and he eats little boys."
Stevie's eyes grew wide and he clung to the boat-tighter now as it tipped deeply, then righted, then plowed in the other direction. "Don't, Margaret."
"Ole gator's gonna get you." She rocked again, wilder now. "Gonna eat you up. Gonna eat you up, and you'll be dead." Water sloshed into the boat.
He began to whimper now. "Don't. Don't, Margaret."
"Gonna eat you up, and you'll be dead." Suddenly she felt her foot slip. Startled, she fell heavily against the side of the boat and plunged into the water.
Sputtering, she grabbed the capsized boat and blinked the water out of her eyes. She didn't see Stevie. "Come on up," she said. “Come on. There isn't any gator."
The water rippling around her chest felt warm-much warmer than the sudden ice she felt in her belly. "Stevie." The ice was pure fear now. "Stevie…"
Margaret was on her feet, stumbling through the startled clump of children. She clutched at Silvio-hugged and clutched and sobbed out the words "He didn't mean to. Didn't mean to. Didn't mean to… It was an accident…"
Silvio stood rigidly in her panicky embrace, his face quite impassive until he slowly smiled.
Chapter 8
The shuttle wasn't what Kurt had expected. From its pictures, he thought it would be much larger. It was most like a TampaTran car stuffed into a metal sleeve, he decided.
Before lift-off, his emotions had hovered between disappointment and excitement. Now, they were in free flight, and all he could see to his left was a curving metal wall lined with thick plexi-shields, and to his right, the smiling face of Chao Ching-jen.
They were so firmly velcroed and latched, so completely medicated for motion sickness, that except for the fact that he felt something like a trapped balloon, weightlessness was boring.
Ahead, all he could see was an arm emerging here and there from one of the dozens of contoured seats. Everyone seemed subdued and preoccupied, like passengers on a night commuter train. He sighed faintly; he was going into space and it wasn't much different from going into Tampa.
"Am I detecting a sigh of grief, or one of dyspepsia?" Chao asked.
It was something in between. "The shuttle." Kurt smiled ruefully. "I was expecting something a little more exciting."
Chao nodded, then suddenly chuckled. "I find it hair-raising."
Kurt followed his gaze. From the seat ahead, someone's long braid of black hair had escaped its moorings and was rising slowly in the air. The tail of the braid spread like a cobra's hood as its body writhed in snakelike undulations.
Kurt held an imaginary flute to his lips and began to whistle the popular song "Snake Dance." Chao took up the theme with guttural jungle "uck-ucks" and drummings on his thigh. Behind them, someone laughed, and in seconds the aft section of the shuttle echoed with fluty whistles and drumbeats to the complete puzzlement of the forward section.
Finally, a hand reached up, seized the braided appendage, and it disappeared to a storm of applause and delighted hootings.
But the chill was gone from the air now. Somewhere behind Kurt, a girl began to sing a funny little song about a frustrated unicorn and, with much faking of the words, everyone joined in on the chorus.
The captain's voice came abruptly over the speakers: "Earth to starboard." As he spoke, internal lights dimmed and winked out as a section of the hull at right-overhead rolled away, leaving only the plexi-shield between them and the black of space.
A collective gasp rose from the group. Kurt felt his heart clench at the sight: the jewel-blue, cloud-dressed full Earth. It was so beautiful and yet at the same time so vulnerable, so alone, that he felt a wrench at the full realization that he would not touch home again for many years.
Someone sobbed, and then a girl's clear voice began to sing the anthem "Our One World." One by one they took it up, adding voices, and then everyone was singing the simple, moving melody. The song swelled until it seemed to fill all of space, until it seemed as if they were a part of it, floating free of their craft to hang like stars above a gauzy sapphire caught in velvet night.
PART THREE
Mouat-Gari Year Ninety-Nine
Chapter 1
When his solo came to a stop at North Underground, Kurt Kraus got out and strode through the public room to the restricted area of Chatlanta Terminal. A small mass of muscle bulged over his tightly clamped jaw.
A light snow was falling outside, melting as soon as it touched the ground. At the higher elevations, the decks of the econdos that studded the face of Missionary Ridge were already coated with white. Inside the terminal the walls glowed sun yellow, counteracting the dull weather.
As Kurt stepped into the G-l waiting room, a steward came up carrying a tray laden with steaming cups. "Help you, Mr. Kraus? Coffee today?"
Kurt shook his head and selected a caffeine tablet, washing it down with a glass of orange juice.
"Something to eat, perhaps?" asked the steward.
Kurt didn't know him. He glanced at the man's badge, reading his name. "No, thank you, Thomas." There was a wry twist to his lips as he smiled at the man. The stewards were anachronisms. A sop to our egos, he thought. But it was nicer to keep some of the old ways-more personal than a machine.
The light came on over the boarding gate; a purring female voice said, "Boarding for the Ministry Offices now beginning."
&nbs
p; Kurt stepped into the Tube and took a seat in his car. Another sop, another anachronism-having his own car. The thought passed; the car came with the job, and he had been Minister of Culture for nearly fifty years.
He settled back in his chair, fitting perfectly into its contours, and ran his hand through his thick black hair; then he dropped his hand to the console in front of him and pressed a button.
The communicator screen lit up. "Good morning, Mr. Kraus."
"Schedule," he said. The windowless car sealed and in a moment began to move through its smooth bore. It accelerated rapidly. The communicator flashed Kurt's schedule on the screen. At ten hundred hours, the "meeting" with Mencken-translate, "encounter." He twisted his lip. He'd seen the results of Mencken's tests and charts a dozen times. The tests pointed to only one conclusion.
Logically, that left him a single decision. A cloud seemed to pass over his eyes for a moment. A single decision-And did the end, after all, justify the means?
The car began to decelerate. In two more minutes, he disembarked. In southeast Chatlanta, the snow had not yet begun. Pulling his outer close to keep out the damp cold, he stepped from a windy passageway onto the roofed zontilator as a drizzly rain spread its dull sheet over South End. He stood tall and alone, gliding silently through the gray street, hearing only his own thoughts: How many would have to die? How many?
* * *
Cameran Mencken pressed the console button with a slim, manicured finger. As the display flashed on, she turned to Kurt. "My office checked the results again. The correlation is unmistakable." She fixed him with a cool stare.