“They know I’m saying it,” I agreed. “They’re hearing me. But, while they find us unpredictable, you’re a human being and you can feel inevitability in a way they can’t.”
His smile faltered just a little bit as he got it.
“I want you to look in my eyes and make damn sure they know I’m not kidding.”
***
Over the next few days I received two responses from Bringen.
The first was in response to my direct question: Why did you keep bringing challenges to my immunity?
I had to give him credit. He didn’t bury the answer in an avalanche of words.
He just said, It’s about bloody time you asked.
By then, any other answer would have been redundant.
I’d never realized it until the AIsource had sent me down this road, but Bringen had never once raised a challenge he could win.
And each time he’d gone down in flames, he’d established another legal precedent, protecting me.
It hurt like hell to realize it now, but I’d also never noticed something that made me somewhat queasy, in light of all the hatred I’d expended on him over the years: the way he’d looked at me all that time was the same way the Porrinyards looked at me now.
The silly bastard.
I didn’t have to wonder why he’d never just come out and told me. Because I was who I was, and I know exactly how I would have reacted.
Maybe someday I’d find out a way to let him know I know I’d been wrong.
The second piece of mail, sent after my report of a successful conclusion to the case, was longer. As expected, he was overjoyed with any solution implicating somebody other than the AIsource, and was not inclined to pursue any questions left hanging by the capture and confession of Christina Santiago. He complimented me on my fine work and, as long as he was on the subject, took the time to lay out some recent changes to my status.
Against all odds, his superiors in the Dip Corps had promoted me four grades, two above him in fact, to a rank that would permit me to set my own agenda and travel at will around Confederate holdings as sort of a roving counselor at large. Even with this kind of assignment, unprecedented as far as Bringen knew, I would still be expected to defend my actions to the Dip Corps hierarchy, but my degree of autonomy and authority would still be an order of magnitude greater than anything I’d ever known. He did express confusion over why I was being provided with such responsibilities right now, after so many years of straining at the end of a very short leash, but allowed as how he couldn’t think of anybody who deserved such recognition more.
Go figure.
Oh, and by the way? The position also entitled me to a permanent staff of two, with enough authority to draft others as needed. Since my reports indicated a salutory working relationship with Gibb’s people, Oscin and Skye Porrinyard, I could even draft them, if desired, as long as they proved amenable to the transfer.
In the meantime, Bringen went on, looking even more confused with every minute, I’d be giving the transport that had taken me here to Lastogne’s delegation. The supply ship bearing the materials for the reconstruction of Hammocktown would also deliver me a replacement, which came equipped with seven Intersleep crypts, and waking accommodations for three, as an upgrade to my old ride. Though this vessel was designated for my own use, and that of my staff, on any mission I saw fit, the Corps kindly asked me to first lend those extra crypts to the safe transport of prisoner Christina Santiago and indentures Li-Tsan Crin, Nils D’Onofrio, and Robin Fish back to New London. All three of the indentures were now listed as having completed their terms of servitude, and were now eligible for retirement with full benefits. All three would no doubt appreciate a prompt trip back home, since it would otherwise be some time before they had another opportunity to hitch a ride.
Now blinking furiously, Bringen said he looked forward to seeing me again. He couldn’t wait to hear what I’d been up to.
I could only wonder how much, aside from Thank you, I’d be tempted to tell him.
***
More than once, in the next few days, I wondered if Stuart Gibb was really dead.
It wouldn’t have taken much for either the rogues or the AIsource Majority to recruit him. After all, I’d exposed him, destroyed his career, and left him with nothing to lose. They wouldn’t have had to be all that generous to emerge as the better option.
It was possible, come to think of it, that Santiago hadn’t destroyed Hammocktown at all: that they’d only framed her for that crime, figuring it wouldn’t make that much of a difference to her own fate, one way or the other.
She wouldn’t say.
Maybe she was being prevented from saying.
But the more I thought about it the more I felt sorry for Gibb.
Because somehow, whatever they wanted him to do, I didn’t expect his servitude to be as privileged as mine.
***
I had little to do, in the months I spent stuck on One One One waiting for my special delivery to arrive. Most of the indentures I’d come to know were busy flying in and out of the Habitat, rebuilding their relationships with the Brachiators. I joined them on some of these trips, just for lack of anything better to do.
The Porrinyards still had some remaining duties to the delegation, but their chief responsibility was still to chaperone me, so we spent long days together, touring the Uppergrowth, staying out longer than we needed to, sometimes bypassing the hangar where the expedition transport lay berthed in order to visit the one where my own, much smaller, soon-to-be-relinquished vessel would sit until somebody got around to moving it. It felt even more cramped after my time in Gibb’s ship. We didn’t spend much time inside. But we set up a sleepcube on the deck outside, which made this hangar a fine, more private alternative to the bustling place now occupied by the displaced citizens of Hammocktown.
A few days after that, I made love to the Porrinyards for the first time.
It had been years, for me. My sexual history had never been a positive one. Every attempt I’d made had been tainted by the several times in my time as a Dip Corps detainee when I hadn’t been given a choice. The closest I’d ever come to enjoying the experience, before today, was tolerating the way it made my skin crawl.
This was different.
They’d told the truth. It wasn’t like being loved by two people. It was being loved by one, who just happened to possess two separate bodies. And it didn’t take all that long for even that to lose its strangeness, as there were times when I didn’t know and didn’t care whose hands were on me, whose lips were on my breasts, and whose were working their way down my belly. There were also times when I hesitated, self-conscious about paying too much attention to one of them. I’d worry that I’d neglected the other, only to be urged onward, shushed, told it didn’t matter, because there could not be any real competition between them. It made me realize why they felt so much distaste for lovers who insisted on thinking of them as two. It disrespected them, rendered them ordinary, made them a parlor trick instead of the special shared creature they were.
When they spoke to me, their shared voice seemed to originate from somewhere inside my head. But I’d experienced that illusion before, and it wasn’t the strangest, most wonderful part. Because there were also times when the boundaries between all of us seemed to evaporate, and I thought I found myself experiencing the whole thing from within Oscin’s skin or Skye’s.
It was good to feel the moment from all sides.
The moment Oscin came inside me, Skye’s legs shuddered around my waist, and I was wracked by a wave of pleasure that made me fear my heart was about to explode.
That was the first time.
It got better with the second, and the third.
***
I followed the AIsource’s suggestion and researched events that had taken place at the same time as the massacre on Bocai. It was an almost nonsensical challenge. Interstellar distances have always made a joke of synchronicity, and probably always w
ill. But a few possibilities suggested themselves. I began making a preliminary list.
***
Some two weeks after filing my final report, I found myself lost on a long, lazy afternoon, with nothing to do but chase stray thoughts around my head. I spent much of it in the main hangar, wandering around, saying hello to people, eating more than I should have, receiving backhanded compliments about how surprisingly pleasant I could be when I wasn’t working a case. For the most part I sat on the steps leading up to the Dip Corps transport, replaying recent events, fighting the tension that had been building in my gut since the Porrinyards had left for the Habitat early that morning. They’d invited me to go with them, as always, but I’d begged off, saying that I still had some things to think about. By the time they returned, sharing a weariness that joined their sap-spattered bodies in testifying to a long hard day spent on the Uppergrowth, thinking about those things had become an exercise in walking in circles.
Skye made eye contact first, but they both froze in mid-step. Together they slumped, looked around, and focused on a sleepcube where we could deal with what had to be said. They made sure I knew where they were headed, and gestured for me to follow. I waited, putting off the moment as long as I could, then hauled myself to my feet and began to walk.
A number of people grinned at me along the way. This was nothing unusual, as the Porrinyards were well liked, and it was by now no secret that we were an item.
A few of those held eye contact long enough for those grins to falter.
I looked away and managed to make it into the sleepcube without having to endure anybody asking what was wrong.
The Porrinyards were inside waiting for me, their faces bearing identical stricken expressions. Neither said anything until I activated my hiss screen, placed it on a table beside one of the two cots, and sat. They slowly lowered themselves to the opposite cot, with such hesitation that they might have feared the mattress too insubstantial to support their combined weight.
“Something’s wrong,” they said.
My throat felt dry. “I’m not sure anything’s wrong. I just think you haven’t been entirely honest with me.”
“It’s because of the AIsource,” they guessed. “You’re afraid this isn’t real.”
That had been an issue before. It was what had made me cool toward them, just before my last visit to the Interface. “No. That’s not it. They promised me free choice, and though I may have some doubts about things remaining that way, I have no alternative to trusting them on that. Because I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering whether everything I do is my idea, or somebody else’s.”
“Then you think I might be working for them.”
“Don’t be silly. I know you’re working for them. You would have to be. They probably secured your services the same day they linked you. If I’m right, they probably do the same thing with every cylinked pair they make.”
They looked hopeful. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Not really. If I’m working for them, then I’m in no position to criticize. And it doesn’t have to affect the way I feel about you, or the way you feel about me.”
They didn’t betray relief, or rise from the cot to hug me. Instead, recognizing that they’d merely misconstrued the problem, they did something I now realized I’d never seen them do before: something beings sharing the same mind, who didn’t need to exchange visual cues, would of course never need to do. They turned to look at each other, sharing a moment of eye contact before turning toward me again. “Then what’s wrong?”
There was a bottle of drinking water on the table. I took a sip before continuing.
“I’m just…not sure a lover was ever what you were actually looking for.”
Their hands moved as one, finding each other, linking with a tight squeeze.
“There was a certain expectant quality to the way you spoke to me, from the very beginning. Almost as if you were told I was coming, and what I would mean to you. At first I was too dense to think it meant anything. Later on, I thought it was just attraction. After that, when it became mutual, I wasn’t in any mood to question it. But as I’ve started running it through my head, again and again…I’ve begun to understand that there’s a little more to it. There always was.”
They didn’t answer. But they leaned against each other, their faces drawn, their eyes sad as they searched mine for signs of anger.
“It’s like that story you told,” I murmured. “Times two. Two people carrying a weight too heavy for one. Making themselves one person so strong that the burden becomes nothing. But still wanting to be more than they are, wanting to grow the way every other living thing grows, petitioning the powers that joined them for a chance to make it happen. And then one day they’re told that they’re about to meet someone carrying even more pain than they carried individually, and so bowed by it that she can hardly manage to stand upright. A person who, they’re told, will be suitable for linkage, if that turns out to be what you want.” I looked at one face, then the other, begging for confirmation. “A linked trio? Is that even possible?”
They didn’t tell me I was being stupid.
After a moment, they left the opposite cot and sat down beside me, one to a side.
As always, in moments of exceptional candor, one member of the pair spoke alone. This time it was Skye. “It’s just a possibility, Andrea. One we might explore, someday. We’re not ready for it ourselves. We weren’t even going to bring it up for a long time. And even then, we don’t ever have to travel that road unless you decide you want it too. It’s probably years away.”
The floodgates opened. Her face, and Oscin’s face, both blurred, and I blinked furiously, hating myself for being so weak. “That’s the thing. I do want it. I envied it, a little, the very first time I met you. But, you have to understand, if that’s what you want, you’re going to be waiting a long time. Because I don’t know if I’m ever going to be ready for it. I’m only just beginning to work out how to be myself. I can’t just drop that because it’s easier to just become p-part of someone else. I c-can’t…”
“Shhhh,” they said.
Skye leaned in close to kiss away my tears. Oscin wrapped his arms around me, and performed the same service for my opposite cheek. Speaking in one voice, almost impossible to separate into its component parts, they rested twin foreheads against my temples and laughed their way through the necessary reassurances. “It’s all right, Counselor. This is more than enough for now.”
I sniffed, took each of them by a hand, and closed my eyes, wondering just why the hell life had to be so goddamned complicated.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Has anyone, ever in the history of novels, read this page if they didn’t have some specific reason to consider themselves likely to be mentioned? (Voice of random reader: “Boy, that Joe Schmo, his third-grade English composition teacher, sure sounds like a nice guy!”) Just wondering.
In the meantime, various moments in the creation of this book were rendered easier thanks to the members of the South Florida Science Fiction Society writer’s workshop, including George Peterson, Chris Negelein, Wade Brown, Dave Dunn, Cliff Dunbar, Mitch Silverman, Brad Aiken, and the late Meir Pann, all of whom had helpful things to say about its composition. Thanks also to Michael Burstein, who tolerates being immortalized as the alien race Bursteeni. Thanks to Stanley Schmidt, who published the first appearance of Andrea Cort in ANALOG. Thanks to the late Julius Schwartz, whose DC Comics letter columns, back in the day, were a young boy’s first appearance in print. Thanks to Joey and Debbie Green, to David Goodman, to Elena and Ed Gaillard, to Janna Silverstein. Thanks to my agent Joshua Bilmes, for superhuman patience. Thanks to Diana Gill and Emily Krump. Thanks to Jack McDevitt and Rob Sawyer. Thanks to Harlan Ellison. Thanks to my webmaster Dina Pearlman, and thanks to the many denizens of my newsgroup on www.sff.net.
Love again to my lovely wife, Judi, who for some odd reason persists in believing in me. I dunno why. But I sure as hell
hope she never stops.
Adam-Troy Castro
About the Author
ADAM-TROY CASTRO’s short stories have been nominated for the Hugo, Nebula, and Bram Stoker awards. He lives in Florida with his wife, Judi, and their four cats. Emissaries from the Dead is his first original novel.
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By Adam-Troy Castro
The Andrea Cort Novels
EMISSARIES FROM THE DEAD
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
EMISSARIES FROM THE DEAD. Copyright © 2008 by Adam-Troy Castro. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Microsoft Reader January 2008 ISBN 978-0-06-165827-3
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