by Ilsa J. Bick
Her eye fell on a silver-handled hairbrush. She hefted it. Heavy. Long strands of Jennifer’s chestnut hair. Her fingers itched to pluck a few. Hesitated.
Don’t be dumb.
Stern said Jennifer had died of a stroke ten days or so ago, give or take. Period. The autopsy said so, too. Lense would’ve said so.
Face it: You want this to be something more. You want intrigue or mystery, some reason why your mother died because otherwise your entire history with her becomes utterly pointless.
Another voice, a ghost of the first: But the flowers, the perfume…
As it happened, she’d turned toward the bed and stared at the floor looking but not seeing…and then she did see something yellow, bright. She hunkered down awkwardly because of her belly, rooted for it.
A pencil.
Groaning, she hoisted her bulk to her feet. Jennifer had been an obsessive note taker, and that hadn’t changed, judging by the bits of paper bristling from books stacked on the nightstand: a volume of Shakespeare, a romance novel (taking notes on, what, positions?), another photo album.
A Bible. Very old, gold gilt tooled into cracked black leather, gold leaf. A scrap of paper as a place mark.
Lense allowed herself a small, puzzled smile. Jennifer was not religious. Never had been. But Lense had been a doctor long enough to know that some people sensed when death was imminent. And even for the ones who believed there was always that moment of doubt. Fear she could read in their eyes.
An entirely plausible scenario: Jennifer’s in bed. She’s reading, taking notes, but she’s uneasy. Anxious. Flips through a Bible, maybe reads a passage or two, then replaces the tome—and strokes out. The pencil drops from her suddenly slack fingers and rolls beneath the bedside table.
And then she dies. Cut and dried, really.
So, yes, maybe she and Strong had been lovers; maybe they’d slept together the night before, the day before, the hour before. That wasn’t a crime. There was nothing to suggest he’d been here.
But the flowers, the perfume… And what he’d said: You’re so much like her.
Riiiiight. She and Jennifer had nothing in common but half a genome.
In the main room again: Jennifer’s computer told her to get lost because she didn’t have the right password. She racked her brain, tried a couple, then sat back, frustrated.
There’s got to be some way of figuring out what Jennifer was up to: where she went, who she saw.
She stood, making a slow circuit of the room, glancing idly out the bay windows, gliding past…then stopping, her pulse suddenly tripping in her throat.
“Lights out.” An instant later, the room was plunged into darkness. Slowly, carefully, she eased back until she could just glimpse the sidewalk across the street and…
Oh, hell. She held herself very still.
Caught in the grainy penumbra of yellow light puddling from a streetlamp was a man. And he was looking up, studying the apartment. Trying to estimate his height from her vantage point was difficult, but she thought that he might be tall. Broad-shouldered, but it was hard to see…. She eased closer to the window.
As if sensing that, the man’s attitude abruptly changed. Pulling back, he pivoted right and began walking—not too fast, but not slowly either—avoiding the light cast by streetlamps.
For a half second, she contemplated trying to follow. Then a mental picture: she, belly and all, waddling just as fast as she could…
Riiiight.
She watched his retreating figure. At the corner of 30th and R, he doglegged right, quickly passing in and out the light on 30th. A brief glimpse of khaki shirt rolled to the elbows, blue jeans…was that a cap?
And then he was gone.
That galvanized her. She’d come prepared and now pulled polypropylene bags from her uniform pockets.
To the kitchen and the knife with the odd rust-colored rime: she dropped and then sealed it in the bag.
You’re being melodramatic. Hurrying down the hall back to Jennifer’s bedroom.
But that didn’t stop her from bagging the brush.
Or taking the photo album.
CHAPTER 8
“You want wha…? What…what time is it?” Throbbing head in hand, Faulwell teetered on the edge of the bed. The room was in semi-darkness, and even that was too damned bright.
Six hours before, he’d dressed, debated about going after Anthony, left his room intending to do just that—and then detoured into the Officer’s Club because, well, what the hell. He wasn’t a drinking type but had somewhat romanticized notions of what someone did when his heart was broken: cry in his beer, go on a bender, drink himself blind, get pissed…Yes, all clichés, but he was a bookish kind of guy.
The first bourbon—real bourbon, not this synthehol crap—burned a fiery finger all the way down then exploded in his stomach like a photon torpedo. The second still hurt, but by the fourth, he thought he’d gotten the hang of it. Somewhere between his seventh and eighth, he’d started to cry and that’s when the bartender started with the coffee.
Now he had a hangover that was melting his eyeballs; sudden tilts of vertigo if he moved too quickly; his mouth tasted like something furry had peed, crapped, and then died about a week ago in there; and his stomach had crawled up somewhere just south of his throat.
“It’s only ten your time,” Lense came back, impatience dripping from her voice. “Around one here.”
“One…where…what…”
“I’m in Washington at Jennifer’s place and…”
She said something else but Faulwell sort of phased out and then back in, said, “Did…did you just say killed…?”
Exasperated Lense noises. “I don’t know. It’s just…strange. I was going to run a couple tests back at the Academy, but I don’t want Stern to know what I’m doing, not yet. There’s only one place where I might get the information I want without too many people getting wind of it before I’m ready.”
“Ready for…?”
“Don’t know yet. Anyway, I need you for Jennifer’s computer.”
Had she mentioned that already? “For what?”
There was a silence on the other end, and then Lense said, “Are you with anyone? Is Anthony…?”
“No, no,” Faulwell said, sitting up too quickly. The room spun, and he slid a little sideways until his shoulder met the headboard. Just rest here awhile… “I’m fine.” He hiccupped, felt the bourbon fumes burn his nose. “Fine.”
“Okay.” Not convinced. “So…will you do it?”
“Sure, sure.”
“Great.” She waited while he fumbled for a stylus, then rattled off transporter coordinates and an address, then said, “And here’s the code to get into her apartment and for the privacy shield. Put it back up when you leave.”
“Uh,” he said, in a sudden burst of clarity, “is this legal?”
“Of course it is.”
So, okay, why couldn’t Stern know? He thought about asking, decided he really didn’t want to know the answer, gathered his fraying wits long enough to muster: “So…uh…what am I looking for? Something suspicious?”
That just broke him up. He collapsed in a fit of spluttery giggles and stopped only because he worried his head would fall off.
Another silence from Lense. Then: “Are you drunk?”
“No.” Faulwell puffed out his chest so he was only half-slouching against the headboard. “Of course not.”
A beat. “Okay. Call me soonest.” She clicked off.
“Sure,” Faulwell said to dead air. His bladder cramped, and his stomach lurched. He thought he might need to pee or puke—or both. “You bet.”
But first…he staggered to the bathroom to spend a little quality time with a porcelain god.
CHAPTER 9
So she was following Darly’s advice. She was knocking herself out.
She quickly discovered that sifting through all Jennifer’s work would take weeks, if not months. The task was compounded by the fact that she didn’t
have the foggiest idea what she was looking for.
Pushing back from Jennifer’s workstation in her Academy office, Lense arched her back, wincing at a sudden twinge at the base of her spine. She’d grabbed a quick sandwich after transporting back from Washington, but she was tired and feeling wobbly. Coffee might do it, but then the kid would end up tripping the light fantastic all night.
Discouraged and brain-sore, she checked the time.
Not due back for another three hours, and then he’ll have to read the message, run the tests to make sure…
Too much time. She yawned. She ought to sleep.
Her eye fell on Jennifer’s photo album, the one she’d filched from the apartment. Hers now, she guessed. She’d resisted leafing through it, but now she scooped it up and turned to the first leaf. Might help pass the time and then…
“Oh my God.” And then again, almost mildly, “My God.”
Her father. Young, handsome, astride a mountaintop. Rucksack on his back, a big grin for the camera. A lean man with that snub nose and wide mouth he’d bequeathed to her daughter. Fifty years ago by the date stamp, and judging by that rainbow arc of rings slashing an azure sky, this must’ve been Casperia Prime, where her parents had honeymooned.
More pictures: her parents on various digs; her father porpoising from a mountain lake in a foamy spray; Jennifer—visibly pregnant—grinning, flexing her muscles, posing like a weightlifter before a sign-post and the words, Summit—5 km…
And then one of Jennifer, smiling, propped up on pillows, her hair in disarray. Cradling a newborn in a fleecy pink blanket.
Me. Lense put a trembling hand to her lips. That must be me.
She’s fallen asleep over her books again, and Jennifer’s come to shake her awake: Lizzie, Lizzie, time to get up time for school. Only when she turns to look, the flesh melts from Jennifer’s fingers, and her eyes are black sockets dripping blood…Wake up, Lizzie, wake up…
“Huh!” Lense came awake with a gasp.
“Easy, easy.” It was the counselor, Duren. He straightened, put both his hands up in apology. “I’m sorry. I came by your quarters, and when you weren’t in, thought maybe you’d be here.”
“Um.” Lense’s mouth was gummy with sleep, but her heart still knocked against her ribs. Her neck and shoulders ached from slumping over Jennifer’s desk. Clearing her throat, she scrubbed away sleep from her eyes. “So, uh, what did you want?” Not very gracious, but hey…
“I came by to see how you were doing. Finding you wasn’t that difficult. The Academy transporter log indicated you beamed back at about midnight, local time. As for where, this seemed a logical place.”
That, she supposed, was true. “Well, thanks, but I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Duren gestured at the album on the desk, half-covered by her crossed arms where she’d laid her head to sleep. “Photographs?”
“Uh, yes. Not very interesting.” She pointedly closed the album then thought: Idiot, he’s a telepath.
Duren smiled gently. “Please try to relax, Elizabeth. I rarely go where I’m not wanted.”
She grinned in spite of herself. “Isn’t that a little like begging forgiveness after that fact?”
He laughed. “Yes. But I don’t need to be a telepath to sense your uneasiness. Hard enough to tolerate the therapist who can’t read your mind.” Before she could reply, he tilted his head at the album. “May I?”
She was surprised when she handed over the album. Leafing slowly, his fingers skimming the pages, he said, without looking up, “I do know, in case you’re wondering. Not telepathy, by the way. As a counselor, I have access to all active duty personnel profiles.” When she didn’t respond, he looked up. “I wanted us to get past this. I know it’s on your mind and you’ll always wonder if I’m probing.”
“So…you’ve seen my personnel profile.”
“Yes,” Duren said, “and I’ve seen Jonathan’s.”
Damn him, she’d been ready, yet a lump still bunched in her throat. She said nothing.
Duren returned his attention to the photographs, scanning, then turning a page…and then, as he was about to turn another page in the album, he stopped. A crinkle appeared between his brows, and then he opened his mouth to speak, paused. Finally said, “You’re not your brother, you know. You might be twins, but…”
She didn’t understand how, but she knew that was not what he’d been about to say. Something in the photographs… “I’m aware of that. Besides, we’re fraternal, not identical. I can’t be…couldn’t ever be Jonathan.”
No matter how hard I tried—or how much Jennifer wanted me to.
“But you don’t believe it. And you hold yourself responsible. I don’t need telepathy for that either.”
Lense gave a brittle, bitter laugh. “Are you going to try to tell me that I’m not responsible? Wait your turn in line. There are about a million therapists ahead of you.
“My brother is dead,” she said, flatly, “and I killed him.”
CHAPTER 10
“Computer, replay entry four-seven-nine-nine-Alpha-David.”
The computer clicked and sputtered and did a reasonable imitation of what sounded like Bajoran cicadas: a high, whiny, undulating ribbon of sound interrupted by tiny, chirpy hiccups.
“Stop playback.” Faulwell blew out, disgusted. No better luck with Jennifer Almieri’s computer than he’d had with Anthony. This, combined with the remnants of a monstrous hangover for which he refused to take any medication for no good reason other than pig-headed masochism, contributed to an overwhelming few minutes of self-pity. For crying out loud, he’d been skewered, tacked like a bug, nearly died, and the universe was still laughing behind his back.
Frustrated, he prowled Almieri’s library. He was in a funk; his head throbbed in time with his steps. (Double the misery, double the fun.)
Almieri’s encryption code was multidimensional, the way one might explain the shape of a three-dimensional object by noting its displacement coordinates along three axes. Only he was damned if he could figure out how all the codes meshed together.
For that matter, how the hell had he gotten himself involved in all this…this…? He waved a hand at the tumble of books and artifacts, punctuating the thought. All right, he was sorry; rotten luck to come home only to be told that your mom had died. But this whole thing Lense had going, thinking that maybe someone had helped her mom’s death along, that was crazy. This was Lense’s problem, not his. Yeah, okay, she saved his life, but that was her job.
Wow. He sure sounded bitter.
Oh, poor me, my lover got his knickers in a twist just because I, well, wandered…
How was that for self-pity?
This was not like him: raging, drinking, feeling sorry for himself. He was generally a nice guy. People liked him. Most people talked to him—except Lense, but she didn’t talk much to anyone, except Gold, and only then when he ordered her to.
“So why me?” His voice was very loud, and the silence mocked him.
The setting probably contributed to his downbeat assessment of life, the universe, and everything: the fixed stares of stone figures, Antarean scent-globes, and the impervious beauty of some of the most spectacular Tholian crystal-lattices he’d ever seen. A different Faulwell, say the romantic who wrote those letters or the crewmate who’d pushed Fabian out of the way of that damned spike without once thinking if, just maybe, that wasn’t the smartest thing in the world to do—that Faulwell would’ve been awed.
He was in Jennifer Almieri’s apartment, closeted with the trophies and artifacts of the woman who spearheaded the discovery of the first Tholian ruins ever uncovered on a Class-M planet. These were the specimens she’d kept back for herself, the best of her collection, all of them spectacular in their way and none more so than the one mounted by her computer: an undulating serpentine crystal, delicate as a Julia fractal pattern iterated millions of times.
It figured that the Tholians had been masters at fractal iterations; Faulwell shuddere
d at the recollection of the da Vinci facing off against a Tholian fleet when they were salvaging the old Defiant, and that web they wove.
Thinking of the lattice’s beauty—and how much he would’ve liked to share this with Anthony—he ran a meditative finger along the lattice’s surface.
What happened next was unexpected, to say the least.
The lattice flushed a pale apricot precisely where his finger touched. At the same time, the air filled with a pure, clear tone.
Startled, he jerked his hand away. The tone faded.
Okay, that was weird. He’d read about these crystals, and he didn’t recall that they made sounds.
Frowning, he fingered the crystal again. This time, the crystal shaded to a queer purple and the tone was discordant, almost confused. A chirpy question mark.
Confused—like the way he felt. And that rapid chitter…
He thought back to Fabian: how that parasite allowed Fabian to hear harmonic frequencies on Stratos the others couldn’t.
“Don’t tell me. It can’t be that easy,” he said. His headache was forgotten. His eyes took in Almieri’s musical instruments. The lady had liked music. “The code can’t be a fractal melody. Contour code and interval code adjusted for time signature. It really can’t.”
But…
CHAPTER 11
“All right,” Stern said, peering first at Lense and then Faulwell. She looked cross and nursed what looked to Lense more like an old-fashioned beer stein than a coffee mug, minus the little whatchamacallit cap-thingy. “Now tell me what’s so important you had to drag me out of bed at five A.M.”
Oh boy, here we go. She glanced at Faulwell, who finally looked human after Lense had forced him to take something. But she wasn’t happy. A key bit of what she’d hoped to present still hadn’t surfaced.
Julian, where the hell are you?
“It’s about what we found in Jennifer’s apartment,” Lense began. She sketched it out—the fresh flowers, the unspoiled food—and finished with: “And the thing is…this knife.” Lense placed the butcher knife in its baggy on Stern’s desk. “I analyzed that rust-colored residue. That’s blood. Human blood as it turns out. Want to know whose it is?”