“You liked it, Johnnie.”
“It’s a hard place, Matty. But colorful. Mysterious.”
“Would you go back?”
“Can’t.” Jin-Li turned toward the portal to go to another exhibit.
“Why can’t you?” Phipps asked, following. “If you liked the world, liked the work?”
Jin-Li stood gazing up at the skyroof. “I violated the Terms of Employment. Almost got booted out of Port Force and sent back to Hong Kong.”
Phipps gave a low whistle. “You were taking a big chance, then, helping Mother Burke and the kid.”
Jin-Li shrugged. “Sometimes you have to do what needs doing.”
They moved down the circular corridor and stepped inside the next display. “Nuova Italia,” Jin-Li said. “You’ve been there, Matty.”
Matty grinned, looking around at the holographic images. “I’m seeing more of it right now than I saw when I was there,” she said. “Never got off the transport.”
It was a pastoral scene that might have come straight from an alpine meadow, had it not been for the odd, elongated beasts that cropped its short, yellowish grass. The recorded lecture described the vaccone, and the attempts of the research teams to make the meat edible to Earthers. It talked about the search for intelligent life, and the challenges of biotransforming the plant life of Nuova Italia. There was only one other display, a view from a hillside of the domed settlement Port Force had built for the scientific teams.
“Doesn’t look like I missed much,” Matty said.
Crescent was an ice world with soaring structures that the explorers had dubbed castles. No one as yet had any idea who or what had made them. It didn’t look possible to Jin-Li that such shapes had grown naturally. Matty shivered, although the cold was only illusion.
Udacha was even more mysterious. Scattered monoliths rose from an empty plain, huge slabs of stone in some pattern that no one had yet discerned.
Virimund, though, was beautiful, a world of vivid blue sky, emerald green waters, white clouds, and pastel sand. They seemed to be standing on an island, looking out to sea. The sand glittered beneath their feet, and white-crested waves washed the beach. The lecture described hundreds of islands ringing the planet, mostly covered by rainforest. It spoke of the need for hydrogen, the abundant supply of water. No mention was made of the Sikassa.
“Beautiful,” Phipps said. “If I weren’t sick of space, I’d go there.”
“Wish I could,” Jin-Li said.
“Yeah? Haven’t had enough?”
“I’ve always wanted to be an archivist,” Jin-Li said, taking a last look at the view of Virimund. “I’ve always been curious, about people, about places. There’s no archivist in the Virimund team. It was supposed to be uninhabited. Nothing to record.”
“They’ll need one now. You could ask for a promotion.”
Jin-Li, with a low laugh, turned to the door. “I don’t dare ask.”
“Yeah. Sometimes best to lie low, huh?”
“Yes. Sometimes that’s best.”
*
AN ENORMOUS BOUQUET of spring flowers had appeared in Isabel’s room, with a small card that read, from the office of the general administrator. Isabel raised her eyebrows at Simon, and he shrugged. “Oh, well,” Isabel said. “It’s not the flowers’ fault.” She left the arrangement where it was, in the center of the table.
Simon left early to attend another meeting of the regents. He thought it best that Isabel and Oa not come with him. They stayed behind, and sat over a leisurely breakfast. Isabel pointed out the different flowers to Oa, saying the names. “This is a tulip,” she said.
“Tu-lip,” Oa repeated.
“Yes. And this is a daffodil.”
“Daff-o-dil.”
“Baby’s breath.”
Oa’s eyes widened. “Babies?”
Isabel laughed. “It sounds strange, Oa, but it’s just a name. It doesn’t have anything to do with babies. With a baby, I mean.” She was learning to be careful about words. Oa took things literally. “Baby’s breath is just a description.”
“Baby’s breath,” Oa said slowly, tasting the alliteration. “Baby’s breath.”
“Tell me what flowers you have on Virimund.”
Oa tugged on her braids, thinking. “Oa has nuchi flowers,” she said. “And Oa has—” She frowned, struggling to find the words. “Water flowers? Flowers grow in Mar-Mar.”
“You mean Mother Ocean,” Isabel reminded her.
Oa flashed her white smile. “Yes. Mother Ocean.”
“That’s right.” Isabel reached across the table and drew the pad and the colored pencils toward her. “Draw the flowers for me, Oa.”
The girl selected a pink pencil, and sketched a flower that looked something like a sea anemone. Isabel watched her absently, wondering how Simon was faring with the regents. She had been relieved not to go again, to watch the curious faces staring at Oa as if she were on display in a zoo. She couldn’t blame them, but it made her want to put herself between the child and—well, and the world. That, she feared, would not be possible.
“It’s a beautiful flower,” Isabel said. She was pleased by how quickly Oa had learned to use a pencil. She loved watching the deft, precise movements of her small fingers. “What is your word for it?”
“Marmala.” Oa put a final touch on her drawing, and slid it toward Isabel. “Marmala grows in—in Mother Ocean—until the people are taking it. The people are eating the flower.”
“Perhaps it’s not truly a flower, then,” Isabel said. “Perhaps it’s a fruit, like the banana or the apple.”
Oa frowned, tugging at her hair. “Not like banana. Not like apple. Marmala tastes like Mother Ocean. Like water of Mother Ocean.”
“Ah,” Isabel said, nodding. “Salty.”
“Sal-ty.”
Isabel smiled at her. “I don’t know a flower like this one, Oa. Let’s just use your word, the Sikassa word. We will call this marmala.”
Oa smiled up at her. “Marmala is salty.”
“Yes. Marmala is salty.”
Oa chose another pencil, and Isabel gave her back the pad of paper. She rose and walked to the window to look out past the Multiplex to the city. Spring had brought color to Seattle. Shades of green layered the hills, lacy ferns, glossy rhododendrons beginning to bud, the feathery tops of evergreen trees bowing in the wind like dancers. Or, she thought, like priests reverencing the altar.
Marian Alexander had called the night before. Gretchen Boreson had been asking pointed questions about Isabel’s relationship with Simon.
Marian said in a matter-of-fact way, “There’s no question ESC has mistreated you, and the child as well.”
Isabel bit her lip to stop herself protesting the understatement.
“You’re in a political fight,” Marian pointed out. “It’s not your first. I know you can find a way to be diplomatic and still be effective.”
“I don’t think so, Marian,” Isabel answered softly. “Not this time.”
“They want you to step down. They’re going to try to use your history to justify appointing someone else as guardian.”
Isabel closed her eyes to picture Marian at her big desk, leaning back in her chair, the little r-wave transmitter glistening in her hand. She felt as far away from her home as if she were already on Virimund. “Oh lord,” she breathed. “If Oa is hurt because of me . . . I can’t bear it.”
“Well, Isabel,” Marian said lightly. “If they could make a case that your—shall we say, your relationship—reflected badly on your character as someone fit to have guardianship over a child, they may be able to remove you.” There was a tiny pause, and then she added, “But my faith in you is unshaken, Isabel. The child is fortunate to have you as her advocate.”
Isabel’s throat had tightened. “Thank you, Mother,” she whispered.
“Thank you.”
Her throat closed again, remembering. She took a slow breath, and turned back to Oa.
The child
had laid down her pencil, and was gazing at a picture she had drawn, a sketch of a beach, the water vividly blue, big trees beyond in deep green, a column of gray smoke rising from somewhere among them.
“What is that, Oa?”
Oa didn’t look up, but stared at her drawing. “Is the tatwaj,” she said softly.
“It is? Because of the smoke?”
For a long moment, Oa didn’t answer. Then she said, still staring at the paper, “Isabel? Are not finding the people?”
“I’m sorry—what do you mean, Oa?”
“The people,” Oa whispered. “No sign . . .” She paused, and her fingers stretched over the paper as if the word she needed were there. “No sign . . . of adult pop—” The fingers curled, straightened. “Pop-ula-tion.”
“Oh.” Isabel sank in the chair beside Oa once again. “You heard that at the meeting.”
Oa pushed the drawing away from her. “Are not finding the people,” she said.
Quietly, Isabel said, “Yes, Oa. That’s right. The Port Forcemen on Virimund have not found your people.”
“Are finding the anchens?” Oa asked, so softly Isabel almost couldn’t hear her.
“Oa, the Port Forcemen are not allowed to go back to your island, not until I’m there, and Doctor Simon is there.”
Oa reached for her teddy bear and held it close to her thin chest.
18
PAOLO ADETTI AND Simon Edwards glared at each other across Gretchen Boreson’s office. The administrator sat with her hands on her desk, her linked fingers trembling even in repose.
“If you use this to hurt Isabel,” Simon grated, “I will do everything in my power to discredit you.”
Adetti glowered. “You’re the one in trouble here, Doctor. Not me.”
“Now, Paolo,” Boreson said hastily. “Let’s not talk that way. Surely, Dr. Edwards, we can reach some sort of understanding.”
“Understanding? About your prying into my private life, and Isabel’s?”
“Well,” Boreson faltered. “Of course we only have the child’s interests . . .”
“Rot,” Simon said through stiff lips. “You may have beguiled the regents with talk of your ‘delayed senescence factor,’ but the media will be another question.”
Boreson’s pale cheeks grew even paler. “Please, Dr. Edwards, Paolo. If all of this reaches the press, we’ll have a circus on our hands.”
“Exactly.” Simon folded his arms, and leaned one shoulder against the wall, trying to let the tension out of his body. “Administrator, this entire incident was motivated by greed, pure and simple. You know it’s true.”
Adetti bristled. “You want Mother Burke’s reputation ruined in the press?”
“You want your own ruined. Doctor? I can see that you lose your license.”
“Wait, wait.” Gretchen Boreson stood up. “Please, just a moment, Dr. Edwards. I have a compromise in mind.”
He lifted one eyebrow.
“We—Paolo and I—we want to come with you. To Virimund. As observers.”
Simon straightened. “Administrator, surely you’re not well enough for a space voyage.”
Her ice-blue eyes were bleak, and for the moment, the muscles of her face were still. “I won’t get better staying here.”
“But your physician must—”
Adetti interrupted. “We already have the clearance. We’re going, Edwards.”
“You’re not,” Simon said flatly. “I’ll oppose it with the board.”
“Dr. Edwards,” Boreson began.
Adetti blurted, triumphantly, “I called your wife. We know all about it. The whole story.”
Gretchen Boreson groaned, ever so slightly. Simon stared at Adetti, appalled and speechless. He thought of Anna, poor Anna, standing in the door of the house in Geneva, watching him drive away from her. None of this was her fault, not any part of it. How it must have hurt her to have this boorish man asking her personal, painful questions. Anna was as naive as she was honest. She would never have been able to deal with Paolo Adetti.
“Paolo,” Boreson said. “Leave me alone with Dr. Edwards.”
Adetti started to object, but the administrator gave him a frigid look, and he subsided. Simon watched, bemused by the power Boreson wielded, by the shallow stupidity that was Adetti’s weakness. The ESC physician shot Simon an angry glance as he left. Simon would have laughed if he were not still reeling.
“I’m so sorry. Dr. Edwards,” Boreson said. She sounded as if she meant it. “Please, come and sit down with me, and let’s see if we can smooth things over.”
“I want an apology,” Simon said grimly. “From Adetti. And I want him to apologize to my wife as well.”
“I’ll see to it. You know, I didn’t condone—”
“But you did,” Simon said. Suddenly he felt weary beyond bearing. He crossed the room and took the offered chair, lowering himself into it slowly, as if his muscles hurt. “You condoned it by encouraging his greed.”
Boreson met his gaze without flinching. “Well, yes. That may be true. We all want something, after all.” She paused, and then added softly, “I expect what you want is to be with Isabel Burke.”
*
SIMON HAD BEEN right. He so often was, Isabel reflected. It was all too easy to let him shoulder responsibility for making arrangements, filing reports. She watched him now, seated with his computer, a wavephone transmitter curling beneath his chin, his lean face intent. He had refused to discuss his meeting with Boreson and Adetti. As he reached to touch the computer screen, she thought how graceful his fingers were, deft and sensitive.
Her fingers tingled with the desire to touch his hand, to feel once again the rush of emotion that would surge from his skin to hers. That rush had been her undoing. Their first touch had been inadvertent and powerful. Irresistible.
Her cheeks burned at the memory. She forced herself to rise from the table, and go in search of Oa.
The regents had, at last, ordered ESC to lift the guard. Matty Phipps no longer shadowed them, nor did another guard stand outside the suite at night. They had three weeks of relative freedom before the transport departed for Virimund with Isabel, Simon, and Oa, an archivist, and a couple of Port Force technicians.
Oa’s vocabulary and pronunciation improved rapidly with the books Isabel found for her. Isabel worried she was memorizing the pages of the books, but when she tested her on the computer or on flexcopies, Oa recognized the printed words. She had learned some simple math, a bit of Earth history, and what little was known of her people. But Oa was most interested in Isabel herself.
When Isabel knelt each morning before her traveling altar, Oa joined her, listening to the prayers, watching the ritual with her wide-eyed gaze. One morning, as Isabel bent to blow out the little candle, Oa asked diffidently, “Isabel? Mary Magdalene is an anchen?”
“Was,” Isabel said automatically. “You mean to say, was Mary Magdalene an anchen?”
“Was.” Oa repeated the correction. “Was Mary Magdalene an anchen?”
Isabel sat back on her heels, the crucifix still in her hand. “Oa, your word—anchen—it’s a difficult one for me. I don’t truly understand what it means.”
The child looked up into Isabel’s face with a trust that melted her heart. “Oa is an anchen.” Only a week ago this very confession had caused the girl deep distress. Now she offered it almost eagerly.
“Yes,” Isabel said gently, taking Oa’s hand. “Yes, I understand that. But if you are an anchen—by which I think you mean a child who has lived many years—then Mary Magdalene was not. She lived to be very old, we think, but she was not a child.”
“Mary Magdalene is—was—a person?” Oa’s pronunciation charmed Isabel, the consonants slightly nasal, word endings lifting, almost vanishing.
“Yes, she was. As I am a person.” Oa sighed. “As you are a person, Oa.”
The child shook her head. “No.” Her eyes were clear and dark, and Isabel imagined she could see the weight of years in their dep
ths. “No,” she repeated with an air of patience. “Oa is not a person, Isabel. Oa is an anchen. Raimu-ke is—was—an anchen. Not a person.”
“Raimu-ke was an anchen?”
“Yes. Raimu-ke was—” The fingers of Oa’s free hand grasped the air, searching for the word. “One,” she finally said. “One—no, first. First anchen.”
Sadness flowed through her small hand into Isabel’s, an emotion as vast as space. Isabel tightened her grip on the slender fingers. “Oa. You know what a person is. Why can’t an anchen be a person?”
The girl answered simply, “Because an anchen is an anchen. Oa is an anchen.”
Isabel bit her lip. How was she ever to understand what the child meant? And how was she to help Oa, and the other old children, until she did?
*
ISABEL GREW WEARY of worrying, of wrestling with the mystery. She thought an afternoon away would give them both some relief. After consulting with Jin-Li, she took Oa to the waterfront to wander through the tourist shops, looking at the trinkets and souvenirs they sold. One store offered toys representing the expansion worlds. There were miniature replicas of the ice castles of Crescent, tiny robotic models of the long-boned, flop-eared vaccone of Nuova Italia, a row of veiled dolls from Irustan. Isabel turned one of the dolls over in her hand, its wisps of pastel silk falling over her fingers. Its base was printed with the circled star of ExtraSolar. She held the little veiled figure out to Oa. “Did you have toys on Virimund, Oa? A doll, perhaps?”
Oa looked at the Irustani doll for a moment, and then shook her head. She glanced around the cluttered shelves until she spied a wooden puppet, and pointed to it. “Wood. Wood of nuchi.”
“A wooden doll, then.” Isabel put her hand on Oa’s shoulder to guide her closer to the puppet display. Oa took a step, and then stopped, her eye caught by an assortment of dull gray shapes of grainplastic. They were miniatures of the monoliths of Udacha. Oa stroked one with her fingertip and glanced up at Isabel. “Kburi?”
Isabel stood at her shoulder, looking at the little uneven thing. The molding had been poorly done. It looked like something made out of modeling clay by a rather clumsy child. “Is that what a kburi looks like?” she asked. “What is a kburi, Oa?”
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