In Retrospect

by Ellen Larson

  She shook her head. It was all she could trust herself to do.

  “You’re a highly intelligent woman, Merit. You know the consequences of failure. I have full confidence in you.”

  He held out his hand, smooth and white with a silver sheen on the nails. She looked at it, and saw the head of a snake. She extended her hand cautiously, and watched as the mouth of the snake open wide and swallow her fingers, sinking its fangs into her wrist. Then it let her go. His thin lips parted, and his tongue flicked hungrily.

  Out of the office, into the corridor, around the corner. She leaned against the wall, sweat trickling down her back. Hands shaking, she fumbled in her jacket for the pillbox.

  Footsteps. She pushed through a heavy door and found herself in a dark stairwell. She opened the pillbox, spilling half the contents on the floor. She put a pill in her mouth and sat on the top stair. It would just take a minute. . . .

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  * * *

  Twenty-two years earlier

  “When the Vessel attains parallelism with the desired time-frame, it becomes possible to see what is happening in that time-frame, as long as the Vessel, though remaining in the Continuum, is moving forward at isochronal speed.” Lena looked up from her book at the circle of girls sitting atop the peanut-shaped hill. “Who can tell me what that is called? Merit?”

  Merit jerked her attention from the distant treetops to Lena’s delicate face. “Uhhh.”

  Lena pursed her lips. “Did you do your reading, Merit?”

  “Most of it. Some of it.” That was true. Some of it. No point in mentioning that she had spent the previous evening on the roof with her friends practicing her dance routine for the end-of-term gala. She had frequently opened her book while waiting her turn.

  “Merit. You won’t get the full benefit of the tutorial unless you prepare properly.” Lena sighed and shook her head. “Anyone else?”

  A tiny girl with sassy green eyes winked at Merit, then answered. “Collimation.”

  “Very good!” praised Lena. “Now, when collimation has been achieved, and it is possible to enter normal space. . . .”

  Merit’s gaze drifted away again. Collimation, that was it. The state of being on the outside looking in. Out of time. Invisible. It must be a thrilling experience. Too bad it was all so impossibly far away and the road paved with dull books, chronometric physics, and vocabulary tests. Thank the Saints it was only three more days till the monthlong Yule break.

  “. . . Thus the Vessel can be seen in normal space, and the Retrospector, if she has been granted permission to leave the Vessel, can get out and rejoin the time-line at that point. Who can tell me what that is called?”

  She knew that one—synchronicity—but Lena didn’t call on her. She yawned and gazed out over the lea.

  Someone was approaching. The Prioress! Merit rearranged herself into an attitude of rapt attention to Lena’s singsong voice.

  “Merit.”

  Good Saints! The Prioress had found out about the rooftop! “With respect,” she managed to say as she rose.

  The Prioress put a hand on her shoulder and led her away from the others. Merit thought they were going back to the Conservatory, but to her surprise they stopped at the stone arches.

  “Come sit beside me,” said the Prioress. She took off her shield. Her face looked very sad.

  Merit hopped up onto the stone wall and looked up into the Prioress’s eyes, regretting bitterly her choice to forgo her studies in favor of achieving personal glory by perfecting her dance solo.

  The Prioress took her hand. “I’m so sorry, Merit. It’s your father. . . .”

  The Yule candles twinkled in the tower windows of the Priory; garlands hung on the doors. The Prioress sat on a high stool in her workroom, soldering a silver brooch. The girls were not due back for two weeks and she was making the most of her free time. Or at least she was till she heard a soft noise and looked up to see a small figure bundled to the nose in a woolen overcoat standing in the door.

  “Merit! How on Earth did you get in here? Good Saints you’re freezing. Come sit by the radiator. Oh, sweetheart!”

  Merit sat shivering on a little bench as the Prioress chafed her hands.

  “How did you get here?”

  “Took the train to River Station and walked.”

  “Seven kilometers? In this cold? Why didn’t your mother call? I would have sent an auto.”

  “She didn’t know I was coming.”

  “What? She must be frantic!”

  “I left a note. She won’t care.”

  The Prioress pulled a chair close to Merit. “It sounds like things have been difficult at home.”

  “This is my home,” said Merit. Tears gathered in her eyes. “I tried to get into my room, but the outside door was locked. I couldn’t find anybody, so I came here.”

  “Oh, darling!” The Prioress put an arm around Merit, gently stroking her shoulders. They sat that way for several quiet minutes. Then the Prioress sighed and turned Merit’s tear-streaked face to hers. “I spoke with your mother at the funeral. She’s very upset.”

  “No it isn’t. She’s already got a boyfriend.”

  “Oh,” said the Prioress softly.

  “She says I don’t understand how hard it is to make it on your own when you don’t have any skills and that she has no choice, but that’s not true. She’s forgotten him already. I’ll never forget him.”

  The Prioress kissed her hair. “No, you never will. Hm. Maybe it is best if you stay here. You can have a nice rest, a quiet time before the other girls return. You can come here and work on your jewelry with me.”

  “No. I came back to study. And to meditate. To work hard to be a Retrospector. That’s what he wanted, and that’s what I want too. I want him to be proud of me.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  * * *

  Sunday, 16 April 3324, 9:50 a.m.

  A cart rolled down the hallway on the fourth floor of the JCP, its metal wheels squeaking at every turn.

  “Where ya want it?” asked the grunt pushing the cart.

  Merit eyeballed his cargo: three large crates separated by pieces of frayed red carpet. “I don’t want it.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been a tremendous help.” He poked his head into the Caseroom. “Hey, red! Where ya want it?”

  “Over here!” boomed Donny.

  The grunt gave the cart a shove. Merit spread-eagled against the wall to avoid being mowed down.

  It was only a kilometer up the boulevard from Authority to the JCP, but she had taken her time. The walk had steadied her, not least because each step had taken her farther away from the heavily sentried corridors of the medical wing and closer to the familiar decrepit environs of the Caseroom. Which, she realized as she stood in the gloom of the hallway looking in, was the last time she’d be able to say that.

  The room was a scene of chaotic transformation being perpetrated by the five junior members of the Retro Unit and half a dozen Oku maintenance grunts. The sagging boxes and the broken furniture were gone; new desks, chairs, and cabinets were stacked in the middle of the room; a comm link was being installed; and light pods were being fitted to the ceiling.

  At the top of the room, Molt, Celia, and Eric were engaged in discussion. The sturdy new table around which they stood was laden with boxes sealed with official JCP tape. To her right, Donny and Sarah scraped paint off the walls as if in a race. The hot, sun-streaked air swirled with dust, which Artie, shrouded in an impossibly white apron, was doing his best to banish with a bucket of water and a mop.

  “But how do we know the Vessel is tethered proper unless we give ’er a try?” Molt was saying.

  “We’re going to do that.” Eric was doing his best to hide his exasperation behind his shield and utterly failing. “With the Vessel at the Priory, see? There’s no point in running tests with the Vessel in the VCC. We need to verify the spatial tether.”

  “But it’s safer here. If the tether isn’t stabl
e we’ll blow the roof—”

  “No, we won’t. It’s only a simulation, to check the systems. Simulation!” Eric gestured with his hands. “If there’s a problem, we’ll identify it and correct it on-site. It’s basic ops!”

  “Sorry.” Molt’s face fell. “I’ve never actually done this.”

  “Well, neither have I.” Eric laughed suddenly, then put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Sorry, Molt. We’re a pair of rookies. But I promise, you won’t blow the roof off. I trust you to run the show. Just trust me to get the science right, okay?”

  Molt glanced around the room, then back at Eric. He suddenly grinned. “That sounds fair.”

  “Good man. What we need is the ops manual, which should be in here. Somewhere. That’ll give you the step by step.” He rooted in one of the boxes until he found what he was looking for: a large blue binder in a plastic case. “Here you go. Put together by the last Chief Engineer. Guy named Harman.”

  Molt’s gaze flew to the book and his lingering smile faded. “His father,” said Celia.

  “Really?” Eric’s shield turned from the book to the boy. “I’d like to meet him. Is he—?”

  Molt flattened his hand and swept his fingertips across his neck.

  “Oh.” Eric handed the book to Molt. “Sorry. I didn’t mean. . . . I’m truly sorry, Molt.”

  Molt twisted his lower lip. “Yeah. Thanks.” He sat on a paint can and opened the binder on his knees.

  “See if there’s anything on communications,” said Celia, dragging a can over and sitting at his side.

  Eric raised his shield to wipe away the sweat and dust from his face. The work tempo slowed to a crawl as everyone in the room took a look at his blue eyes and freckled face, but he didn’t seem to notice. He glanced around at the half-transformed room, his satisfaction for once plain to see. But when his eyes fell on Merit, lurking in the doorway, the smile disappeared. He walked toward her, resettling his shield on his head. The activity in the room resumed its former frenetic tempo.

  “You’re late,” he said and walked right past the door. “Come with me.”

  Merit stepped inside and followed him to an area separated from the rest of the Caseroom by a row of rusty lockers. Its name, “the lounge,” was justified by the presence of an old lime-green sofa, a wooden crate upon which rested a couple of ashtrays, and a tiny washroom.

  Eric retrieved his briefcase from his locker and sat on the sofa.

  “Authority has approved the change in your rating and reinstated you to your old rank. Your salary increase will take effect at the end of the month.” He opened the briefcase and pulled out an envelope. “Here’s your contract. Your commissary card is in there, too, so don’t throw it away by mistake and say you didn’t know.”

  Merit assumed an attitude of mock indignation, but he wasn’t paying attention to her. She folded the envelope and stuck it in a pocket. His change of mood from the previous day was palpable: no-nonsense and just short of openly reproachful. That was fine with her.

  He flipped through his briefcase till he found the piece of paper he was looking for. “I need you to sign an acknowledgment of receipt.”

  Merit sat beside him and took the paper.

  Celia sidled up, eyed the two of them on the sofa, and disappeared into the washroom.

  “What about my crew?” asked Merit.

  “They’ll be upgraded when you’ve completed the mission.” He held out a pen. “Sign it.”

  “First bribery and now hostage taking. Are you sure this is necessary?”

  “Authority won’t approve the final prep for the flex if you don’t sign. Live with it.”

  “Okay, okay.” Taking the pen from his hand, she signed the paper and returned it to him. “I was just wondering why you didn’t use one of those Rasakan girls you’re hyper-attuning.”

  Eric returned the paper to his briefcase. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You know. I heard you’d managed to knock six years off the attunement.”

  “I don’t know who you’ve been listening to,” he said, “but that’s absurd. I’m no expert, but I know you don’t transmute someone’s basal metabolism overnight. Here’s your insignia. Get it sewn on before you leave the building.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  “And take this.” He handed her a shoulder holster, within the coils of which nestled a squat plasma gun.

  Merit frowned. “Huh.” She weighed it in her hand and looked at the plasma sump. The bright red strip showed that it was fully charged. “Authority trusts me with this?”

  “Certainly not.” Eric snapped the briefcase shut. “It’s part of the uniform for your rank, so you have to have it. But the bolts are dummies and it’s locked to your biomets so you can’t put in real ones.”

  Artie scuttled past, dragging a trash can overflowing with refuse.

  Eric rose, stowed the briefcase in his locker, then he turned to her. “Here’s the agenda for those who missed the meeting. You, Donny, Artie and I head for the Conservatory at ten-thirty. Be at the motor pool at ten-twenty. I’ll help the boys unpack the Vessel, which should take an hour, then leave them to assemble it. You and I will then meet with the Prioress at noon. Do you understand?”

  “Sure.” She pulled the p-gun out of its holster and looked at it.

  “I need to be back at the VCC by one to open up the comm link with Celia, so you’ll have to come back then if you want a ride. If you’re late, you walk. Do you understand?”

  “Late. Walk. Got it.” She smiled pleasantly. She could deal with him when he was in this mood. This was better.

  Eric continued: “After that Sarah and I will synch the Artifice and the Vessel, with Molt monitoring from ops. I have to check your attunement and update your biomets before we can finalize the mission plan, so be at the VCC at four. After that I go back to the Priory to run the sim and do a final check on the Vessel while the rest of the Unit carries out the final prep at the VCC. If in the unlikely event that that all happens remotely on time, I’m scheduled to meet Marshall Frey at eight to lace the security net and lock down the Vessel, then back to ops by nine.”

  “What do I do, besides the interview and the biomets?”

  “As little as possible, apparently.”

  “Ouch,” she pouted. “Guess I’ll have time for that nap.”

  Celia appeared from the washroom, glanced at them, and sidled away.

  Eric watched as the girl rejoined Molt at the other end of the room. “Actually there is something you can do. You can tell them they’re doing a hell of a job.”

  Merit rose from the sofa. She watched her crew in silence. Joking, swearing, working as hard at they could, waiting impatiently for Eric to be back amongst them. Full of hope for the future. Though she had only known them for two months, she had from the first protected them, praised their abilities, and fought for them as if they were her blood. But now there was a gulf between them that she could not cross. Nor, she realized, did she want to pull them back to her. “They like you. You tell them.”

  “I did. I think they want to believe me. But you’re still the Select, the one they turn to for their cues, the one they believe in, Saints help them. The one they want to please. It wouldn’t kill you to pretend for five minutes that you’re excited too.”

  She wanted to tell him how much they meant to her, that she had done all she could for them. She wanted him to know they were his responsibility now. She wanted to beg him to take care of them. A lump arose in her throat.

  “Pff.” Eric turned on his heel.

  Merit watched for a while, then slipped unnoticed out the door.

  The motor pool, more than any of the other JCP buildings, was unchanged from the days before the war: a one-story building roofed with solar panels, floors stained with oil, a line of polished vehicles parked outside, and inside, grease monkeys in coveralls crawling around a line of disemboweled autos.

  The orderly sat at the controls of an oblong antigrav auto, rec
ently repainted in red and black and only ten years old. Eric, Donny, and Artie squeezed into the back, leaving the front seat to Merit. They purred out into the sunshine and shot down the boulevard to the River.

  In contrast to the previous day, the drive was neither rough nor quiet—indeed, a constant stream of chatter issued from the backseat. Donny, worried about making some irreparable error while setting up the Vessel and sending the Priory to kingdom come. Eric, patiently explaining as he had to Molt that it couldn’t happen, that however sophisticated the theory behind the flex, the physics were safe. Artie, worrying about whether or not he should have gone in the truck with the Vessel to keep it steady. Even the orderly, chipping in from the front, telling them they were fools not to ask for another day, because they couldn’t possibly be ready in time.

  There was increased activity at the Priory, too. Gray and black Authority agents hovered in groups of two or three in the gardens and on the portico. JCP sentries—a mix of russet and sage—were deployed in pairs every fifty paces around the main building.

  The Steward, apparently on the lookout for them, hurried forward, shadowed by an Authority sentry. “Is this really necessary?” he demanded, gesturing toward the sentry. “I’ve been told no one can go anywhere outside the east wing without a guard. We are in mourning, you know, even though we’re not allowed to tell anyone.”

  “Security,” said Eric brusquely. “For the Vessel.”

  “What do they think we’re going to do? Steal it?”

  “Can’t be helped, Lazar. Grin and bear it. What’s the status of the meeting with the Prioress?”

  Lazar did not grin, but he gathered himself to bear it. “On schedule. She’s feeling better today and wishes to take some fresh air. She suggests that you meet in the cloister garden.”

  “Fine,” said Eric. “Twelve o’clock, then.” He turned to Merit.

  “I think I’ll just mosey on over to the cloister now,” said Merit. “If nobody minds. I’d like to meditate—preparation for tomorrow. I can just slip in through the greenhouse—unless it’s locked.”