by Ellen Larson
And if she went through with it? Crew, family, JCP, Thad—all would be safe. What harm would it do if she complied? Except, of course, that she would be breaking trust with everything she had been taught to believe in. But who was there left to care?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
* * *
Fifteen years earlier
The Prioress removed her double-heart shield, revealing a stern and unhappy face. “What were you thinking, Merit! You cannot flex without authorization. You could have all been killed.”
“It was just going to be a one-minute flex. Our attunement is perfectly safe for that. Just to see what it would be like to see ourselves from the Continuum.”
“Merit. It’s not a proper use of the Vessel.”
Merit swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what you did, or sorry you got caught?”
Merit looked up at the Prioress’s face. “Sorry I disappointed you.” Her eyes welled with tears.
The Prioress looked away. “I wish I knew what to say, Merit.”
“You don’t have to say it,” said Merit. “I know I’m through. I just came to ask you—please don’t blame the other girls. It was my idea. I convinced them to do it, I told them no one would ever know.”
“It’s always your idea,” said the Prioress, her voice thick with frustration. “You are independent and you prefer to lead, so it’s easy for you to sway people who prefer to be led. Your problem is you don’t understand the responsibilities of leadership. You think you are above the rules. Well, you aren’t any better than anybody else, young lady, and the rules are there for a reason. You have to learn to listen to what other people are telling you. Can you possibly remember that?”
Merit’s head slumped lower on her chest. “What does it matter now.”
“Oh, you think your life is over? I thought you were smarter than that. Merit.” The Prioress’s voice softened. “You made a big mistake, your biggest yet, and that’s saying something. And, trust me, you’ll pay for it, with a lot of elbow grease and extra study and a good long grounding. But you’re not going to be expelled. That would be too easy for you—and for us. You’re going to stay here and learn how to handle the privileges you’ve been given and learn how to make better decisions.”
Merit’s throat tightened so that her voice squeaked. “But everybody knows what I did.”
“That bothers you, doesn’t it. More than the knowledge that what you did was wrong.” The Prioress shook her head. “Well, my sweet, you should have thought of that sooner. You’ll have to face them all.”
“I just want to disappear.”
“So you’re saying you want to give up?”
Merit’s chin rose. “No.”
“Then stay. Merit. I’ve known you for eight years. You are too often thoughtless, too ready to make fun with that quick tongue of yours, and you are not a little arrogant. But you are also hardworking, generous, and fiercely loyal to your family, your classmates, and above all to the Conservatory. And you are so very, very strong.” She sat on the bench in her office and pulled Merit down beside her.
“Being a Retrospector—even being a Prospective—is a great responsibility, Merit, but making the right choices as often as possible throughout your life is the real challenge, because in the end, your primary loyalty is to yourself, to what you believe in. Yes, you’ve lost a lot of respect, but it’s not the end of the world. You’re going to get a lot of looks and smirks from your classmates—and you deserve every one—but it won’t last forever. And you’ll be a better person for it, because someday you’ll look back on this and understand where you went wrong.”
“The professors won’t forget.”
“Possibly not. Frankly, all scientists are idealists, and they are shocked and horrified when a Prospective errs. Big deal. Outside the perimeter wall, what is left of the world is not so easily appalled.” The Prioress took Merit’s hand in hers. “There are difficult days ahead for the Oku, Merit, though we don’t give you girls much of a chance to know it. Okucha needs people who aren’t afraid to stand up and shout—even if some old fussbudgets find it annoying—people who never put their needs before others, who will always resist tyranny, even in its smallest forms. We need people who aren’t afraid to speak up when others sit on their hands and keep their mouths shut.”
“I can do that,” said Merit, with glum satisfaction.
“And that’s why you’ll make a fine Retrospector someday.”
“The thing is. . . .” Merit hesitated. “I can’t picture it. I never could. Even if I don’t get kicked out, I’m not the type.”
The Prioress frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“I can’t see it—standing in the Forum dressed in white, receiving the opal pendant. So many others—much better prospects than me—have been passed over. I mean, if Lena couldn’t make it, how can I?”
The Prioress sighed. “You always measured yourself against her, Merit, saw her as the ideal Prospective and yourself as her inferior. That was a mistake. I suppose I can say this now, since she’s gone: She was jealous of you.”
Merit almost laughed. “I think you’ve got that backwards.”
“Maybe not of your test scores, but of your independence, your strength, your willingness to err and bounce back. She couldn’t hide it, poor thing. Don’t you see? She played on your insecurities about your self-perceived scholastic weaknesses and love of a good time.”
“But she was right,” said Merit.
“Merit!” The Prioress fixed her with a stern eye. “You have to forget about what other people say or think! Let me ask you this—do you think in your heart that you can be a good Retrospector? Not the best ever, just do the job?”
Merit was surprised to find how easy the question was to answer. “Of course. I never would have gotten into the Vessel last night if I didn’t think I could handle it.”
“And why, exactly, did you get in the Vessel, if you were so sure that you were going to be passed over?”
“The other girls were sad because they’d been told they wouldn’t be selected. I thought I’d be in the same boat when my name came up. And I wanted to flex, just once. I wanted it so bad. They did too, but they were scared. But I talked them into it.”
“Well, as you’re cleaning the bird droppings from the statue in the garden, I’d like you to think good and hard about what you’ve just said, and see if you can find the contradiction in your answers to my last two questions. Would you listen to me? I’m telling you that you have all the makings of a fine investigator. You don’t solve crimes by waving your high test scores at them. You are going to flex many, many times in your life. Do you hear me?”
Merit looked into the Prioress’s eyes.
“Merit Rafi, I want you to promise me something. That you’ll never again make a decision about what to do in your life based on the assumption that you’re going to fail.”
“But,” began Merit unhappily.
“Merit! Don’t be afraid. You will succeed, if you just try!”
“You really think so?”
“I know so,” said the Prioress. “Believe in yourself! If you do, I’m telling you, you will succeed. You said just now that you were sorry you disappointed me. Make that mean something. Promise me you will not break trust again—never break trust with yourself!”
Merit looked into the Prioress’s weathered face and bright eyes. “I promise.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
* * *
Sunday, 16 April 3324, 8:15 p.m.
“Forgive me,” whispered Merit to the sky. “I tried so hard.” Tears wet her eyes.
The clouds broke, and the face of the moon appeared, large and white. It stared down at her, serene, beautiful. In fancy, she thought of it as the old Prioress, and when she did, she was comforted, no longer alone. And she knew, simply and without distress, that she could never, ever flex for the Rasakans. No matter what.
Breaking trust with herself. Looking bac
k on her life, she saw that this was the mistake she had made again and again. She was sorry she had not realized it sooner, but she was glad she had realized it before the end.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I miss you.”
Don’t be afraid.
They had made her afraid, and, though she knew—none better—that she had reason to fear, it killed her every day she lived that every day she lived in fear. That was their way of making sure she didn’t do anything rash, of keeping her in line. That and the drugs. She had been a fool to take those pills in the medlab. Why had she done it? To annoy Eric? To prove he had no power over her? Or to do something, anything, in defiance of him, of Rasakan Authority, of the Rasakans en masse. She so wanted to show them that they did not own her soul. How pitiful to think that she had concluded that the only way to hurt them was to hurt herself.
Yes, that was it. She needed to do something—not something stupid or self-destructive—something to make a difference again, something she believed in.
A tiny idea formed amidst her turbulent thoughts, and as it grew, her mind calmed in proportion. There was something she could do, if she could only push aside her fear. And it was with some surprise that she realized that now, having cleared the road ahead by making her decision not to flex, she could. Yes, she would do something good. For Thad, for the wife and kid. They deserved it; more, she owed it to the wife and kid. It was a small thing, but it was immeasurably better than doing nothing. In the moments that followed, the idea became a plan, and the plan became a resolution.
She rose, a little unsteadily, and headed back to the barracks. There were things she needed, and she could use a cleanup. She wished she had drunk Maman’s tea, for her throat was scratchier than ever. She swallowed, and felt her swollen glands protest.
Damnation! She had caught that bitch’s cold!
Merit stood in the shadows, her eyes on the sentries at the entrance to the Vessel Control Center. She would have to pass within five meters of them to gain her objective: the alley between the main JCP building and the VCC. Not that she wasn’t confident she could do it. The sentries stood in the oval splash of yellow light thrown by the pods above the door, while she was in the dark—and darkness was familiar territory. She lowered herself to the ground and inched her way down the strip of grass next to the JCP, small and silent, nerveless.
The door to VCC swung open, spreading a great fan of light across the road, the strip of grass, and onto her head and shoulders. She buried her face in the grass and froze.
The first sentry spoke with military deference. “Everything okay, Doc?”
“No complaints, Sergeant. No complaints.”
That voice. That metallic voice. Her heart beat wildly. Why was he there? In the VCC! And why was he lingering in the open door?
“Anything I can help with, Doc?”
Close the damned door!
“Thank you. Perhaps you could tell me if there were any visitors today?”
“Those monkeys from the Retro Unit were crawling all over the place, sir,” said the second sentry. “But I understand that was approved.”
“Yes. I meant, did anyone stop by my office? I was expecting a package.”
So, Gabriel Castor had an office in the VCC. What for? He knew nothing about retrospection.
“No, sir. But I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Good. Look for a medical officer.”
“We’ll call you at once if he comes, sir.”
“She.”
“Yes, sir. She.”
“Thank you. Good night, Sergeant.”
“Night, Doc.”
The door closed and the light went away. The sound of shoes tapping on the pavement kept perfect time with Merit’s heart.
She relaxed into the grass, mouthing obscenities as she wiped her nose on her sleeve. She’d been lucky and she knew it. But luck was something that was to be found if looked for; she had learned that lesson when she had awakened in an old iron furnace under a collapsed house. She crept forward.
It was slow going, but she was not worried; she knew instinctively when the guard’s eyes would be elsewhere. One meter, two, almost clear, clear. Around the back corner of the JCP, and she was safe. She leaned against the wall and drew her knees to her chest. If Gabriel Castor had seen her—but she couldn’t afford to think those thoughts. Her mental state was too fragile, and for once she recognized it and allowed for it.
She flitted down the alley, headed for the entrance to a decrepit garbage bay in the basement of the JCP. Since refuse disposal was handled by Oku grunts, the new management had not gotten around to upgrading the facility—or the lock. She had no trouble cracking it with the tools she had brought, and no trouble, once inside, opening the hatch that led into the canteen.
Getting up to the fourth floor unseen was a little trickier. It was only half past eight, and there were plenty of officers and staff around, both Rasakan and Oku. She moved slowly through the hallways, taking the back stairs, backtracking when she had to, listening, taking no chances, hopping from safety point to safety point, always double-checking.
The fourth-floor hallway was empty. She glided to the door of the Caseroom. The crusted glass had been replaced, but the lock was still the same. She no longer had a key, but the little gizmo known in the trade as a bug’s ear would do the trick.
A faint sound came from the far end of the corridor. She had perhaps twenty seconds before she would be forced to retreat.
The lock gave way. She slipped inside, eased the door shut, and squatted down. Saints, it did feel good to be doing something with a clear and worthy purpose again. She waited for the sound of footsteps to fade, then stood.
Moonlight filtered in through the windows, revealing an alien gray and black landscape. Little cubicles had been installed around the new desks. The open space at the head of the room was set up for meetings, with a sturdy table and chairs. There was even a whiteboard on the wall. Regret stabbed at her heart. Her crew had been brought to life by this chance; they were eager, involved, happy to show and use their knowledge, willing to admit their weaknesses and to learn. Like her, they wanted only to be doing something useful. What would happen to them without the promise of the flex?
But it was not in her power to help them anymore. Not at the asking price. And the ease with which Eric had won their confidence proved that they would survive without her. Perhaps he would even help them. In any event, she must not let herself be dragged down by doubt. She must focus on the job at hand. She pulled a tiny flashlight from her jacket and made her way to the back of the room. The lounge at least was unchanged: rusty lockers, ugly sofa, knobless washroom door.
For two minutes she stood at Eric’s locker, the bug’s ear in her hands.
“Bingo,” she mouthed as the locker fell open and the little beam of red light fell on the silver briefcase.
She sat on the sofa and applied the bug’s ear again. Her fingers moved quickly and the briefcase soon popped open.
She ruffled through the folders, quickly the first time, slowly, carefully, and with growing disappointment the second. Neither the pink hankie nor the tondo was there. Had he changed his mind and handed the tondo over to Authority? Shivers ran down her spine like startled ants. She waited for the moment of fear to pass.
The Resistance codebook she had seen in the medlab was still there. She flipped through it, hoping in vain to find the paper with the decoded message on it. Its absence told the tale. Whatever the message written on the tondo had been, Eric had almost certainly deciphered it.
She dumped the contents of the briefcase onto the floor, then set it empty on her lap and ran her hands along the inside surfaces. Nothing in the bottom, but she was rewarded by the discovery that the top was a good five centimeters thicker than it should have been. She shone the light on its smooth surface. Nothing obvious, but she knew the latch was there, somewhere, waiting for her to find it. Her fingers gently probed the seams. And there it was—a soft spot near the hand
le. She pressed, and an inner panel popped open on recessed hinges.
Inside the hidden compartment were a notebook and a slender cardboard box.
“That’s better,” she whispered, and opened the box.
The hackles on the back of her neck rose as the beam of light illuminated the red and blue berries of the cypress and hawthorn necklace.
Time crawled to a halt.
With shaking hands she laid the box aside and opened the notebook.
Pages of equations, schematics of a strange, triangular Artifice, more pages crammed with more equations.
The last page. Two solid inches of symbols with a few sentences below, thoughts overflowing from a mind in torment, written in Eric’s neat hand:
It killed me. Seeing you like that. Having to pretend I felt nothing, as if I didn’t know you. It killed me. It seems it was easy for you—so remote, so cool, as if you truly felt nothing. Me, out of control, dying inside. Could you tell? I was sure you could tell how I felt—I was sure everyone could tell. See it in every move I made, hear it in my voice when I spoke to you. I tried to hide it, but I couldn’t. I want to hold you, to touch you, to tell you how I feel, how much I need you. I thought I could handle it, I thought I was prepared for this, but I don’t know how much longer I can pretend. I need to be with you. I want to stand openly by your side. I don’t care about anything else. I love you so much.
The new clock on the wall ticked softly—the only movement in the moonlit Caseroom. From the hall came the sound of voices, faint at first, then loud, then growing faint again till they faded to silence.
She lifted the necklace out of the box.
As a match drawn across sandpaper kindles and flames, something sprang to life within her. In the time it takes to remember a forgotten word upon the hearing of it, she knew with all her being that her fierce attempts to hurt him were only the twisted measure of how much she wanted him, needed him in her life; of how desperately afraid she had been of learning that he had forgotten her— forgotten the very memory of her, and would laugh to know how much he had meant to her. The ravenous shadow that had dampened her mind for so long shivered and disappeared. She was not alone.