by Ellen Larson
A flood of feelings she had thought long dead came from nowhere to fill her as water fills a vessel: happiness, relief, above all a giddy eagerness for the future. She had a future! Tears streamed down her face. Eric. He had been her soul mate, her intellectual sparring mate, her partner, her friend. In her arrogant youth, she had taken all that for granted, and, yes, it was true, she had thought herself superior. But no more. That was a mistake she would never make again. She sat for a long time, grateful—so desperately grateful—at long last to be alive; one moment of hope enough to outweigh a year of torment.
Memories of the last two days flooded her mind again, this time bringing with them a sharp sense of guilt. She had done everything she possibly could to hurt him—but he would forgive her. She would explain, without fear of humiliation, and oh, Saints, what a relief it would be. She would let him help her—she was so desperately confused and in need of help. And he would not let her down.
I’ve dreamed about this moment . . . seeing you again. . . .
She bathed in the memory, her heart soaring. The words no longer frightened her. The first thing she would tell him was how she had dreamed of it too. Dreamed of it when all other dreams had died.
You know you’re not alone. . . .
Every time he had been alone with her, no matter how she treated him, he had reached out to her in some way. But she had fought him off, beaten him back. So afraid.
We need your ideals, your wits, your commitment.
Who had he meant by “we?” The Retro Unit? Surely not Authority. What had he said about other people? It was hard to remember; she had been so disoriented. He hadn’t been forced to join Authority. He had chosen to. But why? Just to find her? Marshall Frey had been suspicious of his quick rise up the ranks. But surely that was just a reflection of his ability. Or was there something else? He had had so many ideas involving the flex.
The thought cast an uneasy shadow across her mood, but she shook it off. She would not do that to herself again. The Marshall was wrong about him, that was all. He had to be wrong, because she knew Eric. It was her own fault that she didn’t understand, because she had not let him explain. She had not listened. So, she would trust him until she could talk to him, and not torture herself with doubt. Trust him. Trust herself. She shivered, but not from cold or fear.
Enough. She must find him. Right now. She flashed the light on her watch. According to the schedule, he should just about be arriving back at the VCC, having locked down the Vessel with the Marshall. She must get him somewhere private and tell him everything. And listen to what he had to say—really listen. She would tell him about the Marshall’s battle with Authority; about the power Gabriel Castor had over her; about how ghastly her visit to Maman and Adele had been. She would even tell him what she had done for them. Then she would tell him she could never do the flex. Of course, he knew that—had known it before she had known it herself. He needed her? She so desperately needed him. Together they would decide what was best to do. Alone she was nothing. With someone at her side, she was whole.
She put his things back in the briefcase—all but one. The little box containing the necklace she put in her jacket pocket.
Leaving the Caseroom, she headed swiftly for the VCC, and did not care who saw her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
* * *
Sunday, 16 April 3324, 9:00 p.m.
The doors to main ops banged against the walls as she thrust them open. Three heads turned: Molt, sitting at the operations console; Celia, at communications, a gigantic headset crushing her red hair; Artie, at Celia’s side, holding the ops manual.
“Hi Merit.” Molt rose, a smile brightening his tired face. He called over his shoulder: “Merit’s here!”
Donny and Sarah appeared from behind the bank of computers.
“Hey Merit,” said Sarah, disengaging her hand from Donny’s with an embarrassed smile. “Did you get some sleep? You’re right on time—we just finished the pre-lock check. We’re set to go.”
“From the mouth of the lady who said just yesterday we weren’t ready to take this on,” said Donny, grabbing her hand again.
“We weren’t,” she said, “But we did it anyway.”
“Because you worked together,” said Merit. “Together, the five of you can do anything.”
“And Torre,” said Artie. “I hate to admit it, but we couldna done it without him.”
All eyes were on Merit, waiting.
“I know,” she said. “He’s done a fine job. If there are enough Rasakans like him, we Oku will soon be back on our feet.”
Her affirmation released them. Their faces brightened even more as they grinned at one another. “That’s right! Yeah!” they told one another. “He’s all right. We’ll be all right! We’ll learn a lot from him.”
“Where is he?” asked Merit. “Torre. Isn’t he supposed to be here about now?”
“Unexpected delay,” said Donny. “Seems Authority forgot where it put the Vessel key. There was a lot of finger-pointing—not at us for once, since they didn’t dare trust us with a key. Torre and the Marshall stormed over to Authority and broke the doors down or something to get a spare.”
“Woulda liked to see that,” smiled Artie.
“Authority can drop bombs,” said Sarah, “but they can’t run a filing system.”
The others laughed.
“Anyway,” continued Donny, “they got it, and they’re at the Priory now, lacing the security net for final lockdown.”
“Okay,” said Merit. She was disappointed—but not much. The feeling of anticipation was too delicious. “When’s he coming back?”
“In a coupla three hours,” said Molt. “We rescheduled the dry run for midnight.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. Just past nine. She could wait, or she could try to catch him at the Priory—she could easily get there in half an hour. Yes, that would be better. At the Priory, she would be able to corner him somewhere alone.
Celia pulled off her headset. “Merit, could I talk to you a sec?”
Merit nodded, and the two stepped aside.
Celia spoke in a low voice. “The Marshall was looking for you. Said he needed to talk to you.”
The Marshall. She had forgotten. “What did he want?” she asked.
“He didn’t say,” said Celia. “But he didn’t sound happy.”
“Don’t worry,” said Merit. “I’ll take care of it. If you see him, tell him I need to talk to him too.” John Frey, she suddenly saw with sparkling clarity, with his contempt for Authority and fear for his family, for his homeland, was a potential ally. But how to approach him? What to say? She had no clue. No matter. She would talk it over with Eric, and they would decide what to do together.
The others looked at her in surprise as she headed for the doors. “You’re going?”
“Sorry,” she said, “I’ve got something important that won’t wait. Personal. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Oh, sure,” said Donny. “But—don’t you want the ops tour? We can make it quick.”
Merit looked at their faces: tired, excited, alive. She grinned suddenly. “You’re on.”
They surrounded her, eager, happy, all talking at once. They led her around the room, sharing their anecdotes of success and failure, laughing as they recounted both the frustrating and the funny things that had happened, hanging on each others’ shoulders, alternately grinning and yawning.
When they were done, they walked her to the door. At the threshold, Merit turned and looked at each of them. “I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. But I want you to know you’ve done top-notch work. A fully trained and experienced crew couldn’t have done any better. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. You make me proud to be Okuchan.”
Donny grinned sheepishly and fumbled for Sarah’s hand. Artie and Molt had to punch one another several times to hide their pleasure.
Celia’s one good eye was
alight with gladness. “It’s good to see you looking so happy, Merit.”
“Thanks,” said Merit. “I guess—what you said the other day, about everyone needing hope? I guess you were right.”
The duty officer at the motor pool sat up as she approached.
“I need an antigrav,” said Merit. “Stat.”
The officer’s lips broke into a grin beneath his green half-shield. “As if I’d hand so much as a burnt-out jalopy over to you. Oku take the bus home. Or walk.”
She smiled, and pointed to the insignia on her shoulder. “See that?” She pulled the carte blanche from her pocket and held it up in front of him. “Know what that is? See here where it says ‘immediate and total cooperation from all JCP personnel and services’? See whose signature that is? Recognize the pretty flower on the seal? No? It’s Cupressus rasakanus.”
Green-shield tilted his head back. She watched his lips move, mouthing the words as he read. “Well, okay,” he said, handing it back to her. “I didn’t—Just a minute.”
Merit put her papers away and pushed her hair back from her brow. Soon. Very soon.
She cruised past the main gate to the Conservatory Wood without so much as slowing down. A kilometer further along, she pulled the auto off the road behind a tangle of vines and scrub trees. She could not risk anyone seeing her there. She must see Eric alone, for no one must know that there was any sort of bond between them. Exiting the auto, she crossed the road and dropped down into the gully that ran along the perimeter wall. The old culvert was still there, providing safe passage under the wall for a gurgling stream. The chain-link fence that covered its mouth was new—but not so new as to have remained intact. Someone had made a convenient cut near the bottom, and she had no difficulty squeezing through. Nor did she have any trouble finding the narrow footpath on the other side. Fifteen minutes and she’d be at the Priory, with no one the wiser. A cakewalk compared to some of the work she’d done for the Resistance.
She kept a steady pace through the Wood, but did not rush her journey. Indeed, she savored it, and the excitement that throbbed in her limbs. She reveled in the beauty of the tall trees rising like living pillars all around her, holding up a vaulting roof of leaves high above. The smells were intoxicating, the night sounds music. The spring world was bursting with life and renewal.
When she came out into the open, she paused. Her old friend the gibbous moon gazed down at her through a film of clouds, making a halo of blue and gray in the sky. In its soft light she saw the jagged silhouette of the place that had been her home during the ten years of her girl-and young womanhood. Only ghosts lived there, now—ghosts and a few lonely pilgrims, huddled around a bonfire in the forum. Lost souls who sought for answers in a hollow lie, because the lie was so much easier to bear than the truth. And that was not so hard to understand, after all.
Staying in the shadow of the trees, she headed east across the lea, past the snoozing sheep and goats, her feet swishing softly through the grass. At the top of the rise the Priory came into view, its tall towers black against the gray clouds. An array of lamps made pools of yellow light here and there throughout the gardens. She looked up at the southeast tower. Sure enough, the light was still on. That would be Eric, lingering to check the Vessel and to double-check and then to check again. She crouched low and headed across the grass down the slope.
A JCP auto was parked at the end of the lane, and there was the orderly, leaning against the hood, smoking a cigarette, all the proof she needed that Eric was still here. Beyond him, she spotted the Marshall’s antigrav, with its gold JCP seals on the doors.
That was annoying.
But before she could start to think of what to do, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching along the pathway from the portico. The orderly stubbed out his cigarette and stood at attention. The Marshall’s driver sprang from his auto. Merit glided behind a stubby olive tree and made herself very small.
The Marshall appeared, tall and gold-shielded, accompanied by an equally tall sentry. In the darkness, it was impossible to see the color of his uniform, but she knew his voice: Thad.
The two men stood for a moment by the auto.
“If anyone asks you why you’re there,” said the Marshall, “tell them it’s on my orders.”
“Yes sir,” said Thad.
“I don’t want Authority to be alone in the study with the Vessel. Not for a second. Do you understand?”
“You got it,” said Thad. “Sir.”
“Good. Send for me if you have any problems.” The Marshall got into the auto. The driver closed the door behind him and resumed his seat at the controls. The auto hummed, then rolled quietly westward along the lane.
“Looks like you’re joinin’ the team,” said the orderly.
“Fuck off, snitch,” said Thad, and headed back up the pathway to the portico.
The orderly bent over, searching on the ground for the discarded cigarette.
Merit glided by within two meters of him. So. The Marshall had commissioned Thad to keep an eye on things during the flex. She wondered how long that relationship had been going on. But she didn’t wonder for long; she had more important matters on her mind.
Her heartbeat quickened as she neared the Priory. Had she dreamed of this moment? Yes, many times. But this was not a dream. This was real.
There would be a herd of Authority sentries on the portico, so she headed for the greenhouse, confident she could get in, whether it was locked or not. Like a shadow she slipped through the gardens, using the hedges for cover, dropping low to the ground when she was in the open, making not a sound.
Pools of liquid gold rippled under the softly glowing lamps. The intoxicating scent of plum blossoms sweetened the night air. She felt her heart expanding within her. Tears came to her eyes. So much beauty at the heart of so much ugly destruction. Unfair that the Priory alone had escaped? It was a blessing; the venerable building was a living memory of Okucha’s past and a promise to its future. The Oku needed that. She had been wrong to have wished this last place of beauty in the City destroyed just because all other places were dead.
She did not need her bug’s ear, for the greenhouse door was still open. Following the route she had taken earlier in the day she quickly found herself in the covered arcade. She paused before heading for the western stairs to look out upon the cloister garden. Memories overwhelmed her, happy, joyful memories.
Half the garden was deep in shadow, half bathed in the pearly light of the moon hovering just above the rooftop. The statue glowed in the moonlight—a young Prospective in traditional white robes in search of solitary meditation.
The statue raised its arms.
Merit’s heart bounded and she dropped behind the low wall that separated the arcade from the garden. She listened for the sound of footsteps but heard nothing above the sound of the breeze in the plum trees. Her panic faded as it dawned on her that it wasn’t real; that it was just the drugs playing with her mind.
Suppressed laughter skipped through the scented air. Merit froze. That was no hallucination! Nor were the giddy whispers that followed, or the unmistakable sound of a wheezy cough. She had heard the same sound a dozen times in the same locale earlier that day.
Lena.
Placing the tips of her fingers on top of the wall, Merit slowly raised her head.
The Prioress stood beside the pool, her luminous sleeves spreading like wings from her outstretched hands. And indeed, as Merit watched, she rose effortlessly into the air.
She stared in disbelief. Had she finally lost her mind? No. A flash of silver in the shadows. That was the explanation. The Prioress was not alone.
She could barely see him, for he was dressed in black, but his silver shield flashed bright. The Prioress’s hands were on his shoulders; he lifted her again and spun her around so that her robes swirled about them both. Then he let her down and they stood, facing one another, bathed in moonlight.
Her sleeves fluttered upward and the shield fell from
her face. She reached out to him and touched the silver shield, and when it too had fallen away he lowered his face to hers, enveloping her small frame in his embrace.
Merit sank to her knees. She had not seen Lena’s face, for her back was to the arcade, but she had seen his, and though the features were blurred by the moonlight there was no mistaking that tall frame and bright hair. Eric.
She clasped her head in her hands. To think was pain, but still the thought must form. Not for her, those scribbled words of loyalty and desire. Not for her. Not for Merit Rafi the fairy-tale ending of love refound and redemption. For the woman in the garden. For Lena Salim.
She pressed her cheek against the cold stone. The nascent flame of joy died in an instant no longer than the one in which it had been created, and darkness returned.
Numb, unthinking, drawn to look at what she least wished to see, Merit again raised her head above the wall. Still there, holding one another, rocking slowly back and forth. Lost in each other’s embrace. Not the kiss of strangers, no, but of lovers forced by day and the society of others to pretend indifference, freed by the secrecy of the shadowy garden to lose themselves in one another utterly.
The Prioress broke away—not as one who has had enough but as one who remembers the demands of time. She began to speak, but her whispers mingled with the rustling leaves and the insect noises, elusive and unknowable. Reaching into her robes, she pulled out an oblong box, the length of a hand, light in color with a dark stripe around the middle.
Eric took the box from her, staring at it as if in surprise. His lips moved, then stilled. He listened as she spoke, then nodded slowly. He put the box in one jacket pocket—and pulled out something else from another. Something round and flat, with a patina so shiny that it reflected the moonlight. The tondo.