I don’t watch the news. It’s never about me. How many more felt that way, not only around the wheel, but around the world? It was the turning away, the turning inward. Daniel Keith had described it, and Jeremiah had feared it. Sanctuary was the vindication of a prophecy, the anticipation of the human prospect. It would spin along in its orbit year after year much as it was now, growing older rather than growing, ever more fragile in structure and frail in spirit. And someday, it would fail.
It was the future of the Earth, in microcosm. He required no further proof from Daniel, Deryn, or the midwives—from Sharron’s memory or his father’s legacy. Synthesis was his art and his magic, and the synergy was clear. The twilight of the will was approaching.
That being so, what was the best use of a life? The curtain would not ring down for decades, perhaps centuries. In that time, billions would pass through the whole cycle of existence, and most of the passages would be made in pain. Against that background, what was the moral act? Was it enough to simply take a turn on the wheel and then step aside?
In a life of watching, Christopher had learned to measure his expectations. Wanting little placed the goal within reach. Wanting nothing too badly mitigated disappointment. The path of least resistance beckoned. If he could not be happy, he could at least hope to temper the pain.
But that, too, was a turning away, into emptiness, into numbness. There was a better choice at hand. I’ll gladly trade choice for destiny and purpose, Daniel had said. Better still to choose destiny and purpose, to negate the tail-chasing pointlessness with a summary act of will. The moral act was the same in either conception of the world. A quiet life ending in a quiet death was a song sung in silence. To have meaning, it had to be heard.
In that light, the choice was easy, inevitable. Mercifully, there was still a chance to choose. He would go home and apply what tools he had to rebuild his family and rehearse his song. There was time for a child, for the treasures of his father’s world. And then, Gaea willing, he would join Daniel on Knossos in the first breath of the new century.
The phone in Deryn’s apartment was a simple videocom, barely smarter than an interactive TV, meant only for local messaging. To call out required the help of a tech in the Sanctuary communications center, which required in turn the permission of both Deryn and the station censor. And though Deryn left him alone with her blessing once the arrangements were complete, the censor remained on the line.
He had been off-net long enough that skylink greeted him with almost effusive cheeriness and a subscriber-update menu when he signed in. There were a dozen messages waiting, including blue-bar mail from Loi, Daniel, and the Vernonia District of the Oregon State Police. “Too many to wade through now,” he murmured. “Give me Loi’s.”
It was so long since Christopher had seen her face that he almost failed to listen, savoring the sight of her.
“I got your message, Christopher. I’m sorry so much has come down on you,” she said. “Take what time you need and do what you need to do. Come home when you can.” There was some tenderness in her tone, if not in the words.
He smiled to himself. “Call reply,” he said.
A dozen or so seconds later, Loi’s face returned to the screen. She was tousled and raccoon-eyed, and a beautiful sight.
“Hello, Loi.”
“Christopher?” She squinted off-screen. “Prodigal lover, it’s after four in the morning.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Never mind. Bad manners to do it, worse to complain. Where are you? How are you?”
“On Sanctuary. I didn’t think about the time difference. I’m not even sure what standard we’re on.”
She did not seem to need any explanation about his whereabouts. “Chris, this is showing a conference call. Who else is on?”
“The station censor. Probably being looped, too—I don’t know if this lag is normal.”
“Special treatment?”
“Not that I know of,” he said. “I’ve missed you, Loi.”
“The house has been empty. Jessie moved out this weekend.”
“She went to John’s?”
Loi nodded, then rubbed an eye. “Kia was here last night, but mostly I’m alone here now. Are you coming back soon?”
“Tomorrow, I think. I haven’t talked to the Entry staff about openings on the shuttle yet. And I may have to borrow a nickel or two for the fare.”
“It’d be worth a nickel or two to have you back,” she said. “Let me know. Chris, have you been avoiding Daniel Keith?”
“Why?”
“He came by the house tonight, late, wondering if I knew how to reach you. He said he had to reach you before seven tomorrow morning. I mean this morning. He must not think me very bright, because he said it three times.”
“Everyone’s off-net up here. You need special permission just to order out for nachos,” Christopher said. “I’m surprised that Daniel tried to get me, though.”
“You’ve been popular with the oddest people. The Oregon State Police called. A lawyer in Portland. Roger Marshall even asked about you.”
“Who’s Roger Marshall?”
“The L.A. developer. He called to talk over a commission for the lobby of Daley Tower. He said he was sorry to hear about your father, wondered how you were doing.”
“I’ll be damned,” Christopher said. “How did he hear about that? Unless they moved faster than I thought—Loi, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to find out what this means, and this phone can only do one thing at a time.”
“You’re still in trouble, aren’t you, Chris?”
“Some. It’ll all sort out. Maybe it already has.”
She knew the optimism was misplaced. “I have a lot of friends. Come on back and let’s fight it together.”
“I like that idea,” he said. “I like it so much I had it myself a few hours ago. Look, when did this Marshall call?”
“Ah—Friday. Three days ago. Chris, I think you’d better talk to Daniel first. It’s almost five o’clock. And he seemed upset. Angry might be a better word.”
“Do you know what he was upset about?”
“No. If I was going to guess, I’d say it had something to do with what happened to Memphis.”
A chill touch prickled the skin on the back of Christopher’s neck. “What happened to Memphis!”
“You don’t know?” Her expression turned grave. “Homeworld hit it with some kind of missile yesterday morning. A hundred and six dead, twenty percent destroyed, two-to-three-year delay, according to some reports. Some are saying she’ll never leave.”
It was there on all the services, just as Loi had described, complete with Takara-supplied pictures of twisted metal and construction plastic. The list of the dead had not been released yet, but the reports showed their bagged bodies stacking up in Takara’s medical stations.
“Oh, no. No, no, no,” he breathed to himself, angry tears welling as he watched. “Not Memphis. Why couldn’t you have just let them go? Why couldn’t you have just let her be?”
With a full day already passed since the event, the live coverage had deteriorated into talking heads debating in a vacuum. No reporters had been admitted to Takara, Memphis had been turned away from prying eyes, and the flow of information from Prainha had tightened down to a trickle. That helped Christopher escape becoming a prisoner of the screen.
“Did you pick this story up for local use?” he asked the censor.
“They did two hours on it yesterday morning.”
While I was still on vacation, he thought.
Time was slipping away, but he was not ready to face Keith, knowing what he must be thinking. Instead, Christopher went back to the mail stack and tried to focus on problems he could touch, and to answer a nagging question raised by his talk with Loi.