The first message from the Oregon State Police informed him that there’d been a fire on the ridge, that his father could not be located, and would he contact Detective Brooks with any information he might have? The second, the one with the receipt tag, was only a day old, and a bit more terse. An investigation into William McCutcheon’s disappearance had begun, and Christopher’s participation was considered crucial—would he please make himself available within the next forty-eight hours to answer questions?
But still no fugitive warrant or grand-jury subpoena, which meant no body. Which meant no way for Marshall to know that William McCutcheon was dead—except hearing it from either Allied or Homeworld.
Christopher could not tap DIANNA from orbit, and he was not welcome in Sanctuary’s library, which probably didn’t contain the data he needed in any case. But he sent a query through to Codex, a subscription information service, and had an answer in a few minutes: Roger Marshall was a member of the Diaspora advisory committee.
Surprised as he was by that discovery, it explained plainly enough how Marshall knew. But the rest of it made no sense. Was there some kind of message in Marshall calling Loi? An apology? A confession? Or just a bit of carelessness? Christopher could not make the picture come together.
The clock caught his eye, warning him that he was running out of time to reach Keith. Keith’s message gave him a clue what to expect: It was short and foul, beginning with “You shit-mouthed son of a bitch—” and going downhill from there. It was time-stamped several hours before Loi would have seen him; Keith’s emotions had apparently cooled, though his judgments had likely hardened at the same time.
In the end, Christopher could not let those judgments stand unchallenged. He was surprised to find Keith on the move, in his flyer rather than his bed. But Keith’s cold tone and hard words were no surprise. “Fag off. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Fine. Just listen. This is the truth: I only just heard about Memphis. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Do you think I’m that big an idiot? You don’t get another chance.”
“How many ways can I say it? I feel sick about Memphis. I didn’t do it, I didn’t know about it, and I didn’t want it to happen.”
“This is Dan Keith you’re talking to. I know you, remember? Sorry. Your eleventh-hour conversion fails to convince.”
“Daniel, I know where the last verse of ‘Caravan’ came from now. And it wasn’t a lie.”
That slowed him—Keith blinked confusedly. “What do you mean?”
“Daniel, read my lips: I didn’t do it.”
A blank stare turned to a hateful glare. “You did it to me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They’re not taking me. They’re not taking me, and it’s your goddamned fault. Because of your fucking father. Because I thought friendship fucking counted for something. They’re not taking me, do you understand? Because of you I’ve got to stay here.” The flyer beeped an out-of-lane alarm at Keith, and he slammed his palm against the dash. “Shut up!”
“What are you talking about? Memphis isn’t going anywhere. And you weren’t going on Memphis in the first place.”
“Fuck it,” he said sullenly.
Christopher did not understand what had just happened. “I’m coming back to Houston tomorrow. If you’re in trouble because of me, I want to help.”
“You, help me?” Keith’s snicker was nasty.
“I haven’t done anything against the Project. Not one thing,” Christopher said. “But they’ve done to me. They killed my father and stole his body. They took away my job, screwed up my career, and helped me screw up my family—not that I needed much help in that department. And do you know what? I still want them to make it.
“They were wrong to be afraid of me. I was wrong to duck my tail and run. That’s over. I’m coming back, and I’m going to stand toe-to-toe with Dryke or anyone else I have to until reality sinks in. And if I need to scrap for you at the same time, I will.”
Keith was silent, his eyes on the road.
“What’s going on, Daniel? Why are you up at this hour of the morning?”
When Keith finally spoke again, his voice was muted. “I don’t know why the hell I believe you,” he said. “I must be as big an idiot as they make, I guess.”
“Sorry. The line forms behind me.”
“I don’t know why I’m telling you anything,” Keith said, rubbing his cheek roughly. “There isn’t anything you can do to help me. And there won’t be anyone here to talk to by the time you arrive.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re shutting down the training centers. All the small fry are being let go. They’re sending half the talent to Prainha, including me. The other half—four hundred people—is going up to Memphis. They’ve been flying out all night. You can guess why we’re needed in Prainha—they’re shipping people upstairs, too.”
“Why?”
Keith turned his head away to the right and drew a ragged breath. “Vincenza told the press that we’re sending technicians and engineers to help with the reconstruction, management to inspect the damage. That’s bullshit. I know the list. It’s the fraternity. And I can’t get anyone to admit it, but I know they’re not coming back.”
“That’s crazy. Where can they go?”
Keith’s gaze was faraway and sad. “Tau Ceti.”
Christopher gaped. “In what?”
“You really don’t know, do you?” Keith said, turning back. “Memphis isn’t hurt. Not that badly. But they’re not going to take any more chances. They’re going to move her. Everyone knows that. The only question is how far. I think they’re going to load her up and light her up the first chance they can, and not look back.” His mouth twisted into an acerbic smile. “That’s what I’d do, if I was Sasaki. And she’s at least as bright as I am.”
His own future vanishing with his friend’s, Christopher found himself hollow and numb. “Why are you going to Prainha?” he asked finally.
“Because I’m like you. I want them to make it no matter what they do to me,” he said. “I’m almost to the gate, Chris. I can’t stay on.”
“Wait—how’s the Houston staff getting to Memphis?’”
“Through Technica, I think. On the big bus. Jesus, Chris, you’re not going to try—you don’t think you’ll get near them, do you?”
“Why not? How many stowaways on Ur?”
“Sixteen. Trust me, they all had better plans than this.”
“Things are going to be crazy on Technica and Memphis both. It’s the last days of Saigon, man. And I think I ought to be able to pass myself off as a Project archie, don’t you?”
A long hesitation. “No,” Keith said. “Too many people from here know about you and Jeremiah.”
“Then—”
“Shut up. The Munich people are going through Horizon,” Keith continued. “You’ll have a better chance there, as a Houston staffer caught away from the center when the orders came through.”
Christopher had run out of words. “Thanks. You didn’t owe me that.”
“I know,” Keith said. “I said a better chance. Your chances are still piss-poor. Do me a favor, will you? Try not to let me find out if you make it. I want to be able to think it came out either way, depending on my mood.”
“Sure,” said Christopher, his throat hot.
“I’m up. Time to go. Have a life, huh?”