". . . and while Hartmann's confession makes no explicit allegations, many leading figures on the Index are surprised that the Security investigations have ended with Hartmann and his close associates. Is vengeance the motive, as Hartmann claims? Or is there something deeper and darker behind this whole business?"
Even as the commentator finished, Lever was through.
"Dan? Is that you? Good. . . Look I want you to arrange an exclusive interview with EduVoc. Usual terms. We have the right of veto . . ." He listened a moment, then huffed out irritably. "You think that's wise?" Again he listened. "No. Of course not! There's no link whatsoever!" He took a deep breath, calming himself. "Look, Dan, all I know is that I'm sick to death of this shit . . . this innuendo. I want it ended, right? If you can't get veto, we go ahead without and sue the bastards if they play any tricks on us."
Kennedy's face was on the screen now, a kind of sad dignity in his expression as he read out Michael Lever's speech. But all the old man saw was its smug self-righteousness, its falseness. You, he thought. You're the bastard who did all this! Yes . . . the more he thought about it, the more he realized what had happened. And maybe . . . well, maybe Kennedy had even arranged this little stunt. To win support. To make martyrs of his young men and turn a losing position into a winning one.
As soon as he'd had the thought he was convinced of it. It made perfect sense, after all. Michael's death—like Kustow's—served no one but Kennedy.
Finishing his call, Charles Lever put the comset down, laughing sourly. He could prove nothing yet, but given time he'd make the charge stick. First, however, he had to clear his own name and turn opinion around. And if that meant canning his feelings of betrayal, he would do that. He'd act a part. And in time, maybe, he would get his son back. Not the son he'd had. No, nothing could bring that back now. But something. A son in name. Yes, he'd have that much.
KIMWOKESUDDENLY, kicking the coyer away from him, his naked body sheened in sweat. He had been dreaming. Dreaming of his time in Rehabilitation.
He had been back there, in the Unit, the night that Luke had died, feeling that same tightness in his chest, that same awful, devastating sense of loss.
He sat up, setting his feet down on the warm, uncarpeted floor, then took a long, shuddering breath. The memory was so powerful, so vivid, that he had to remind himself where he was. Rebecca. Meeting Rebecca again had brought it all back. She had been there that night, along with Will and Deio. And the bird. The dead bird . . .
Five of them, there'd been. Claybom. Escapees from that vast, uncharted darkness beneath the City's floor. Each one of them a product of the "Program"; an argument against the old saying that Clay was Clay and could not be raised.
Yes, he could see them even now as if they sat about him in the darkness. Deio, dark-eyed and curly-haired, to his left; the big, North European lad, Will, lolling beside him, the fingers of one hand combing through his short blond hair. Across from them sat Luke, his strong Latin looks reminiscent of an ancient Ta Ts'in emperor, a restrained, almost leonine power in his every movement. And finally Rebecca, silent, thoughtful, defensive, her oval face cupped between her hands as she stared back at Kim.
Slowly his breathing calmed. Slowly the ghosts faded from the room, until he alone remained. He leaned across, switching on the bedside lamp, then stood, looking about him, refamiliarizing himself with the tiny room. Anchoring himself to the here and now.
It was some time since he had dreamed so vividly. Some time since he had felt such fear, such loss, such longing. It was four years now since he had left the Unit, and in all that time he had never once looked back. Not that he'd forgotten those times. No, for it seemed he was incapable of forgetting. Rather, it was as if he had built a wall about them. A wall his conscious mind refused to climb.
Until now.
He went across to the tiny galley and stood at the sink, sluicing himself down, letting the cold water run down his face and chest and arms. And as he did he looked back again, remembering.
Rebecca. What did he remember of Rebecca?
Mostly her intensity, and the way she used to look at him, her dark eyes staring relentlessly, her whole face formed into a question. She had such a strong, intense face. A face perfectly suited for austerity and suffering. She was always the last to understand Deio's jokes; always the last to smile or laugh.
One would have thought that their shared experience would have bound them tight, yet she had always been the outsider among them,
even after what had happened. And yet he had felt drawn to her even then—to the vulnerability he had sensed beneath that facade of imperturbability. Forgetting nothing, he remembered her words clearly, as if she had spoken them only yesterday. Recalled how angry she had felt at being "cheated":
"It's all just as Luke said. A trade. A crude exchange. Our lives for what we can give them. And the rest—all that pretense of caring—is nothing but hollow words and empty gestures."
Did she still believe that? Or had she forgotten what had happened back then? Last night, talking to her, it had been hard to tell. She had seemed so different; so outward and self-assured. But was that simply another mask?
After Rehabilitation she had signed on for three years with the giant Cos Vac Company as a commodity slave, working as a Technical Design Consultant, but had bought out her contract six months early to take up an offer from SimFic. She had worked for fifteen months in their East Asian arm, then had moved here three months back, reporting directly to Campbell.
She had done well for herself. To all intents and purposes she was her own boss; a free woman, defining her own aims, carving her own path up the levels. Yet standing there, listening to her, watching her laugh and smile, Kim had felt that, beneath it all, something was missing. Or was it memory playing tricks? Was it simply that he remembered how vulnerable she had been that day they had taken Will and Deio? Was it simply that he could see her still, sitting there alone in the common room, desolate, her tiny, doll-like hands trembling, afraid that they would come for her too?
Kim straightened up, studying himself in the mirror above the sink. Maybe he was wrong. After all, he himself had changed a great deal since those days. Four years. It wasn't long, but a lot could happen in that time.
He turned slightly, frowning. Something, perhaps the play of light on the water, reminded him suddenly of how the dream had begun. He had been in the pool, floating on his back, staring up at the ceiling, at the red, black, and gold of the ancient Tun Huang star map.
He narrowed his eyes, remembering. Slowly the colors melted, fading into black, while all about him the edges of the pool misted into nothingness. And suddenly he was alone, floating on the surface of the great ocean, a billion stars dusting the darkness overhead.
There was a moment's peace, of utter, perfect stillness, and then it happened.
With a noise like a vast sigh the surface of the water shuddered and became a massive field of earth; of moist, dark clay that stretched to the horizon. He began to struggle in the soft, dark earth, but the more he struggled the more the clay clung to his limbs, tugging at him, slowly sucking him down into its black, suffocating maw.
He cried out, and woke, on his back at the bottom of a deep, dark well. It was still and silent. Far above him the moon sat like a blinded eye in the center of the sky. Lifting his hand, he saw it appear far above him, like a vision, floating there in the darkness, the fingers groping for the light.
There was a noise nearby. A scrabbling, scratching sound. Turning, he saw, part embedded in the curving wall of the well, the faces of his friends Will, Deio, and Luke. From the clay beneath each face a pair of arms extended, hands clawing blindly at the clay that filled each eye, each choking mouth.