Wincing at Light

<– Chapter 14 / Chapter 16 –>

Less than two days removed from watching friends and colleagues purged into vacuum by the destruction of Paraclete, and only scant hours from the betrayal of the memories of Kilgore and Rodriguez so he could purchase the cooperation of EED with plausibility, Ray crunches up the white pebble path from guest cottage to manor house feeling like a combination between some old-time effete British poof and an organ grinder’s monkey in gilded jacket and crimson fez. Except for the bit about the fez, of course. No one wears a fez anymore.

Instead, he’s wrapped in this preposterous evening suit, sleek and black and faintly shimmering as though the matte fabric has been interwoven with strands of blue silk. It pinches his wrists and ankles, clings to his legs, has an annoying tendency to ride up the crack of his ass. In the mirror, it looked to him like a slightly less ostentatious version of a matador’s ceremonial garb, again minus the hat, and with the minor concession that the pantlegs went all the way down to his ankles, thus sparing him the ultimate embarrassment of wearing knickers in public.

Jagiri, striding alongside him, has assured him numerous times that this passes for high fashion in the rarified air of New Holyoke’s highest social circles. He could, he has been told, be a clothing model, he looks so fine. In turn, Ray has informed Jagiri that if he forgets himself and makes such a comment in front of other actual people, Ray will break most of the bones in his fragile little body, one at a time.

All he wants is a comfortable pair of khaki pants with plenty of extra pockets for things like chipboards and loose circuits, maybe some spare rounds of ammunition and a bar of symtec gel explosives. Then a cool cotton t-shirt, yes. And heavy shit-kicker jump boots. That’s what he would like.

He’d kill for the boots, if nothing else.

These things he’s wearing on his feet–nondescript quasi-leather sleeves with hard, flat soles and a polish so vigorous they reflect light in the entire visible spectrum and a dozen other wavelengths science has yet to discover–well, they’re an insult to the entire concept and implied purpose of footwear technology. They give his feet the constant impression that he’s walking on a fine sheet of glass. Glass coated in mineral oil, no less, so that each step is an adventure, an invitation to a pratfall. He doesn’t so much walk toward the manor house as he skates up the rise, glides like a frenetic fog, slips and stumbles as though the terrain is a vast conspiracy of banana peels.

That’s what it feels like, anyway.

He’s glad it’s dark, that the cones of light strung out along the path are dim, so only the vault of stars and his quietly grinning companion can see him flailing.

He suspects this is some sort of subliminal cue that Jagiri alone or Jagiri with Emma colluding has foisted upon him. To wit, in reference to his restricted range of motion and lack of propulsion-enabling traction: gentlemen of the higher social set do not sit around at exclusive dinner parties plotting the best way to take things outside where they will drunkenly kick one another’s asses over implied insults. The clothing prohibits even the contemplation of ass-thumping. It just isn’t going to happen.

It makes him feel all fuzzy inside to think that Emma is looking out for him in this way.

They enter the house from the back, through a pair of ornamentally encrusted wooden doors that are heavy enough to impress Samson. Beyond is a narrow foyer, which Ray’s mother would have called a mud room–except that transplanted back to the Indiana homestead, she would have called it no such thing (except maybe a parlor) and instantly converted it into a fabulously utilitarian sitting room complete with parlor with a grand piano and vases of plastic flowers and comfortable chairs. It’s all dark, intricately carved panels with teardrop chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and brass fittings for the row of coat closets, wall-affixed lamps and lightswitch touchplates. Of course, in Ray’s estimation, this also makes it shamefully ostentatious for a room in which you’re supposed to rub your feet on the mats so you don’t track dirt in onto the carpets.

And this is the rear entrance. He imagines by extension that the front foyer must be studded with gemstones and attended by elegant, half-nude nymphets bearing bowls of rose-petaled water in which guests were invited to dip their snobby little fingers.

With Jagiri to guide him, they slip into a dimly lit corridor banked against the back wall with towering windows that look out over the lazy decline of the back acreage. Along the other wall, spaced at regular intervals, are paintings, sculptures wedged in alcoves and illuminated by subdued spotlights, more than one creaking suit of armor. This makes a bizarre sort of sense. Can’t build yourself an English Farmstead Revival pseudo-castle without the obligatory suits of armor stacked about across the furlongs of marble floors. Their exact placement is probably specified on the blueprints. It’s part of the feng shui.

“It feels like we’ve snuck into a museum after hours,” Ray whispers to Jagiri, and wonders immediately why he’s whispering.

The young man nods. “Not an inappropriate impression. The Whiston family brought many Terran treasures into exile. Much of this portion of the house is unused these days. These galleries are opened to the public a few days a year, much like a museum. And I’ve conducted more than one tour for some of the local children, as part of their studies.” They take a series of series of switchback turns into smaller halls, thumping up and down truncated staircases, past doorways that open into snug, pointless rooms and even more closed doors that hide other rooms Ray can only assume are just as snug and pointless. “The family largely lives upstairs. Staff on the second floor. Frederick and his mother on the third.”

“And Emma in the tower,” Ray adds. “Is that Freudian?”

“Moreso if it were Frederick, I think,” Jagiri answers, winking.

Ray does not allow himself to grin as widely as the jab deserves. “This house has way too many empty rooms.”

“Yes.”

“Why build a house this big, do you think?”

“It was the seat of government early in the colony’s history. I understand that most of the rooms on this level were used as offices by assorted officials.”

“But surely the family, and Fram in particular, didn’t expect it to stay that way? I tell you, this is a big house. This is the type of house a man builds when he plans on having scads and scads of children, and them having scads more, and so on. I guess Fram’s ambitions were directed elsewhere, eh?”

Jagiri looks away.

Ray goes on, “So here’s a curious question, right? Why add the two wings for the Trust when you’ve got all these other empty rooms where you could stack the kids and the offices and the classrooms and whatever else you need to run an orphanage?”

“I could not say, Mr. Marlowe.”

“How many kids did Fram have?”

“There were two. Charles, the father of Emma and Frederick, and Anna, who died very young.”

Ray arches an eyebrow. “Just two? All this space for two kids, the wife and Fram?”

Jagiri stops suddenly in the middle of the hall. He grips Ray’s elbow and stares at him, disturbed, conflicted, the muscles of his jaw bunching and releasing. Finally, he says in a low voice, “Mr. Marlowe, I ask you not to discuss these things in the manor house where they might be overheard, please. You are an intelligent man, yes? A man who has seen much of the galaxy, a man with some sophistication. Hear me when I say to you that such light comments about the family here on New Holyoke are not welcome, especially now with Dame Whiston in such obvious decline.”

Jagiri releases Ray’s arm and drops his eyes, as though he’s afraid he might have offended by speaking so bluntly. “Fram Whiston, you must have heard, was a man with grand visions for what this colony would become. For what his family would become. But it was obvious even in his day, I think, that the Whiston family has begun to decline. These are issues among elite families throughout human history, you understand? The social circle is small, the bloodlines interwoven. Strength breeds weakness after so many generations. It is without intending any disrespect to them that I say they are not who they once were. They are physically fragile, prone to illness of body and mind, wasting away.

“Please, this is why the Whistons need New Holyoke. This generation, Emma and Frederick, could feasibly be the last of the true Whiston root. The Terran branches are poseurs, add-me-ins, foreign stock whose bloodlines have not been so strictly observed. Emma and Frederick cannot go back to that social milieu and follow the path of the rest of the family. It would not be allowed. Their mates would be selected based on pedigree and status, and would represent a genetic flaw that would ultimately be destructive. They would generate weak children.

“On New Holyoke, they might find better genetic diversity. Not the same status, of course, perhaps not individuals of their proper social caste, but people who will be better for the family in general, who will reverse this degeneration.

“I have long thought that Fram perceived this trend; that though he was not capable of reversing it himself without making what would constitute questionable moral decisions, the genetic diversity promised by a colonial endeavor augmented by unpredictable migration patters was of paramount importance. More than the mining, more than the possibility of increasing the family wealth, Fram wanted to save the Whiston family in a way that it was impossible to save it on Terra because social convention wouldn’t allow it. This house is, I think, a reflection of Fram’s purpose. A promise to himself and his children, you see, to return the family’s glory. Do you understand?”

Ray shakes his head. “I understand it’s like some screwed up eugenic experiment.”

“No, not eugenic. Biodiversity, Mr. Marlowe.”

“Old, dead Fram must have been one seriously annoying bastard. I’ll tell you that.”

“I’m almost certain he was. Great men tend to be annoying bastards.”

Ray flaps his hands at Jagiri, to shut him up. “All right. I understand what you’re saying. I promise not to ask insensitive questions about the fall of the house of Whiston. Let’s get moving again, please, before we’re late and make a scene.”

***

But there is no “we” in the scene making. Jagiri leads him down a final corridor lined with a plush crimson runner over shimmering dark marble to a pair of ponderously tall and ornate doors braced with golden knobs, lavishly carved panels and polished to a sheen so fine, Ray can see his reflection in the aged wood. Jagiri turns the knob enough for it to unlatch, then offers Ray a curiously formal bow, face averted, hands pressed together and backs away.

Ray watches him depart toward a cleverly obscured side passage, horrified. “You’re abandoning me?”

“Such is the price of celebrity, Mr. Marlowe.” Grinning, winking, enjoying the torment.

“Chicken.”

“As you say.” More grinning, so wide his head is about to split in half, flop open like a jewelry box. “Your devoted fans await.”

Ray bares his teeth, growls, but proceeds. There’s no legitimate reason to hold back. He’s been through worse, taken nastier, more fortified, more dread-inspiring positions while dodging a skitter and flash of Russoturk weapons’ fire. Hasn’t he?

Cursing quietly, trying to keep his shoes under his feet and his feet beneath his center of gravity, he plunges in, mentally prepared for the obligatory hail of gunfire, a cannonade of rocket-propelled grenades, or at the very least a clamor of unwanted attention and curious stares.

He’s thinking: Objective: single agent covert insertion into hostile or occupied territory.

Standard Protocol Step #1: Obtain latest ground situation intelligence. Debriefing via Jagiri, Check.

SPS #2: Have local contact, sympathetic to your objectives, to provide intel on rapidly changing social and political conditions. Theoretically, support from Emma, Check.

SPS #3: If possible, arrive under cover of darkness via untraceable transport mechanism. Everyone knows he’s staying in the guest cottage, but it is dark, Sort-of Check.

SPS #4: Neutralize any and all target obstacles, individuals or agents which cannot be evaded. Um. Protocol taken under advisement; Possible future action required.

SPS #5: Blend. Blend. Blend.

The door closes behind him, actually slams beneath its thunderous weight. Ray jumps at the sound, grimacing, instantly nailed to the floor by a dozen pairs of eyes, a dozen curious or outraged glances. He smiles an apology, sheepish. Waves to his fans.

Definitely not-Check. Critical mission failure.

Dear John and Bethany Marlowe,

We regret to inform you that your youngest son, pretend-Commander, Gunny Sergeant Ray D. Marlowe, agent of the Federal Space Administration, formerly Allied Forces Marine, was lost in attempting to complete an assigned mission of the utmost importance to the war effort. We wish to extend our deepest condolences and sympathy, but the truth is that he was a dumbass and a certified assclown who could not have carried out his final mission with a more idiotic display of ineptitude if we’d given him a manual.

The dining room is long, seems impossibly so, the size of a Marine barracks. Double bunked, he could stack an entire company in here. Serving tables line the walls, stacked with covered silver platters. More permanent tables are weary with flowers, blossoms of lavender and rose-petaled waterfalls that might be orchids or something more exotic, or even native flora, none of which Ray can attest to because he failed the Natural and Xenonative Botany Instruction module during Basic Training. If it’s not a dandelion, a daffodil or a black-eyed susan, it’s just a wildflower of anonymous sort waiting for some enterprising lad to come along with a lawnmower. More artwork here, wherever it can be crammed, this of the modern variety, meaning that it looks like stuff assembled from clay and Popsicle sticks by third-graders, carried home in crowded backpacks to the delight of mom, ravaged by pre-kindergarten siblings and subsequently glued back together into some vague semblance of its original unrecognizable form and slapped onto the bookshelf above the reach of grubby little hands.

Then there are portraits, perhaps a dozen, of bearded men with piercing blue eyes, swathed in dour suits long out of fashion, pale ladies in shimmering dresses, looking winsome and uncertain. All of them distinctly Whiston, refined, serious, unsmiling. More chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, giving the room a soft-lens glow and gathered shadow uncertainty. The crackle of an autumn fire in a massive hearth against the far wall. In the center of the room, a table long and thin burdened by more floral displays, which Ray studies with some detail because these centerpieces tall and dense, and if he sits there or there, or even right there he might successfully manage to obscure himself from most of the gathered guests.

Shortly, Emma disengages herself from a cluster of elder gentlemen and wanders over to Ray’s side, giving him an excuse to stop gawking and shuffling his feet. She takes his arm just above the elbow.

She’s in blue satin, which complements her eyes. Her hair is pulled up off her shoulders into some contortionists dream of folds and waves, invisible pins and long, protruding spikes like knitting needles poked into the back at provocative angles.

“You look dashing, Commander,” she whispers.

“I feel like a baboon.” He responds stiffly, standing with his shoulders back, almost in a parade-rest pose so he bears as little resemblance to anything simian as possible. “I won’t tell you how you look because the only vocabulary I have for it is not the type that you break out in front of a lady.”

“Tonight, I am most certainly a lady.”

“I’m probably going to embarrass you, then.”

She almost shatters her illusion of sophistication with giggles, but manages to cover her mouth with her hand. “Just promise me that you’ll refrain from dragging any of the other guests outside and kicking their asses if they offend you.”

He nods his agreement, oddly comforted that at least his suspicions with regards to the movement-restrictive clothing were correct.

She continues, “These are mostly gentlemen from the press, and they’d make grand news of it. But they’re generally harmless, this group at least. In return for a history of civility, we like to give them the juicy news bits first. They’re very anxious to meet you and hear the stirring and harrowing tale of our escape.”

“I’m afraid that’s classified information.”

She gives him a small pout. “They’re going to be terribly disappointed if you don’t tell them something exciting. But only exciting, please. Nothing scandalous.”

“What counts as scandalous?”

“Anything that involves punching Frederick or attempting to seduce me.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “I haven’t attempted to seduce you yet. I’ve been a model of restraint.”

“But I’ve been practicing my protestations of maidenly virtue with the understanding that you will eventually. Sooner rather than later, I hope. I’ve practically exhausted my reserves of resistance just practicing.”

“Are you coming on to me?” he asks. “Please be coming on to me.”

“Of course not. We’re in the middle of a dinner party, and I haven’t even made the proper introductions yet.” Reflection, or dramatic pause to be certain she has his attention, then in a small voice, “But ask me again later.”

God, she is driving him crazy.

The proper introductions involve strenuous handshakes with a few burly gentlemen in expensive suits and their equally burly wives–newspaper men, he is told up front by Emma, for which she is awarded a set of playful snarls, as though this was not information they would have had Ray know until it was too late. Even so, he can almost see them taking mental notes on him, studying his movements, his diction, his level of evasiveness, all the time composing snappy prose and block letter headlines. Their wives are fluttery moths who touch his elbows and speak dramatically about the tragedy and the horror and the fact that EED wouldn’t have such a nasty reputation on New Holyoke if there were more men like him to bear the banner of decency. They obviously have no idea what they’re talking about, which is fine with Ray, because it makes it much easier for him to confront their questions with a clumsy yet firm quasi-official statement that any comments he might have on the Paraclete incident were still considered classified information by the military apparatus, at least until the conclusion of the official investigation.

With Emma on his arm, he is able to be charming and polite, but mostly they make it easy on him. They are certainly newspaper men, just as Emma said, but not newsmen. Publishers, executives, plutocrats who enjoyed socializing in the Whiston circle more than breaking any kind of story. Their eyes said they were much more interested in the way Emma clung to him than what he had to say.

After half an hour of wandering from chattering gaggle to limp-wristed clutch to falsely grinning herd, Emma says, “I have to leave you for a few minutes. Can you keep yourself out of trouble?”

Ray glances around, sites the wet bar off to his left. “This isn’t exactly my type of party. But I can manage.”

“I’m preparing a surprise that I hope will maybe make it your type of party.”

He doesn’t know what she means, but to his way of thinking, this should involve a large cake, a great deal of alcohol and Emma in various provocative stages of undress springing out of the aforementioned pastry and onto his lap. This is probably not what she has in mind, so he says, “I think I can handle the intrepid New Holyoke media contingent until you get back.”

“You expected more of a challenge.”

“Honestly, yes.”

Emma presses her shoulder against him. “Just remember they’re still sizing you up. They’re trying to determine what to make of you and how you fit into the Whiston puzzle. That, and there’s no blood in the water yet. If you start to bleed, then the sharks will come.”

“These guys strike me more like whales than sharks.”

“Don’t underestimate them.” She’s serious, looking up at him with wide, warning eyes. “They can do a great deal of harm to my family and the colony if they take a mind to do so. And they wouldn’t hesitate to destroy you if it amused them, or if you gave them sufficient reason.”

Ray touches her cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re so cute when you worry about me.”

“I’m serious.”

“I believe you. And to prove it, regarding this theme of my personal destructions: What have you told them so far? About our escape, I mean.”

“Nothing.”

Ray is thinking about the story he crafted for Colonel Ritchie this afternoon. “It might be best if you kept it that way, at least for now. I can explain later, but let’s just say that you could get me in some pretty significant trouble if the story you told diverged too radically from the one I told EED today.”

“Ooh, blackmail potential.” She treats him to a long, lascivious, studious gaze. “I believe that means I have you completely in my power now.”

So she leaves him, laughing wickedly, skirts the long table and disappears from the room.

Alone, Ray drifts over to the bar, selects a tumbler, ice, starts sorting through the assorted decanters and carafes for scotch. After sniffing at three or four containers, he finds it.

“You should try the whiskey. The scotch tastes like piss.”

Ray tops off his glass and turns around. The man standing beside him is tall, sandy-haired, inexpertly shaven. He’s wearing a soft tweed jacket over slacks, a white shirt, brown loafers. Looks very comfortable for a party which is not the tweed and loafers variety. Or if it was, Ray owes Jagiri a punch in the stomach.

“Believe me, I know,” the man continues amiably. “One of the perks of my profession, you might say. Detailed knowledge of the best complimentary bars and buffets on New Holyoke. This is one of the best, don’t get me wrong, but no one in the house drinks scotch. They stock it just for the guests, for the reporters mostly, who are fools for scotch as a rule. I can never tell if they keep putting out the piss because they don’t know any better or because they know it’s what we prefer.”

He extends a hand. “Thomas Malcolm, Grange Guardian. I missed the introductions, I’m afraid, so I thought I should make them myself before I appeared rude.”

Ray returns the handshake. “Ray Marlowe.”

“Oh, I know who you are.”

He doesn’t imagine for a moment that Thomas Malcolm missed him. More likely, Ray has been buttonholed by some obnoxious hack who didn’t want to share quotes. “You’re a reporter?”

“Reporter, editor, publisher. Smallest daily on New Holyoke. The big time players don’t like to klatch with the newcomers, especially not those of us who have to actually get our hands grubby with the newsgathering. Thought I’d have more luck one on one, man to man, so to speak.”

Uh-huh.

“You’re just some working stiff, right?”

Malcolm tilts his head vaguely, indicating the opposite side of the room. “Damn right, in fact. They’re socializing; I’m working. Been over there talking to Frederick Whiston and some of his devotees since you came in. Trying to get the good stuff before the jackals pick it over.”

Ray follows the roll of his eyes, though it isn’t strictly necessary. He’s been aware of Frederick’s presence all along, just as he was equally conscious of Emma’s deft navigational ability in keeping them constantly apart, preferably with the table between them. Freddy has stationed himself beneath the portrait of one of his ancestors. Same dark eyes, prominent cheek bones, snarling features, but he suffers by such immediate comparisons. Freddy appears wan and insubstantial, underfed, beneath their stern, technicolor images. He’s deeply involved in relating some story that involves a pallid shift of expressions, ranging from snobbish offense to lidded-eye dismissal, punctuated by limp flicks of his wrists.

“I wasn’t aware he’d been released from the hospital,” Ray muses, trying to sound thoughtful. See? No trouble here. Move along.

“Been out since this morning, actually. Rodney Beck, the family physician, pulled him into private care as soon as he could push the paperwork through. He’s trying to cover, naturally. Family’s best interest, of course. Hiding the fact that the young scion is a simpering drunk.”

Ray stiffens. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Malcolm nods, grinning. “Sure. Of course not.”

“So long as we’re clear on that,” Ray responds as distinctly and noncommittally as possible. “I’m really not the kind of guy you want to ask about Whiston family business.”

“See, now I like that. You’re a straight up military kind of guy. Give respect where it’s due, always publicly polite. It’s a shame, really. Frederick could learn a lesson or two from you. He’s making it more than plain that he doesn’t like you very much, though he’s not at all interested in telling us why.” Malcolm rubs his fingers along the side of his face. “Though that’s a nice bruise he’s got along chin, I notice. Injuries sustained during the escape, I’m certain, but I’d be a terrible shame to my profession if I neglected to mention that it looks like somebody cleaned his clock for him. A man who wasn’t careful with his facts could make some unwarranted assumptions about a thing like that, characterize a whole relationship in an unpleasant light.”

Ray’s grip on his tumbler whitens his knuckles until they pop like the crackle of gunfire. He makes himself relax before he does something embarrassing like shatter the glass.

“You really don’t want to talk to me about this.”

“Sure I do. You’re big news, Commander Marlowe. A new and mercurial celebrity in the New Holyoke constellation of stars. It’s been my experience that young studs elevated to such heights desperately want to know what sorts of things others are saying about them, especially those folks who are in a position to cause problems for them.”

“I’m not much of a jealous celebrity type.” Ray forces himself into a convivial expression, all humor and big, smiling teeth. “You on the other hand, Mr. Malcolm, must be very successful, or at least that’s what I gathered from all the impolite things the gentlemen from the other news outlets were saying about you.”

Malcolm blinks at him for a moment, confused or stunned, then smiles widely. “You’ve played this game before.”

Ray merely shrugs.

“That was nicely done, though not very fair. I was expecting some big, dumb EED grunt who would be falling over his own feet to whore himself out to the media.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“True.” Ray jerks his thumb at the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure, whiskey. Straight.” An exchange of glances and Malcolm purses his lips apologetically. “I never touch the scotch. Learned my lesson a long time ago.”

They stand together for a time in silence and Ray mostly attends to his scotch, which is just as bad as Malcolm warned him it would be. They watch people pretending not to watch them, or even more studiously pretending not to be curious about the sorts of things Ray and Malcolm might be discussing. It is more mind numbing than Ray had even imagined.

Finally, Malcolm says, “Can I ask you about the Paraclete disaster?”

“No.”

“How about your relationship with Emma Whiston? She seems awfully fond of you.”

“No.”

“Look, Marlowe, let me be straight with you. I don’t really care much about the Whiston family’s private lives, okay? I don’t care who they’re screwing or what clothes they’re wearing or where they’re investing their fortune, but my readers do care. We’re a small colony where not much happens, and this retarded branch of a great business family is the closest thing to gossip that we’ve got. My readers need something interesting to focus on, and the Whistons are that something, even if they wouldn’t garner so much as an inch of copy on a real planet with real media. They’re not really famous, not the way you think about fame on Terra. They’re names, and they’re locally powerful and they have an interesting history. Now this Paraclete thing is legitimate news. It’s a hard story with serious ramifications for colonial life. If that’s out of bounds, and I can’t even get at it obliquely by probing your connection to the Whistons, I’ve got a big handful of nothing. So give me a break, okay? Understand that no one in this room really cares about airing the family laundry.” Malcolm purses his lips in disappointment. “What can we talk about?”

Ray gives the question a few seconds of thought. “Did the Red Sox play today?”

“You mean baseball?” More confusion. “I guess so. Haven’t seen the wire feed since we went to press this afternoon. I think they were pitching Marshall. Against the Yankees, at New Fenway.”

“Bah. Marshall’s shoulder negates any advantage they might have pulled from the home field. He’ll give them four and a half, maybe five if they’re lucky, but the bullpen is a disaster waiting to happen.” Ray takes another slug of the scotch and scans the room once again, marking the shift in traffic between groups, who seems most interested in talking to whom. It’s more habit than an actual, useful portion of his skillset in this environment. He still isn’t entirely certain who half these people are. “Who’s that older guy with Frederick.”

“Charcoal suit? Big smile? Vague aura of soul-searing evil about him? That’s Townshend Wright. He’s the President, Board of Directors, of Whelemat. The wigs don’t get much bigger around here than those two. In fact, probably ninety percent of New Holyoke’s trade equity is represented in this room. You and I excluded, of course.” Malcolm flips his head back in Ray’s direction, casual and wary. “Do I get to ask a question now?”

“As long as it’s within bounds.”

“What bounds?”

Ray peers at him with his most stark and intimidating glare. “Nothing about bedmates or business which wouldn’t be mine to talk about. Nothing about Paraclete that would fall under the purview of EED’s investigation. Anything else I decide I don’t want to talk about. And if you print anything about me or attributed to me that I didn’t say or starts rumors that I don’t like, you can more than likely expect to receive a clandestine, night-time and probably violent visit in the very near future. How’s that?”

Malcolm swallows hard. After a pause, he says, “Fair enough.”

A longer pause follows, and Ray says, “So?”

“I’m thinking.”

“What’s there to think about? You newspaper guys always have questions.”

“I’m trying to find one that won’t get me killed.” Malcolm clears his throat, grins weakly. “Um, what’s your take on the radical Lilaiken independence movement’s failure so far to take responsibility for the this most recent incident.”

“What does EED have to say about it?”

“They’re not commenting pending the results of their investigation.”

“How have the Lilaikens taken credit in the past?”

“Somebody calls all the major news outlets, gives a shouting, largely political and incoherent monologue, then says they blew up such-and-such a ship in a quadrant with these coordinates.”

“Maybe you haven’t paid your comm port bill.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes. “Like they’d call me anyway. Maybe the wire feed didn’t pay its bill.”

Ray shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Is that a ‘no comment’?”

“That’s an ‘I don’t know’.” He imagines how that will read in the press. HIGH RANKING MILITARY OFFICER ADMITS COMPLETE BAFFLEMENT OVER LATEST DISASTER. Jack Holcomb and the boys at CIU would love that.

“Understand, I’m not really in the intelligence loop around here yet. Maybe they were disappointed with the way you guys broke the last story. Maybe they’re tired of not getting any results when they blab to the media so they’re taking their rhetoric straight to EED instead. Maybe EED is sitting on the message to see if anybody notices–but more likely, maybe EED just forgot to draft an official statement releasing this information to the media rubes. It happens.”

Malcolm’s brow furrows. “Forgot? Do I look stupid to you?”

“Hm. I’m tempted to answer that one, but it isn’t your turn to ask the question.”

“Fine. Do you think I’d really have to depend on official EED tripe to break a story? You’re insulting me.”

“Then maybe no one took credit.”

“Now we’re talking. Wouldn’t that strike you as ominous?”

“Actually, it would strike me as a sign that this movement is growing out of the glorymongering redundancy the act of taking credit implies. Taking credit is always about public reaction, about exposure, generating hype. It’s advertising. The people who deal with incidents like this don’t need a terrorist’s comm call to identify the suspect pool.” Ray hopes fervently that this sounds convincing, because the truth is that he does find it ominous and baffling and annoying. And he wonders why Colonel Ritchie didn’t bother to share tidbits of information like it this afternoon. “Okay, newspaperman, I gave you a freebie. Now it’s my turn: What’s your personal take on the local scene’s sympathies toward the radical Lilaiken movement?”

“The radical movement, as divorced from the moderate political ideology?”

“Sure.”

“Then it’s hardly accurate to characterize the situation as sympathetic at all. A couple of years ago, we’d receive the odd pro-Lilaiken position letter at the paper. Lots of complaints about the way EED handles the shipping lanes, complaints about Forum taxation without a clear local benefit in return. Like most of the frontier colonies, people want to complain about the money taken out of their pockets and the perceived lack of political voice back on Terra, but they don’t think about the fact that being ignored except for the tax burden can be a good thing. We get to mostly run our own affairs and the Forum, the FSA and the EED don’t intervene. The letters stopped about the time the violence began. I don’t think anybody really wants to be associated with that.” Malcolm finishes with a shrug, like more bafflement. “You don’t really think that New Holyoke is a hotbed of Lilaiken politics, do you?”

“Can you think of a reason why I wouldn’t? Because I can think of at least five reasons why I should.”

Malcolm flushes, as though Ray has just insulted him. “That’s hardly fair. Other than the first one and the most recent, we’ve stayed fairly clear of Lilaiken rhetoric, let alone visible presence. It’s a pretty common understanding around here that New Holyoke is incidental to the attacks, despite the fact that the first one happened in our grid space. We’re just as much victims in these events as EED is. If they choose to use our space to set an example, there’s not much we can do about it. But believe me, if the attacks were being coordinated from here, we’d have found out about it.”

“A planet is a big place, Mr. Malcolm. Lots of territory for a few bad people to operate in with little risk of detection.”

“Yes, but also relatively few comm signals to hide their messages in.”

Ray barely nods at his argument. “And fewer resources with which to track the comm traffic, so it’s still a pretty intimidating level of anonymity.”

Malcolm chews on that for a few seconds, then shakes his head again. “Not everyone thinks New Holyoke is complicit in Lilaiken violence.”

“If you mean everyone in human space, I’d say you’re probably right. But if by ‘everyone’ you mean EED, then you’re more than likely wrong. New Holyoke and the frontier worlds are acquiring a very unseemly reputation as a shipping destination. New Holyoke in particular, I would point out, because this is where it all started, and now it has the dubious record of have produced twice as many Lilaiken events as any other frontier system. You might want to alert your loyal readership to the possibility of a shift in trade interest. Terran manufacturers are only going to ship here so long as your planet is an attractive and lucrative market. When it begins to cost more than the trouble is worth, they’ll begin to bail out, which means that the mining operation folds because there are no carriers to haul the ore to market. Settlement folds because no one can get here. Is New Holyoke ready to be completely self-sufficient? If no one ships here and settlement freezes, the Lilaikens win your independence from the Forum by default. If something isn’t done soon, you might just find out what independence from the Forum and its oppressive apparatus really means.”

Malcolm looks at him, suddenly pale. “That sounds like a threat.”

But Ray puts his hands up to stop him, before he takes the thrust too far. “Don’t confuse the opinions of the rank and file with the official position of military or the Forum. I’m just making an observation about the power of public perceptions.”

Relieved, Malcolm exhales a long breath. “Your perceptions might be a little skewed by recent events.”

The problem, Ray has learned, with the really effective terrorist organizations is that they’re good at convincing the people around them that they’re not there, that they’re somewhere else. Some other neighborhood, city, planet. It just makes his job more difficult.

After a time, Malcolm says, “Do you plan to be with us for awhile, Commander?”

“As long as it takes the FSA to figure out what to do with me. Why do you ask?”

Malcolm shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. “I just wonder. Do you mind if I make an observation of my own?”

“Go ahead.”

“I spend maybe more than my share of time around EED guys as part of gathering the news. You want to know what shuts them up faster than anything else? Talking about Lilaikens. Now you, on the other hand, as soon as I bring it up, it’s the only topic you warm to.” Malcolm looks significantly at Ray, like one of them has inadvertently let slip a secret. “On the one hand, that could be a function of your recent harrowing experience, which I would both understand and appreciate. But then I wouldn’t expect you to have such completely formed and coherent opinions on the matter. The fact that you do suggests to me that you’ve given this quite a bit of thought.”

“It’s a long voyage from Strat,” Ray informs him. “Lots of time to think coherently about flying into the teeth of Lilaiken space.”

“Maybe. Can I ask what exactly it was that you did aboard Paraclete? I mean, it isn’t exactly standard procedure for EED to launch a starship with two Commander level officers on board. And you are definitely not the Captain of record for that ship.”

Ray scowls at him. He was so much more happily anonymous when he was just a gunny sergeant. “You’re about to step out of bounds.”

“And I’m not the only one who’s going to be asking that question.”

Which is probably true. Ray says, “And what would you speculate is the answer?”

“That EED has decided it’s time to investigate the Lilaiken incidents a little more thoroughly than has been done in the past, that maybe someone has finally realized that a podunk outpost like the one we have isn’t up to the task at hand because of its insufficient resources. I’d speculate that you were heading up the infusion of investigative talent. Or at least you were, prior to the most recent events.”

“It might not be entirely stupid of you to reach that conclusion,” Ray returns, lowering his voice. He’s pleased to have gotten off with less than half of the truth. “But it would be stupid for you to take that conclusion and print it as though it was verifiable fact.”

Malcolm’s eyes begin to twinkle. “And what do I get in return for choosing not to exercise my rights as citizen and publisher?”

“Freedom from long, agonizing medical rehabilitation for one,” Ray responds, carefully expressionless. “Or, a quiet promise to receive preferential treatment when there is more than just speculation to print.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, you run an article based on my comments which is critical of the Lilaiken position–and I mean a flat-out scare sheet that is blatantly designed to evoke hostility between the financial interests of the population and the Lilaiken ideals. With any luck, it will flush an interesting bird or two out of the thicket.”

Malcolm seems to find this tactic rather amusing. “You’re that desperate for leads

“Yes.”

“Well, then I wish you the best, Commander Marlowe. And I hope you enjoy New Holyoke’s hospitality, because you’re more than likely going to receive it for a long time to come.”

“Thank you for being so supportive.”

Malcolm slaps Ray companionably on the shoulder. “If you knew anything at all, you’d recognize that I just gave you an extremely generous benefit of the doubt. You have a lot to learn about the local socio-political scene. It should be fun watching you blunder through it.”

Ray would like to ask him to explain what he means in greater detail, but they’re out of time. There is a conspicuous shuffling and banging near the entrance into the hall. A handful of domestics scurry from a side passage and peel the doors open. There is Emma, clapping her hands as she enters to gain everyone’s attention.

She is smiling, teeth and gums, her chin high and eyes exultant.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please accept my most sincere gratitude for honoring our return to Blackheath Grange with your presence and for the courtesy you have shown our esteemed guest, Commander Marlowe. The warmth and joy that fills my heart at seeing you all gathered here again is second only in intensity to that which pleases me most of all, which is to announce the unexpected arrival of your true hostess for the evening, my mother Dame Whiston, Juliet.”

As soon as she says it, there is a collective gasp. Ray can’t tell if it’s actual astonishment or just a fabricated but reasonable facsimile thereof, because such a reaction is obviously expected.

Emma bows delicately before them and slips off to the side. Behind her, confined to a wheelchair which is propelled by Amah’s imposing figure, Emma’s mother enters the room. The chair is old, wicker and rattan, with oversized wheels that creak as it moves. The woman seated in it is dwarfed in relation, a wisp of flesh and fabric. She is fine, elegant, pale as bone. Her hair is as white as Michigan snowfall, cut to her shoulders and curled into precise rolls like the eyelashes of sleeping children. Hair complements gown, which is gossamer lace, long sleeved, shrouds her from neck to ankle. It cannot adequately conceal the fact that she is a withered and wasted specimen, that her arms are twigs and her chest thin, reedy, that when Amah urges the chair forward, Juliet Whiston’s head flops forward as though her neck isn’t strong enough anymore to bear its weight.

But she enters, and she waves at her guests and offers them a crooked smile.

At Ray’s side, Malcolm mutters, “This should be surreal.”

Ray glances at him, questioning, but Malcolm only shrugs his shoulders and redirects Ray’s attention back to Emma and her mother. “You’ll see, Mr. Marlowe. Believe me.”

Even from across the room, Ray can detect Dame Whiston scanning, scanning, ultimately settling on him. Emma has her eyes, the same impossible, frozen, glacier blue. Juliet Whiston looks at him, and doesn’t wave, but waggles her pointer finger at him, bidding him to approach.

Meeting the mother, Ray thinks, his knees suddenly weak, like cornstalks after too much rain. He sets his tumbler on the bar and manages a succession of flops and skids and stumbles from one side of the dining room to the other. By the time he reaches her, he feels breathless, terrified, wishing someone would roll a grenade into the room so he could fall on it and spare them all further embarrassment.

But no grenades are forthcoming, and while the other guests stand back and watch him try to melt into the floor, Juliet Whiston traces him with lidded, penetrating eyes.

“You are the one, aren’t you?” She says finally, nearly smiling, somehow satisfied. Her voice is soft, raspy, as ancient and shattered as the woman herself. “I’m pleased to meet you, Commander Marlowe. Very pleased, in fact, since I have been told that you have performed miraculous deeds to bring my children home to me.”

He wasn’t this nervous when he was back in New Mes shuttling generals around the combat grid and charged with keeping them alive. Then again, he’s known more generals than mothers over the past few years, so it makes a bizarre sort of sense.

“Miraculous may be a bit of an exaggeration, ma’am. But I’m happy to meet you, even given the circumstances, and glad to find your health improved.”

“Improved may be a bit of an exaggeration itself, but I am well enough to make a public display of gratitude to my daughter’s rescuer, Mr. Marlowe.”

“Please, if it isn’t a terrible breach of etiquette, call me Ray.”

“It would be shocking, indeed.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief for an instant. “So I will most certainly do it, Ray. But you must still call me Dame Whiston, or people will talk.”

Emma apparently inherited more from her mother than just the eyes.

Behind Juliet Whiston, Amah watches their exchange frowning, her hands clutching the frame of the wheelchair and the tattooed graffiti of her face drawn up into a scowl like a fist. It is a distinctly bad vibe, which Ray feels is the last thing he needs right now.

The old woman continues, “You have arrived at an auspicious time, tragedy notwithstanding. What is today, Amah?”

Growling. “Tuesday, Juliet.”

She laughs, a pleasant chuckle that becomes a cackle of age. “A Terran trapping. Gittungdae, that’s what it is. We make these concessions to off-worlders and aliens, Ray. You can take a person out of their home, cast them into a new solar system with more hours, less hours, more days, fewer months, but you can’t take them out of time. They won’t stand for it. Time and season, the drag of age, the spirit of being and particular place are stamped onto the soul, those things never change.

“But Tuesday it is, which means that Wednesday follows and Thursday and Friday after, and then sundown, and at sundown, what?”

Juliet casts her eyes over Ray expectantly, arching one eyebrow. He doesn’t know the answer she wants from him. Confused or exasperated, she prompts him. “Dao Maed Vitouri. Mourning Day? The Festival of Loss?”

The gaze shifts to Emma, disappointed and faintly accusatory. “Have you told him nothing?”

“It’s only been a day, mother,” Emma says quietly. “He’s hardly been off the estate to learn such things, as we’ve had our hands full in settling the children and attending to Frederick’s condition, not to mention…”

Juliet abruptly shifts her attention back to Ray, waves him forward and leans in as he approaches, so that her elbows are practically resting on her knees. She speaks in hushed, confidential tones. “This is what I mean, you see? The death of courtesy–that is what the frontier is, what it ultimately means. You are the one, and even so they neglect to share with you even the smallest details about what things mean. This is what the frontier does; it strips us down to essentials, imposes upon us that which is raw, sun-blistered and soil-rhythmic. Tuesday, indeed, and that’s all you’ve been told! Shame. But don’t mention a word of it, young man, not to any of the jackals in this hall. It’s our secret.”

Straightening her spine, raising her voice. “Emma, darling, I tell you that you’ve been derelict in your social duties. In the morning, very first thing, you will make it a priority to acquaint our friend Ray, to whom we owe such a debt of gratitude, with his new world. Is that understood? In the morning, if not sooner. Yes, yes, I remember what it was to be young, to drink life, to ramble about at all hours and then fall resisting into sleep as though it was a burden. Take him into your hands and show him everything.”

But she jabs a sudden, sharp finger at Ray, glaring, imperious, fierce. “But mind that you take her only by the hand, Mr. Marlowe.”

He is completely bewildered. Ray withdraws a step, blinks to maintain some sense of composure. “Of course, Dame Whiston.”

Then Emma slides between them, obscuring her mother’s view of him, all gentle smiles and soft words. “Don’t worry, mother. I’ll make certain he’s acquainted with everything, just as you say.” She exchanges a flurry of muted expressions with Amah, a silent communication that concludes when Amah nods. “Perhaps you should take a few moments and greet the other guests now? Mr. Penberthy is desperate to see you, I know.”

Juliet makes a snorting noise. “That old scoundrel! Is he still alive?”

“Why don’t you go see for yourself? We only have a few minutes before dinner is supposed to begin.”

They roll away, Dame Whiston chattering like a loon, Amah both pushing her forward and hovering over her, off to harangue the unfortunate Mr. Penberthy. Now at Ray’s side, Emma slumps, pressing her weight against him as though she would fall if he wasn’t there to catch her.

Emma’s mother. Juliet Whiston. She must be all of fifty years old, and absolutely batshit crazy.

“I’m sorry,” Emma says after a few moments. “She seemed stronger up in her room, when we were dressing her for the evening. I really thought she’d get through dinner without embarrassing herself.”

Ray still doesn’t know what to say, and the only word that pops into his mind is the one Malcolm gave him. Surreal.

But Emma shakes her head, gathers herself and reassembles her public display of smiling gaiety. “I need to speak with the kitchen staff and have them begin seating the guests. Amah will take responsibility for mother in the meantime.” She lifts her face to Ray, eyes shining again, but her mouth is hard, trying to curl into a frown. “She likes you, you know. I haven’t seen her so animated in months, possibly in years. She thinks you’re smashing.”

“I’m glad.”

Which probably ranks right up there with one of the stupidest after-meeting-the-mad-mother comments of all time. Rather impressive actually, given the fact that in his experience most mothers were certifiably insane to one degree or another.

Emma must be scoring him for effort though, because she winks and the smile softens a bit into something less obviously forced. “Just remember that. As the guest of honor, you get the spend the evening at her right hand.”

***

The food is actually quite impressive.

Pheasant, lamb, filet mignon. Chilled salads and exquisitely fresh assortments of vegetables, which is something Ray can appreciate in a boyhood Hoosier nostalgia sort of fashion after months and months and months on end of canned, tepid imitations of grown green foods. Lively colors, interesting arrangements, curious flavor interactions. If he actually knew his way around a kitchen beyond being able to find the coffee pot, he suspects he would be devastated by the culinary art in evidence.

Instead, he knows only what his stomach likes, and it seems to like all of it, to make regular attempts to climb with breathless anticipation up the shaft of his esophagus and try to peer out his mouth every time the doors to the kitchen swing open and some new item is brought out, be it a spinach noodle casserole or obscenely jiggling iced gelatin dessert.

He sits at the corner of the long table, with Juliet Whiston to his left and Emma across from him. Townshend Wright, the Whelemat president, is seated to his right and Frederick Whiston beside his sister. Ray suspects there is some arcane but logical order to the rest of the seating arrangements, something having to do with social relationships and hierarchy–mostly because Thomas Malcolm is shifted way down at the other end, occluded by bushels of towering centerpieces–that Ray could figure out with a piece of scratch paper, a pencil and an advanced degree in higher mathematics.

Amah stands watch immediately behind the high back of Dame Whiston’s chair, still scowling, her dark eyes alternately scanning the guests and her employer, her heavy arms directing the traffic of domestics as they serve and gather dishes and keep the wine glasses filled. Which should, in Ray’s estimation, keep Frederick happy at least. Freddy, who has two days of dry docking to make up for, has plunged from wine, to gin and tonic, to vodka, as though he’s searching for the vivacity the occasion demands, but all he seems to find is a sort of brooding, heavy-browed depression. His plate is clean, empty, dancing with light reflected from the chandelier.

The conversation hums around them, light and airy, punctuated with laughter and the tink of silverware and glass, the cacophonic orchestral accompaniment of another world spanned by dimensional barriers and space-time boundaries that cannot be crossed.

“Dao Maed Vitouri,” Juliet Whiston says after a time, her soft hand on Ray’s forearm. “The Festival of Loss. You should go. Emma should take you. It’s very auspicious.”

Ray studies her hand, blue veins wriggling and pulsing like worms beneath the alabaster veneer of her skin. He looks away, raises his head so that he can watch her eyes, which he prefers because they are clear, lucid, familiar.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he says. “This is a colonial holiday?”

“Holy day,” Juliet says, stressing each word. “Holy days. From sundown on Friday to sundown on Sunday. Asima Ephendae etri Foridae asimen. That is the law. You’ll see. The town makes a grand spectacle of the holy days.”

“Think Christmas,” Towshend Wright says beside him in a gruff baritone. He looks sidelong at Ray, swirling the remains of his wine around in his glass, bored or disdainful. “Lanterns, pleasantries, gifts for the children. We’ll shut down the mine for three days. It’s very Roman Catholic.”

“It is not Catholic,” Amah rumbles at him, disapproving.

“Distinctly Catholic,” Wright counters. “In a medieval sense. The law mandates that all secular operations close. Equinoctal celebration is authentically human, apparently moreso than fiscal responsibility.”

Ray can only shift from Wright to Amah to Juliet, baffled. Seeing him, Emma grins, touches her lips with a pale linen napkin. “Mr. Wright is correct when he says that it is the law that we close the mines for the Festival. It makes him grumpy, so that he has a tendency to overstate his case, I’m afraid. He does considerable violence to the truth with his Christmas analogy.”

Wright makes a disgusted noise like he’s going to protest, but stifles it.

Emma goes on, “Dao Maed Vitouri is Dag Maoudi in origin, at least the language and basic concept. Remember, I told you about the Whiston family’s history with Amah’s clan. We have at times over the years adopted Dag Maoudi customs, phrases, modes of communication. Grandfather Fram was a particularly astute student of the culture. For the original Dag Maoudi, it was an autumnal festival, a transition from the fattened summer growing season to the bitter depredations of winter.” Emma glances up to Amah, who nods her approval, so she continues. “It made sense, given the mythological underpinnings, that this also became a time of remembrance, of mourning warriors lost in tribal wars during the year and reflecting upon the time of peace to come. The Dag Maoudi did not make war in the winter. Instead, they gathered food, built homes, mended clothing, made love and babies, and when spring rolled around again, the villages were alive with children, flowers, grunting pigs and squawking birds. Dao Maed Vitouri was all of these things, commemorating the dead, recognizing the burden of the immediate future, celebrating the eternal rebirth that would follow their travails. It was a celebration of what it meant to be Dag Maoudi in a world free from any influence that was not their own.

“When the Fandalay made planetfall on New Holyoke, it had been just over two years since the first colonists had departed from Terran space. Two years of hoping and dreaming, catastrophe and fear. Interstellar travel had more risk in those days. It was not a light undertaking, transporting so many settlers from star to star. Some died in transit. There were accidents, incidents, disasters. Some were born, still nursing at their mothers’ breasts, extra-solar children without planets, homes, starfields to call their own.

“There are people who argue still that Grandfather Fram held the Fandalay in orbit for three weeks not charting the stars, as his log claims, or making final preparations, but waiting, waiting for dawn on the autumnal equinox before herding the congregation into shuttles and dropships. It took all day to ferry them, and it wasn’t until sundown on Friday, asima Ephendae, that they stood together, at last, on the virgin soil of a new world.

“And Fram gathered them and said that they would make no labor for two full days, that instead they would reflect upon their companions who had been lost along the way, and they would mourn them and remember all the things those people had done and contributed for the good and the life of the colony. And then they would think about the children, the newborn, the Placeless as he called them. And from the Placeless, the unhomed, they would take hope.

“On Sunday evening, grandfather planted the first pines along the cliffs, one sapling transported from Terra for each of the children born in transit, as a promise to them especially that they would no longer be Placeless, but rooted, human, bound to the land and the sea, embraced by the arms of the world they would make. Dao Maed Vitouri reminds us that we are not just a colony, but a people, a clan, our past and futures all bound up together with this world, New Holyoke. We remember what makes us human.”

Juliet Whiston listens closely, and claps her hands together softly, her face aglow. “Oh, yes. The Festival is such an auspicious time. So many don’t understand anymore; they choose not to remember to roots that run deep. But the Whistons remember. I remember.” She leans in conspiratorial fashion toward Ray, almost upsetting her wine glass in the process. Her voice drops to a throaty whisper. “I can tell you about my first Festival, young man. I remember it clearly, in every detail.”

“From when you were a child?” Ray asks. He’s trying to keep up with her dopplering intuitive leaps, but senses himself falling short. It’s a territory without a map.

But Juliet giggles like a little girl. “Of course not, silly. My first adult Dao. Oh, I was seventeen or eighteen Terran years then. Years after I had stepped off the Morrigu, wooed to New Holyoke by the Trust and courted by a young man whose name I will not say now. Eighteen and splendid in a fine, taffeta gown, silk and lace, and my hair long. Glorious beyond your contemplation. There were streets and side avenues, they shimmered with lanterns hung from poles, candles in windows and littering doorstoops. Everything was flicker and flicker and dim like a great bonfire overhung the city. And there was singing in the plaza beneath the memorial, gentlemen young and old in dark suits and shining shoes, lined along the green–”

Behind her, Amah looms, settles her fists on Juliet’s frail shoulders. Pats her, shushing. “That’s enough, my dear Juliet. You’re going to bore poor Mr. Marlowe. You were very beautiful then. You are still beautiful. These things he can see.”

“Of course he can see!” the old woman snaps. “But he doesn’t know. You’ve told him nothing. Why bring him unless you’re going to tell him? You’ll wait until it’s too late.”

There is a collective pause; the Whiston guests strain their necks in curiosity at Juliet’s intensity. Ray senses them watching, fascinated, titillated, alarmed.

He wants to hush her too, before she creates a spectacle. Emma, her back straight, eyes wide, appears ready to spring from her chair, but doesn’t move.

Juliet struggles with her briefly, but Amah is relentless, drags her away from the table.

“You’re just going to exhaust yourself, Dame Whiston,” Amah says, chiding but firm. “This evening has perhaps been too taxing for you.”

“I don’t want to go yet. I haven’t told him about Charles. Charles and the mhuruk-a.”

Amah spins her about so that they face one another, Amah gripping the sides of the chair, bent at the waist, confronting Juliet Whiston as though she was a precocious child. “He doesn’t want to hear you tell of Charles. We will go to back to your room, I think. Bid your guests good night.”

But Juliet ducks beneath her arm, gives Ray a wicked grin and wink. “I sucked his cock, Ray. I sucked all their cocks, and then I let them fuck me. It’s the spirit of the place.”

For a moment, stunned silence fills the room, conversation and glasses stilled. Someone he doesn’t see inhales sharply. Ray feels their eyes on him, and alternately on Juliet Whiston, too shocked to do anything but observe. And Ray, he too can only watch, paddling along out of his depth. It is a complete nightmare.

He implores Amah, unspeaking: Please, get her out of here.

Frederick, muttering curses, is the one who finally intervenes. He lurches unsteadily to his feet, flushed and bitter, wine glass in hand. “Bloody hell, Emma, how long are you going to let this go on? Just tell him, for God’s sake. He’s going to find out soon enough…or would you rather sit there and see our mother made the fool for this gathering of vultures?”

He glares down at Emma, who stares at the remains of her dinner, ashen, unseeing. She no longer looks as though she’s coiling to leap to her mother’s rescue. The spring inside her has snapped, and she slumps.

“Sit down, Frederick,” Amah barks, her voice edged and steel. “There has been enough embarrassment already.”

“Embarrassment?” He hisses back. “Is that all? Maybe this family needs a bit of embarrassment.” Frederick spins his head toward Ray, frowning, smiling, savage–all of those at once, as though he can’t settle on the appropriate expression for such a disaster. It makes him look mad, like he’s raving. “What do you think, Mr. Marlowe? Do you think this family could use another rescue? A rescue from itself, perhaps? From our own pomposity?”

“I think you should sit down,” Ray says. You murderer. Mass murderer. Killer of children.

“Or what? Or you’ll make me sit down again?” He laughs bitterly and shuffles over to stand behind Emma. “I don’t really care what you think, Ray. You don’t know enough to think anything yet. You haven’t been told. Or aren’t you paying attention? Our misguided mother has been trying to tell you all night, but you refuse to listen, to heed what is in your best interest. Call her mad if you want, but at least she is direct; she recognizes what is essential. This is a big affair, you understand, plotting when you will be told and how much. How you will be told.”

In a fit, like sudden rage, Frederick hurls his glass against the wall where it shatters, spraying glass and leaving behind a dark, purple stain.

“I’ll save everyone the trouble, eh? Tell you man to man about the Dao. You’ll like that, I think. Direct, factual, blunt. Very military. We understand things, you and I, on a mannish level. None of that pleasant and fluttering delicacy for us. It’s hardly sporting for you not to know, really, considering how close you’re becoming, with sweet, little Emma.” He drops his hands onto Emma’s shoulders, and she winces at his touch. Frederick casts his voice louder, including the entire room in his rambling assault. As if he didn’t already hold their attention. “Show of hands, ladies and gentlemen, who doesn’t know about the Dao?”

No hands, stony, shocked, glitter-eyed expressions. Townshend Wright chuckles.

“Tell him, tell him!” Juliet crows, peeking around the obstruction of Amah’s body.

But Amah takes a step toward him, darkly menacing. “Frederick. That’s enough.”

He ignores her, and his pale, broad hands gently knead the Emma’s bare shoulders, his fingers flicker along her neck. Emma stares at nothing, her mouth a thin line like she’s swallowing shame.

And Frederick smiles, pure malice. “Spirit of the place, Ray. That’s the meaning of the Dao. Sweet, soft, precious Emma knows all about the spirit of the place, the mhuruk-a. All the Whiston women do. It’s why everyone comes. Everyone comes and everyone comes, hah! They line up around the block, all the way down the street for a taste of my little sister, just as they did for my mother. My grandmother. Don’t you think that makes me proud?”

Ray stares at him, unable to lock in, unable to feel anything but a profound numbness. What the–? And Frederick goes on, stroking Emma’s shoulders, her neck, ringing his fingers around her throat as she hangs her head and everyone watches. Townshend Wright, flushed and sweating, watches too, his eyes fixed and shining, his mouth open in a perpetual chuckle of delight. Ray stares at him in turn, and it’s like his eyes are bulging, ready to burst, burning. Wright has an erection the size of weather satellite straining the thin fabric of his trousers.

“Hey,” Frederick says at last. “You’ll have a good time. I promise. The Whiston family will make absolutely certain you do. Front of the line, right, Emma?”

It’s all he can stand. He might not understand this, what is happening around him, why everyone sits quietly and lets it happen. He might not understand their precious Dao or their social rituals. And he doesn’t care.

Ray pushes his chair back and rises.

Madly cackling, Juliet Whiston barks, “Clear a space! We’ll start early! Mhuruk-a! Mhuruk-a!”

He ignores her as he goes past, pausing only to spare Amah a glower of disgust because she saw this coming, because she could have stopped it, should have. Didn’t.

Then he’s standing at Emma’s side, face to face with Frederick Whiston, breathing pungent and recycled alcohol fumes.

Calmly, almost preternaturally so, he says, “I know what you did. I know, and I’m going to see you punished for it. You want to speak bluntly? That’s fine. The only reason you’re still free to walk about, causing harm, hurting those around you, is because I don’t have the information I need to put you away. I don’t have it, but I’ll get it. You can count on that. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s coming for you. I’m coming for you. So you can take your hands off of her and shut your mouth, or you can keep going, keep hurting her, and I’ll put paid to your account now, evidence or not. Your choice.”

And he’s ready, right now, despite the consequences and without any evidence to support him. It would give him great pleasure to snap Frederick Whiston’s spine at this moment. So he could never hurt Emma or anyone else again.

Frederick does not move at once, does not seem to do anything at all.

“Take your hands off of her,” Ray whispers, so low and harsh and hissed only the two of them can hear it.

Frederick blinks at him as if the command is beyond comprehension. Unthinkable. But he meets Ray’s growling, simmering violence with a steady gaze, his voice subdued, almost apologetic.

“It’s for your own good, Ray.”

But he moves his hands, which is good, because Ray isn’t sure how much longer he can restrain himself from killing someone. He withdraws, puts several paces between them, until he’s bumping into the wall. But Frederick Whiston has ceased to exist in Ray’s universe. All he knows is Emma, shamed, horrified, aching. He bends toward her, takes her small hands from her lap and pulls her to her feet. She doesn’t look at him, and that hurts most of all, because it feels like he has failed her.

Without another word, Ray casts his arm around her shoulder and pulls Emma from the room.

At his back, Dame Whiston–mad, crazy, fragile Juliet–laughs and laughs until her voice sounds strained and broken, like the distant echo of tears.

<– Chapter 14 / Chapter 16 –>

Filed under: A Vessel for Offering Tagged: | A Vessel for Offering, blog novel, blook, blovel, Darren Hawkins, science fiction