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Either way, Oakes wanted her presence. That gave her a wedge into the power she needed. Something still nagged at her, though—the one fear above all other: What if he does love me?
Once, she had thought she wanted him to love her. There was no question that he was the most interesting man she had ever met. Unpredictably terrifying, but interesting. There was much to be said for that.
Will I destroy him?
The printer finished producing the Oakes bio. She folded it, crossed to the mandala looking for a place to conceal the thick wad of Shipscript. The mandala was fixed solidly to the bulkhead. She turned and glanced around the cubby. Where to hide this?
Do I need to hide it?
Yes. Until the right moment
The divan? She crossed to the divan and knelt beside it. The thing was fixed to the deck by bolts. Could she call a serviceman? No . . . she didn’t dare let anyone suspect what she was doing. Gritting her teeth, she put two fingers on a bolt and twisted. The bolt turned.
Strength has its purposes!
The bolts removed, she lifted the end of the divan. My! It was heavy. She doubted that three men could lift it. She slipped the text under the divan, restored the bolts, twisting them tight.
Now for something juicy about Win Ferry.
She stood up and returned to the console. Ferry gave her no difficulty either. He practiced no discretion whatsoever.
Poor old fool! I’m going to destroy Oakes for you, Win.
No! Don’t trick yourself into nobility. You’re doing it on your own and for yourself. Let’s keep love and the glory of others out of it.
Chapter 43
Remember that I have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master.
—Frankenstein’s Monster Speaks, Shiprecords
OAKES WOKE out of his first sound sleep groundside to muffled pounding outside his cubby.
His fingers reached his com-console before he was even awake and the viewscreen showed complete madness up and down Colony’s corridors.
Even outside his own locked hatchway!
“I’m hungry now! I’m hungry now! I’m hungry now!”
The chant was a snarl in the throat of the night.
There were no guns in evidence, but plenty of rocks.
In a matter of blinks, Lewis was on the line.
“Morgan, we’ve lost them for now. This thing will have to run its course until . . .”
“What the hell is happening?” Oakes did not like it that his voice cracked.
“It started out as a round of The Game down in the ‘ponicsways. Lots of drinking. Now it’s a food riot. We can flood ’em out with . . .”
“Wait a minute! Are the perimeters still secure?”
“Yes. My people are out there.”
“Then why . . .”
“Water in the passages will slow ’em down until we . . .”
“No!” Oakes took a deep breath. “You’re out of your league, Jesus. What we’ll do is let them go. If they seize food, then it’ll be their responsibility when food gets even shorter. The supply does not change, you hear me? No extra food!”
“But they’re running wild through . . .”
“Let them rip things up. The repairs afterward will keep them busy. And a good riot will purge emotions for a time, wear them out physically. Then we turn it to our advantage, but only after well-reasoned consideration.”
Oakes listened for some response from Lewis, but the ‘coder remained silent.
“Jesus?”
“Yes, Morgan.” Lewis sounded out of breath. “I think that you . . . had better move . . . to the Redoubt immediately. We can’t wait for dayside, but you’ll . . .”
“Where are you, Jesus?”
“Old Lab One complex. We were moving out the last of . . .”
“Why must I go to the Redoubt now?” Oakes blinked and turned up the illumination in his cubby. “The riots will pass. As long as the perimeter’s secure we can . . .”
“They’re not stamping their feet and whining, Morgan. They’re killing people. We’ve sealed off the gun lockers but some of the rioters . . .”
“The Redoubt cannot be ready yet! The damage there was . . . I mean, is it safe?”
“It’s ready enough. And the crew there is handpicked by Murdoch. They’re the best. You can rely on them. And, Morgan . . .”
Oakes tried to swallow, then: “Yes?”
Another long pause, garbled snatches of conversation.
“Morgan?”
“I’m still on.”
“You should go now. I’ve arranged everything. We’ll flood ’em out of the necessary passages. My people will be there within minutes: our usual signal. You should be at the shuttle hangar within fifteen minutes.”
“But my records here! I haven’t finished the . . .”
“We’ll get that later. I’ll leave a briefing disc for you with the shuttle crew. I’ll expect to hear from you as soon as you get to the Redoubt.”
“But . . . I mean . . . what about Legata?”
“She’s safe shipside! Call her when you get to the Redoubt.”
“It’s . . . that bad?”
“Yes.”
The connection went dead.
Chapter 44
Though a pendulum’s arc may vary, its period does not. Each swing requires the same amount of time. Consider the last swing and its infinitesimal arc. That is where we are truly alive: in the last period of the pendulum.
—Kerro Panille, The Notebooks
LEGATA LOOKED past Oakes to the sea below the Redoubt. It was an orderly suns-set out there, Rega following Alki below the rim of the sea. A distant line of clouds boiled along the horizon’s curve. Long waves rolled in to crash on the beach of their small bay. The surf lay out of sight beneath the cliffs upon which the Redoubt perched. Double walls of plaz plus an insulated foundation screened out most of the sounds, but she could feel the surf through her feet. She certainly could see the spray misting her view and beading the plaz along the view porch.
Orderly suns-set and disorderly sea.
She experienced a sense of calm which she knew to be false. Oakes had bolstered himself with alcohol, Lewis with work. They were still getting reports from Colony, but the last word suggested that the old Lab One site was under siege. Lucky thing Murdoch had been sent shipside.
Disorderly sea.
Only thin rags of kelp remained on the surface, and she found the absence of it a loss which she could not explain. Once kelp had dampened the surf. Now, wind whipped white froth across the wavetops. Had Lewis allowed for that?
“Why do you link the kelp and hylighters?” she asked. “You’ve seen the reports. They’re vectors of the same creature or symbiotic partners.”
?
??But it doesn’t follow that they think.”
Oakes directed a lidded stare at her, swirled an amber drink in a small glass. “Touch one of them and the other responds. They act together. They think.” He gestured at the cliffs across the Redoubt’s bay where a scattered line of hylighters hovered like watchful sentries.
“They’re not attacking now,” she said.
“They’re planning.”
“How can you be sure?”
“We plan.”
“Maybe they’re not like us. Maybe they’re not very bright.”
“Bright enough to pull out and regroup when they’re losing.”
“But they’re only violent when we threaten them. They’re just a . . . a nuisance.”
“Nuisance! They’re a threat to our survival.”
“But . . . so beautiful.” She stared across the small bay at the drifting orange bags, the stately way they tacked and turned, touching the cliff with their tendrils to steady themselves, avoiding their fellows.
Turning only her head, she shifted her attention to Oakes, and tried to swallow in a dry throat. He was staring down into his drink, gently swirling the liquid. Why wouldn’t he talk about what was happening at Colony? She felt nervous precisely because Oakes no longer appeared nervous. It had been two full diurns since the food riot. What was happening? She sensed new powers being invoked—the bustling activity all through the Redoubt while Oakes stood here drinking and admiring the view with her. Not once in this period had Oakes turned to her with an assignment. She felt that she might be on probation for a new position. He could be testing her.
Does he suspect what I discovered about him shipside? Morgan Lon Oakes.
Impossible! He could not appear this calm in the face of that knowledge.
Oakes raised his eyebrows at her and tossed back his drink.
“They’re beautiful, yes,” he said. “Very pretty. So’s a sun going nova, but you don’t invite it into your life.”
He turned back to the ever-present dispenser for another drink, and something about the mural on the inner wall of the porch caught his eyes, startling him. The thing seemed to move . . . like the waves of the sea.
