The Legacy of Heorot (34 page)

Slowly, Carlos began to dip toward the landing pad. He chose his next words carefully. "And where does that leave Senora Faulkner?"

Her answering voice was small. "Looking for a friend?"

Carlos reached out his hand, covering hers. Her fingers seemed so small, so warm. "Since Bobbi, I think that is what has stopped me. I haven't been looking for a relationship. Or just a palomita. I think I, too, need a friend. Perhaps..."

"... we could both stop looking?" Sylvia squeezed Carlos's fingers, then pulled away and hugged Justin to her.

I hope so, Carlos said to himself, surprised by the intensity of his response. Warmth and cheerfully lecherous optimism spread through him like a brushfire.

Carlos hummed happily as he brought the Skeeter in for a landing.

REMITTANCE MAN

I strongly wish for what I faintly hope;

Like the daydreams of melancholy men,

I think and think in things impossible,

Yet love to wander in that golden maze.

JOHN DRYDEN, "Rival Ladies"

Sylvia touched her lips to Justin's brow. She savored his baby smell of powder and clean linen. Her hands were cold, and she was careful not to touch him as she tucked the edges of the blanket around him. Seven weeks old today. I should remind Terry.

Justin had begun to lose the newborn's wrinkly look, to cease being a generic baby and take on a personality of his own. He could focus his eyes, reach and grab with coordination, make sounds that often seemed appropriate to the situation. Terry had read Kistakovsy's classic revisions of the Gesell studies and pronounced Justin well ahead of normal development.

Those things mattered, but there was a way that they didn't. Genius or idiot, she loved the tiny, helpless child as she had never loved anything in her life, as if he were still a part of her own body.

Plastic stars and pterodons dangled above his crib. They would circle at the slightest touch of a breeze. For now, they, like Justin, were still.

Terry was in the front room clearing away the debris of the evening meal.

Her hands shook. She couldn't let Terry see that. She forced herself to calm down, and thrust them beneath her arms until they started to feel warm.

Terry stacked the last dishes in the cabinet beneath the sink. One hand gripping the wheelchair arm, muscles in his arm and back standing prominent as he leaned far forward to reach. Done, and he smiled in satisfaction. His wheelchair purred as he glided it over to her. "Justin asleep?"

"For now," she said, honestly relieved. She waved at the sink area.

"You're getting good at that. Making order out of chaos."

"Yeah. What I am. I'm good at. I never had arms this strong. Which reminds me—"

"The expedition."

"Yeah. Time to turn the plans over to Zack. It could be five or ten years before anyone actually goes to the mainland, but hell, our resources won't have changed much. The plans'll still be good. I'm afraid to tell Cadmann. He'd want to go now."

"Yeah... I've expressed enough milk to keep Justin happy if he wakes up. I'll only be gone a couple of hours." She stretched, forcing a mild yawn. "We have to get the tapes edited and off. We're overdue on our broadcast."

"You've been busy," Terry said.

His face, always slender, seemed unhealthily gaunt despite his smile.

She knelt by the wheelchair. "You'll be all right?"

"Oh, I'm fine." His quick smile faded slightly, and he was looking past her. His gaze lingered on diplomas and plaques, a photo album, a pair of crystal goblets: the things they had brought from Earth.

"What are you thinking of, love?"

His smile saddened. "It's been a long time since you've called me that."

"I've thought of it every day."

"Have you?"

"Yes, of course—"

"You can't know how much I want to believe that. It's a trite old story, isn't it? Arranged marriage that results in love. Love on one side, anyway."

"Terry—"

"And then I found it was mutual. Marry, then fall in love. It really works. It wouldn't surprise our Hindu friends. They've known it all along. Go get your work done and ask Carlos to drop around once in a while. I don't see him enough."

She slipped on her shawl. It was a web of gold and umber yarn, every strand turned by the hand of her mother, over a century before. Its touch stimulated tactile memories: warmth, closeness, softness. It was one of her little pieces of home.

The click as the door latched behind her was uncomfortably loud.

After a few days of clear weather, the fog had descended upon Avalon with a vengeance, thicker and soupier than any night since the first grendel assault. It penetrated through the shawl as if she were naked, chilled right to the bone.

The searchlights atop the guard towers rotated tirelessly. Their beams stabbed out through the mist like silver fingers. The fog dampened sound as it did vision. After a few steps she looked back toward her house and her child and her husband. All were gone, vanished into the mist.

She drew the shawl tighter across her shoulders, and went on.

The electronics shack was in the rear of the camp, perched on the edge of the bluff. A single line of light burned through the shades. She paused a moment, listening to the muted rush of the Miskatonic, then rapped once and entered.

Carlos sat at the editing bench, absorbed in his work. She shut and latched the door.

"How is it going?"

"Just waiting for you, senora."

The shack seemed warmer than the house she had left behind. Terribly warm. Even with Carlos on the far side of the room, with the holo stage between them, he was stiflingly close.

"Coffee?"

"Maybe later."

"Let me know. We've got most of the video portion together. Just need you to look over your notes again. Take another look at the footage we did from the autopsy and the summation. Anything left to say? This is the last chance before we send it off."

Sylvia doffed her shawl and sat, enjoying her ease of movement. A month and a half before, she'd had to use her arms just to sit down. There's the miracle fat cure. Lose twenty-six pounds in twenty-four hours. Have a baby. Her joints no longer hurt, and her muscles were alive. She walked and moved like a new woman. Her body was ready for anything. Especially...

Oh, God... I hope I'm doing the right thing.

She focused on the holo, took a hand remote and fast-scanned. "This material on the increasing samlon size should be cross-referenced with their eating pattern. Joes and samlon are vegetarians, pterodons and grendels are carnivores. Good."

She flashed through the images and text, fighting to concentrate, almost overcome by the essential maleness of Carlos. She glanced over at him. He leaned back and sipped from his mug. She was dying to know what was on his mind. Why didn't he touch her? Or at least say something?

An image from the most recent Town Hall appeared. She remembered this vividly: the debate on whether to unfreeze the remaining embryos.

Zack, for the first time since Ernst's death, seemed rested and totally controlled. "The vote is close to even on this point, and I don't want to make a judgment until more of us agree. Final arguments?"

Terry appeared, and her heart leaped. In close-up it was easy to forget that he was crippled. "Cadmann isn't here to argue his own point," Terry began, "but I'll take the opposing view anyway."

There was scattered laughter. "I think that Cadmann is, as usual, being a conservative old maid. Avalon is safe at last. Let's put all of our eggs in one big basket. The odds are good; let's gamble with our children's lives. What the hell!" He paused; he was smiling, sort of. "The last time I said anything like this was the last time I ever stood up. And thirteen of us died."

Everyone laughed, sort of, but the vote that followed showed that Terry had made his point. Only a third of the remaining embryos would be thawed and revived.

She felt pride for Terry at that, pride that made some of her other thoughts dark and dirty. For a few seconds she considered simply telling Carlos that everything was fine, and leaving the shack while there was still time.

But this did have to be reviewed. She thumbed the scan into play. Images whizzed by, and through their transparency, she watched Carlos at his console. In one instant he seemed frighteningly strong and competent, and in the next like a little boy who needed comfort.

My body can't make up its mind!

She stopped the tape of her own image, part of a roundtable discussion of grendels that had been held three weeks before.

"—salt water isn't toxic to grendels," Marnie maintained. Sylvia had grown so used to Marnie's speech that she never noticed the lisp except in a tape. "Monsters can't drink salt water, but it won't kill them. I'd say that it irritates their nasal passages, and that is about all—" Sylvia froze the picture.

"I want a note here."

"Then slip it in. Tracks siete and nueve are free."

"Thanks. Subnote to preceding: Freshwater status of grendels established by evaluating salt content of tissues. Cross-reference autopsy."

Carlos nodded. "Everyone in the Colony has had a chance to add their own comments on Grendel."

"What was yours?"

"I think the bitch was smart enough to build a raft and float over from the mainland. I wouldn't put anything at all past them."

"That may be giving them too much credit."

"Better too much than too little."

Sylvia scanned through the rest of the tape, then signed off.

"I guess that's it," she said quietly.

Carlos nodded, and saved it. The computer silently sorted the notes and compressed the megabytes of data for transmission to Geographic in the morning. From there, it would be broadcast to Earth. Ten years later the data would arrive, for the edification and entertainment of the home worlds.

Once again the chill touched her, and she started to stand.

Carlos turned from the console and faced her. "I know, chiquita," he said. "Writing letters, sending messages, knowing that no one who ever knew me, ever touched me, will see them. No one to care. Strangers seeing pictures of strangers, and no one to care." Suddenly he was terribly close to her. His breath was warm, and smelled of coffee. "There used to be someone to care, you see? Someone who saw something beside the jokes, but I let her down."

Sylvia reached up to touch his face, to run her hand over the stubble on his chin. Her nerves jumped at the contact.

To love, honor, and obey. To cleave only unto...

"Anyone but Cadmann—"

Oh, God, it's been so long, so damned long.

"I care, Carlos."

He looked at her hard, with the beginning of something like tears in his eyes. Then his mouth became a fine line, and he said, "I don't know about this. Will you still respect me mañana?"

"You idiot. I don't respect you now."

"Fair enough." He leaned forward that last few inches, and she backed away as his lips touched hers, then pressed against him, crushed her lips against him. Unfettered at last, all of the repressed feelings of the past months burned their way to the surface.

They stepped away from each other. Carlos squeezed her shoulders once, then turned off the equipment and the lights. He latched the door behind them, and together they set off through the fog for the warmth of his house. Within a few steps, the communications shack had joined the rest of the camp in the mist.

It seemed that there was nothing in the world but the two of them, doing the best they could do to find a path through the dark and the cold.

"I always wondered what your bed was like." Sylvia giggled.

"You had but to ask," Carlos said gravely. "Move a bit, will you? Your lovely bosoms are squashing me."

Sylvia razzed him, and rolled off enough for Carlos to reach the bedstand. He felt among the empty beerskins for a full pouch, ah-hahed, and handed one to her.

The bed in question was a shell suspended like a hammock above the ground. Every attempt to extricate herself was a hazard, every movement during a delirious hour of lovemaking was enough to have both of them giggling like naughty children.

They swung there in a slight stupor induced by beer and afterglow.

She gave the pouch back to him and then snatched it away, dribbling foam over his chest and then kissing it off. He wrestled her to the bottom again, and she felt the heat flare in his body, triggering an immediate reply in her own. She wrapped her arms around him, then pulled the blankets over both their heads.

Later, much later, it seemed, Sylvia and Carlos had exhausted the heat. They lay holding each other.

Is this what we really craved? Not the blaze, but the gentle warmth afterward, the peace you can only share with one who has walked the fire with you?

She played with the tight, dark curls of hair on his chest. "How did you end up at another star, Carlos? Not the stuff we all said back on Earth at the group-compatibility workshops."

"Great, weren't they? Jesucristo, the lies that were told that month."

"We all wanted to come pretty bad. Nobody was going to say anything to queer their chances."

"The truth." He sighed. With her face against his chest, she felt, more than heard, his heartbeat. It was strong, and slowing now. He had been as hungry for her as she had been for him. Or for someone.

God, this wasn't the time for thoughts like that. She shunted them back into her head and enjoyed the glow.

"How did I get here? Well, in therapy, you might remember when I said I'd been called back from Beijing where I was doing research on the T'ang Dynasty."

"You say that as if it isn't true."

"Oh, it's true all right. I had another reason for being in Asia for six years."