She thought of her father, just two doors away, and only the pleasant evening they had just spent allowed her to fight down a hot surge of resentment. No matter how hard she had been working and how little sleep she got tonight, he would be quick to complain if there was no breakfast waiting for him when he got up. He was used to being waited on. That was her mother's fault, capitulating to—no, collaborating with—some old-fashioned idea of the Role of the African Male. It must have been like that in the old days, the men sitting around the fire bragging about some gazelle they'd speared three weeks ago while the women gathered food, made clothes, cooked, took care of the children. Yes, and took care of the men, who were children themselves, really, with their feelings so easily hurt if they weren't the center of the universe. . . . She was full of anger, she realized. Anger at her father, and at Stephen for . . . for running away from her, although it felt terrible to be angry at him. But she was—furious that he should go away, that be should lie in that hospital, silent and unresponsive, rejecting all her love, all her pain.
If her mother hadn't died, would things have been different? Renie tried to imagine a life in which there had been someone else to shoulder the burden, but couldn't quite make the thought feel real—a normal adolescence, or at least what would be normal in other places, nothing to think about except studies and friends? A summer job if she wanted one, instead of a full-time job on top of her school work? But it was a purely intellectual exercise, trying to imagine such a life, because the person who had grown up that way, who had spent the last ten years in that life, wouldn't be her. Another Renie, one from beyond Alice's Looking Glass.
Her mother Miriam, long-limbed and fragile. She shouldn't have gone away. If she had never gone to the department store, everything would be better today. Just her wide smile, which used to blaze suddenly and surprisingly across her dark face, like a hand opened to reveal a splendid gift, would have made Renie feel less alone. But Mama and her smile were only memories now, getting fainter every year.
. . . Better than being alone, !Xabbu had said. But wasn't that part of her problem? That she was never alone, that instead the people around were always expecting her to do something they could not do themselves?
She herself didn't ask for things, though. It was easier just to be strong—in fact, it helped her stay strong. To admit she needed help might lead to losing her ability to cope.
But I do need help. I can't manage this by myself, I've run out of ideas.
"I am doing my best to find a solution, Renie," Martine did not sound very hopeful. "The kind of equipment Singh was talking about costs very much money. I would lend you my own money, but it would not be enough nearly for what you need. I live a very simple life. Everything has gone into my own equipment."
Renie stared at the blank screen, wishing that she at least had Martine's Mona Lisa sim to look at. Human beings were handwired to look at faces for information, for clues, just for the confirmation that another human was out there. Renie was quite accustomed to malfunctioning video on public uplinks, but at least when the screen was out of order, you were usually talking to someone whose features you already knew. She was touched by Martine's generosity, but it was still hard to feel the connection. Who was this woman? What was she hiding from? And, strangest of all in a woman who worshiped privacy, why had she become so involved with this Otherland madness?
"I know it won't be easy, Martine, and I do appreciate your help. I just can't let Stephen go without a fight. I have to find out what happened. Find out who did this and why."
"And how are you, Renie?" Martine asked suddenly,
"What? Oh, fine. Confused. Tired."
"But in yourself. How are you?"
Renie abruptly saw the blankness of the screen as something else—the dark window of the confessional. She was tempted to tell the French woman everything, her obsessive fears about Stephen, her ridiculous mothering relationship with her own father, her actual terror of the forces they seemed to have engaged. All these things pressed down on her like a collapsing roof, and it would be good to have someone to complain to. There were moments when she felt the other woman, despite the self-created mystery surrounding her, could be a real friend.
But Renie was not ready to trust that deeply, however much she might already have put her life in Martine's hands. There was a fine line between ordinary desperation and the complete loss of self-control.
"I'm fine. Like I said, tired. Call me if you find out anything. Or if you hear from our friend the Anchorite."
"Very well. Good night, Renie."
"Thanks again."
She lay back again, feeling that she had at least done something.
When she checked her account at the Poly in the morning, there were several messages relating to her suspension—a warning about cessation of mail privileges, a date for a preliminary hearing, a request for various system codes and files to be handed over—and one flagged "personal."
"Renie, give me a call, please." Del Ray's face had been freshly shaved when he left the message, as though he were on his way to an important meeting. His beard grew faster than that of any other man she'd ever met. "I'm worried about you."
She had to fight the reflexive little kick in her stomach. What did "worried" mean, anyway? No more than what you'd say to any old friend who'd lost her job. He had a wife now—what was her name, Blossom, Daisy, something stupid like that—why should she care anyway? She'd dealt with her feelings for Del Ray a long time ago. She didn't need him back in her life. Besides, with all the other things crowding for attention, where would she put him?
She had a brief vision of a Del Ray shelf in the closet of her new ragdoll bedroom, and let herself laugh, just to feel and hear it.
Renie lit another cigarette, took a sip from her glass of wine—an afternoon luxury available to the recently unemployed—and stared out past the security fence at the surrounding hills of Kloof. Should she call him back? He hadn't delivered anything to speak of so far, and his message didn't sound like he was promising new information. On the other hand, he might know something about this Otherland place and, more importantly, somewhere she could get access to professional VR equipment. She had to do something soon. If she were forced to give up, there would be nothing at all to tell the board of the Poly, except crazy-sounding allegations. Not to mention the fact that Singh, an old man seemingly marked for elimination, would be going it alone.
And Stephen. To give up now would also be to give up on Stephen, to leave him forever sleeping, like some princess in a fairy tale, but with no hope of any prince making his way through the thorns to deliver the life-giving kiss.
Renie put down the wine, which suddenly made her stomach feel sour. The whole mess seemed hopeless. She stubbed out her cigarette and then, since she had decided to call Del Ray back, lit another one. At the last moment, as her pad connected to the UNComm main number, she heeded a cautionary thought and turned off her visuals.
His assistant had only just gone off the line when Del Ray clicked on. "Renie, I'm glad you called! Are you all right? There's no picture."
She could see him very well. He looked a little harried. "I'm fine. I'm . . . having a problem with my pad, that's all."
He hesitated for a moment."Oh. Well, never mind. Tell me where you are. I've been worrying about you.
"Where I am?"
"You and your father left the shelter. I tried to call you at the Poly, but they said you're on a leave of absence."
"Yes. Listen, I need to ask you about something." She paused on the brink of mentioning Otherland. "How did you know we left the shelter?"
"I . . . I went there. I was worried about you."
She fought against the stupid, schoolgirl flutter. Something about the conversation was bothering her. "Del Ray, are you telling me the truth? You came all the way across town to look for us at the shelter, just because I was on leave of absence?"
"You didn't return my call." It was a simple enough answer, but he looke
d tense and unhappy. "Just tell me where you are, Renie. Maybe I can be of some help. I have friends—maybe I can find you somewhere safer to stay."
"We're safe, Del Ray. No need for you to put yourself to trouble."
"Damn it, Renie, this isn't a joke." There was an edge beyond anger to his voice. "Just tell me where you are. Tell me right now. I don't believe that pad of yours is broken either."
Renie took a breath, startled. She ran her fingers across the touchscreen. The security gear Martine had sent her flashed its readings across Del Ray's face. One set of characters shone brighter than the others, blinking road-hazard yellow.
"You . . . you bastard," she breathed. "You're trying to trace my call!"
"What? What are you talking about?" But his expression suddenly twisted with shame. "Renie, you are acting very strangely. Why won't you let me help you. . . ?"
His face abruptly vanished as she cut off contact. Renie stubbed out her cigarette with shaking fingers and stared unhappily at the cable running out of her pad, through the window and into the house jack. Her heart was beating very swiftly.
Del Ray sold me out. The thought was almost surreal. That anyone could want her whereabouts enough to bend a government official was bizarre enough, but that Del Ray Chiume would do that to her! Their parting had been difficult, but never vindictive. What did they do to him? Threaten him? He had seemed frightened.
She picked up her glass of wine and drained it. If she hadn't gone completely mad—if what she thought had just happened had really happened—then even Susan's security-fenced, suburban-respectable house was no refuge. Even if Del Ray's trace had failed, how long would it take before the people looking for them made their way down the short list of Renie's acquaintances and paid another visit?
Renie unplugged her pad; then, as if to hide her tracks, she snatched up ashtray and wineglass before hurrying inside. The back of her neck was prickling and her heart had not slowed since she disconnected from Del Ray.
It was, she realized, the ancient fear of a hunted animal.
CHAPTER 26
Hunters and Prey
NETFEED/MUSIC: Horrible Animals Bring Back "Classic" Sound
(visual: clip from "1Way4U2B")
VO: Saskia and Martinus Benchlow, founding members of My Family and Other Horrible Horrible Animals, say they are taking their onetime diamond-selling flurry group in a new and "classical" direction.
(visual: Benchlows at home with guns and peacocks)
S. BENCHLOW: "We're going for the classic guitar sound of the twentieth century. People who say it's just a gimmick. . . ."
M. BENCHLOW: "They gracelessly squat."
S. BENCHLOW: "Gracelessly. They're utterly tchi seen. We're bringing something back, follow? But we're making it our own. Segovia, Hendrix, Roy Clark—that far classic sound."
"I think I better go now," she said. She didn't want to look at him because it made her feel funny.
"But you just arrived. Ah, but of course, you're still grounded, aren't you? So you can't take too long returning from school." He frowned a little. He looked sad. "Is it also because you're afraid I'm going to ask you to do something bad?"
Christabel didn't say anything, then she nodded her head Mister Sellars smiled, but he still looked sad.
"You know I'd never do anything to hurt you, little Christabel. But I am going to ask you to do some things, and I want you to keep them secret." He leaned forward, his funny melted face very close to hers. "Listen to me. I'm running out of time, Christabel. I'm ashamed at having to ask you to break your parents' rules, but I'm truly desperate."
She wasn't quite sure what "desperate" meant, but she thought it meant in a hurry. Mister Sellers had sent her a secret message on her desk screen at school asking her to come over today. Christabel had been so surprised to see it where her subtraction problems had been a second before that she almost hadn't noticed that her teacher was coming over. She had just managed to turn it off before Miss Karman reached her, then had to sit quietly while her teacher scolded her for not working.
"If you don't want to do them," the old man continued, "then you don't have to. I'll still be your friend, I promise. But even if you won't do these things for me, please, please don't tell anyone I asked you. That's very important."
She stared. She had never heard Mister Sellars talk like that. He sounded scared and worried, like her mother when Christabel fell down the front steps in their old house. She looked at his yellowy eyes, trying to understand.
"What do you want me to do?"
"I'll tell you. It's just three things—like in a fairy tale, Christabel. Three tasks that only you can do. But first I want to show you something." Mister Sellars turned in his chair and reached for the table. He had to push the thick leaves of one of his plants out of the way so he could find what he was looking for. He held it out to her. "Now, what's that?"
"Soap." She wondered if he was going to eat some. She'd already seem him do that.
"Ah, yes. In fact, it's one of the bars that you brought me. But it's more than that. Here, see this?" He tilted the bar and pointed to a hole in one end. "Now, look." He took the bar in both of his shaky hands and pulled it into two pieces as though he were taking apart a sandwich. Nestled in the middle of the soap bar was a gray metal key. "Pretty good trick, isn't it? I learned it from watching a prison movie on the net."
"How did it get inside the soap?" she asked. "And what's it for?"
"I split the soap in half and made a carving of what I wanted," Mister Sellars explained. "Then I made this hole, see? And put the two halves together, then poured in some hot metal. When it cooled, it made a key. And I'm about to tell you what it's for. That's one of the three tasks I have for you, Christabel. Well? Are you ready to hear them?"
Christabel looked at the key lying on the soap like it was a mattress, like the key was sleeping until she woke it up, like Prince Charming. She nodded.
She had to take her bike because it was a long way. Also, because she had heavy things to carry in the bike basket.
She had waited until Saturday, when her mother and father went to the football game—Christabel had gone with them once, but she had asked so many questions about what the little tiny men down on the green field were doing that her daddy had decided she'd be more comfortable staying home.
On football game days Mommy and Daddy left her with Missus Gullison. On this Saturday, Christabel told Missus Gullison that she was supposed to go over and feed her friend's dog and take it for a walk. Missus Gullison, who was watching golf on television, told her to go ahead, but to come right back and not to look in any of her friend's parents' drawers. That was such a funny thing to say that Christabel had to stop herself from laughing.
It was starting to get cold. She wrapped her scarf tight around her neck and tucked the fluttery ends into her coat so they wouldn't get caught in her bike wheels. That had happened once and she had fallen off and skinned her knee. She pedaled hard down Stillwell, then turned across the little bridge and headed past the school. Mister Diaz the nice janitor was dumping a bag of leaves into a trash bin, and she almost shouted and waved until she remembered that Mister Sellars didn't want her to talk to anyone.
She went down the streets just the way the old man had told her, lots of streets. After a while she came to a part of the Base she'd never been to, a group of low huts made of wiggly curvy metal surrounding a field of grass that hadn't been mowed in a long time. In a line behind the farthest row of huts stood another group of boxy shapes that were a little like the huts, but lower and made of cement. They seemed to have been buried partway in the ground. Christabel couldn't figure out what they were for. If they were houses, they were very small ones. She was glad she didn't live in something like that.
Starting from the side she'd come in, she counted just like Mister Sellars had told her, one, two, three, until she reached the eighth cement box. It had a door in it, and there was a padlock on the door just like he'd said there would be. Christ
abel looked around, worried that people might be watching her, just waiting for her to do something bad before they came running out at her, like in a police show she'd seen the other night, but she couldn't see anyone at all. She took out the funny rough key that Mister Sellars had made in the soap bar and put it in the lock. At first it didn't quite fit, but she jiggled it a few times and it slipped all the way in. She tried to turn it, but couldn't make it move. Then she remembered the little tube Mister Sellars had given her. She took the key back out and squeezed some goo from the tube into the hole in the lock. She counted slowly to five, then tried again. The lock snapped open. The sound and the sudden aliveness of it in her hand made Christabel jump.
When no policemen with guns and armor ran out from behind the metal huts, she pulled the door open. Inside was a hole in the cement floor and a ladder leading down, just like Mists Sellars had said. The ladder was rough beneath her fingers, and Christabel made a face, but she had promised, so she climbed down. Even though she had seen nothing down in the hole, she still didn't like going into it—Mister Sellars had said there wouldn't be any snakes, but he might be wrong. Luckily it was only a short ladder, and before she had a chance to get too scared, she was on the floor again. When she looked down beneath her foot, the little room underneath the ground was empty of everything, snakes included, except for the thing she was looking for, a square metal door set into the wall.
Christabel squatted beside the door, which was wider than she was and half as big as the entire wall. On one side of it was the bar of metal that Mister Sellars had called the "bolt." She tried to wiggle it, but it wouldn't move. She took out her tube and squeezed some more goo. She couldn't remember exactly where Mister Sellars had said to put it, so she kept squeezing all over the bolt until the tube was empty. She counted five again, then tried to wiggle it once more. At first it didn't seem like it was moving. After a while she thought she felt it quiver just a little, but it was still stuck.