All these earths, p.9
All These Earths, page 9
"Hold it a minute, Milla." Miro held a bottle of wine; he gestured with it. Jay nodded, and the man poured three glasses. "Remember—Cimber and Janine and the girls, they emigrated before we had the Krieger power units—at low Skip, comparatively. So they're bound to be on our timeline, still. There hasn't been time for a message to reach us yet; that's all."
Ludmilla flushed. "Ah—so much turmoil, confusion, since we learned of Drift. I lose track sometimes. I am sorry."
"No," said Jay. "I don't blame you. Even when you're trained for it, keeping things straight isn't easy." And suddenly his camouflage burdened him.
He had to change the subject. "Would you tell me about my family as you remember them? You know—as a child I stayed with you sometimes. Did Leonie?" He knew she had; occasionally the Frantiszeks had taken the four cousins to a lake cabin, weekends. And Ludmilla told of these events, some almost the same as he remembered—except that here he had not been present, here he had not been born.
But by the time dinner and the evening were done, he felt as though he were a part of what she told.
Back at quarters he thumbed for recorded messages. The screen lit to show Raelle, smiling. She spoke quietly. "Jay—I've found it, what I was looking for. Time's short for me, though. I hope you won't mind too much, but I'll be away a few more days—four, I think, or maybe five. And then—I don't know, Jay, I just don't know. As soon as I do, I'll call you. And"—She shook her head. "No—for now, that's all. But I do love you."
The screen dimmed. Staring at its blank face, Jay sat unmoving. What had Raelle found—or whom?
Now I know how Turco felt…
The thought of losing her was intolerable—so he faced it squarely. No matter how total his own commitment, if she chose to go he could not hold her. And what then?
He stood and paced. Monogamism did not demand that a widowed or deserted spouse remain single. So someday—no matter that the prospect repelled him now—he would muster interest to seek another. Here, might it be? Or elsewhere? Go Courier again and hope to find her counterpart?
No. He shook his head. Whatever took his own Raelle would always lurk—if only in his mind—to strike again.
Someone else, then—but on this Earth, or not? He could not decide, and now his other concerns in this timeline, nagging at the back of consciousness, came to the forefront. He had not yet met his father's counterpart; that meeting would come tomorrow. But what of Glenna? Now he sat, recalling and visualizing her, trying to sort through his mixed feelings.
All right. He liked and admired her, felt a certain affection. But it was his mother he mourned and loved, and by the simple blameless fact of her miscarriage, this Glenna had not shared the experiences that built his love. The relationship was wholly in his own mind, not in hers. Even if he told her, she could not make the lost years real. Her motherhood would be an artificial thing at best—and then if he went out again, a cruel and unnecessary loss.
His decision made itself. He would meet Harwood Pearsall—and with some trepidation—but he would not reveal himself. So that whatever happened, he could stay or go without giving hurt.
Somehow the tension, his worry about Raelle, had eased. Now, in relative calm he could endure the waiting. He shrugged and flexed his arms, stretching tightened muscles. "Pearsall," he said aloud, "you need a drink. Or more. But not too many." He showered, dressed in casual garb and set out for the nearest restaurant on the base. The bar there, the version on his own timeline, was quiet and catered to a friendly crowd. The walk was long enough to feel like good exercise.
At a small corner table he looked around the place he knew and yet did not. Same lighting fixtures but a new color scheme; he favored the warm orange here over the pastel blue he remembered. Sipping a cold daiquiri he looked with approval at the carafe, sitting before him in a bowl of ice, from which he had poured it. No, he thought—not enough booze to turn his head over. Just the right amount…
To his left, past an empty table, a group of young people were slightly boisterous in laughter and loudness. From the few phrases he caught, Jay knew them for Courier trainees at their final preassignment party. He had the urge to join them—but pitting his experience against their anticipations would be unfair. He sipped the last from his glass and poured it half full again.
The girl sat across from him before he recognized her. She said, "I know you, don't I? You're—oh, let me see—"
He saw she was not drunk, merely allowing herself the exhilaration a little alcohol brings to those who drink seldom. And again he decided that her off track blue eye was an asset, not a detriment.
"Sure," she said. "The Courier—came in just the other day. From Harper's Touchdown?" He nodded. "On—what was it? Seeker!"
"Search," he said. "You were close."
Smooth blonde hair hardly moved when she threw her head back, laughing. Then, "I'm not really drunk. But don't let me sample whatever you're having for—oh, at least twenty minutes."
"All right. Do you remember my name?" Her pale green dress was quite sheer—and her slim upper torso did not suffer by the exposure.
"Not exactly. I do remember—you're related to someone."
He grinned; this was fun. "Isn't everyone, nearly?"
"Oh, you know what I mean." Briefly, she frowned. "Now it comes—I'd forgotten—Commander Pearsall! Am I right?"
"Bullseye. I'm Jay Pearsall—his nephew, where I come from, but not here." He drank more than a sip. "And your name? I don't think I've heard it."
"Course not. You come in, I ask yours, punch you up on the desk screen. Depending on what it says, I let you in to see Forgy or I don't. Zip-zip. Big waste of time, you see, for me to introduce me."
He waited, until she said, "I'm Saela Blumquist. Shake hands?"
She stood, so he did also. Her dress was sheer not only at its top; all down the length of her he saw pale, smooth skin. As they sat again he felt urgency.
He shook his head. "How long have you worked at the base?"
"Four years—I'm older than I look. But not terribly older."
"Do you like your job?"
"Yes—lots. I'm where everyone comes through, you see, who's doing things. I'm only on the edges but at least I'm in it; that's something." She leaned forward. "Can you converge on that?"
Her hand was extended; he gave it a brief pat. "You want to go out yourself, do you, Saela?"
Her mouth made an ugly grimace; she shrugged. "Someday, maybe—if it's not too late for me." She looked at him. "Don't misunderstand—I do love my mother, and I'm not absolutely sure I want to leave Earth. But I can't even talk it over—every time I mentioned the idea, back when I was too young for training, even, she'd start to have one of her heart attacks. I think they're fake, you see, but still…"
Jay nodded. "Blackmail, it's called."
"Probably." Saela shook her head, hard enough to ruffle her short, fair hair. "That's enough about me, for now. And I think I can use a drink."
The bowl held extra glasses; Jay poured. She took a sip and said, "Where's your partner?"
Before he thought, he said, "I don't know." Then he heard the sound of it. "I didn't mean—it isn't—"
She was squeezing his hand. "The hell it isn't. Troubles; right?" She took her hand away and toyed with her glass."You want to say it?"
He shook his head. "Too complicated."
"Nothing is, if you're ready." She smiled. "So you're not; that's all right." She drank a little. "Only one more question, on the topic. Would you like to come home with me—or me with you?"
A rush of warmth almost drowned him; he had trouble breathing. This girl—why was he so vulnerable? With one deep breath he braced himself. "Saela, how can I tell you how much I appreciate you—what you've said?"
Her hand gestured. "Easy enough—just say where we're going."
"But that's it, you see. I can't." Haltingly he explained his reasons—then, in a rush, he told her of Raelle's call.
When he was done, she said, "Really caught in the Drift, aren't you? And not much I can do for you, though I'm a good pillow, more ways than one. And not indiscriminate, by the way—I mean, give yourself some credit. But if you can't, you can't—I don't agree with your ideas but I do respect them." She smiled, and for a moment both eyes seemed to focus on him. "I'll tell you what. If you do lose out, look me up—whatever else, we can talk. Don"'t you think so?"
"Yes, and thanks. Now—let's discuss something else, shall we?"
When all the drinks were finished, the evening ended in compromise. Saela came to Jay's quarters and they slept in the same bed, warm together. But no matter what his urges—and Jay refused to think of hers—they did not share each other. And next morning, after breakfast, she left for work.
Harwood Pearsall, that afternoon, opened the door to his visiting "nephew." Shaking hands, Jay appraised the older man—tall, the hair still dark above his thin face—all the lines and contours familiar. No—over the left eyebrow, a scar his father had incurred before Jay's birth—it was missing. Remember—he is NOT the same!.
Jay found himself under inspection also. "Come on in, son." What? No—only a colloquialism; Jay relaxed. "Don't mind if I gawk a little—trying to relate you to this timeline, that's all. I imagine you've already learned that these things aren't easy."
"Yes, I have." Entering the house this second time, Jay could pay heed to things he had not noticed before. But only briefly— Harwood Pearsall still watched him, and Jay marshaled his alertness. "You and Aunt Glenna—you seem enough the same as I knew you, it helps ease the Drift jolt." Did that sound right? Jay felt his armpits heat and moisten. "I suppose experience helps, for Couriers."
"Possibly. I'm not well acquainted with any; they're never here long enough."
"No, of course not." A new thought—all a Courier's friendships must be transitory. Except one…
They entered the living room. "Glenna's not home yet. She's working with her theater group again—directing now, though, more than acting. So I have dinner on—and I'd better go look at it. I warn you, I'm a plain cook—nothing fancy." And over his shoulder as he left the room, "In your lifetime, is Glenna into theater work?"
His mother had never acted; he was sure of that. He raised his voice to reach the kitchen. "Not that I know of. When I was little, maybe, but not in recent years."
Pearsall brought a pitcher and glasses. "Glenna said you and— what's her name again?—that you both like daiquiris, so here we are."
"Thank you. Her name? Raelle—Raelle Tremona." But he did not want to speak of her, not now. "I'm told you've Drifted once, yourself. I—" He broke off, realizing the matter might be sensitive.
But the older man smiled. "That was a rough time. I thought I might be going Courier myself, but it worked out all right." He leaned forward. "Reminds me—if you don't mind talking about it, why did you join the corps?"
To his own ears the story sounded thin—but if he kept it consistent, Jay knew, there was no way to prove it false. "Politics, I guess, as much as anything. I mentioned how we had to finagle to get me into space training at all? That was because I didn't have the usual bribe money. "Jay knew of an earlier bribery scandal, but the situation was long since corrected. Harwood Pearsall said as much—for his own timeline.
"Well, on ours," said Jay, "it got worse, instead. Do you have the All Peoples' Benefits Party here? Everyone but the newstoadies calls it the Santa Claus Party, or Bread "n' Circuses." The Party existed in both worlds; Jay was merely expanding its role.
Woody laughed, then sobered. "Those cretins? But if they ever got on top—I agree, they'd be no joke. And in your world, I gather, they did?"
"Yes. Unfortunately, the one thing they do well is hang onto power. Their majority's usually slim but they always get it." He shrugged. "The corruption and abuse kept getting worse. I thought space would be a way out—but even on the base, in training, there were pressures. So when the Courier program began, with all its possibilities, I entered it."
"No reluctance—no misgivings?"
"Well—my parents and sisters were gone to Second Chance. I'd been close to you and Aunt Glenna, and to the Frantiszeks—until training took all my time, or most of it. When you know space is going to be your life, anyway…"He grinned. "And then I met Raelle, and she was going out—so I had to."The grin stopped; he remembered Raelle's call.
Woody nodded. "Not much to anchor you, then, and good reasons for leaving. And you're from spacing stock, at that— Cimber's parents, you'll recall, survived the first Tau Ceti expedition."
"I know. Before Skip Drive—crowding light and paying for it, returning decades out of their own time."He shook his head. "In a way, that makes Drift dislocation look like moving across the street, doesn't it?"
Pearsall chuckled, and left to check the kitchen again. Returning, he said, "You've got good perspective, Jay. I—" The front door opened.
"Hello! I'm not late, am I?" Glenna came in, kissed her husband and patted Jay's shoulder. She sat and accepted a drink. "I think I'm getting it right," she said. "The play, I mean. The trouble was, you see—" And she began to describe the evolution of a dramatic production—and her concurrent education as a novice director.
Jay was soon lost in unfamiliar terminology—and, glad to be out of the limelight, relaxed gratefully. Woody, judging by his comments, followed his wife's story well enough.
Then, soon, came dinner. After the first few bites Jay said, "Call yourself a plain cook if you like. Uncle Woody—but next time I won't believe you." He knew the meat was almost certainly culture-grown, but in flavor it equalled what he'd tasted from the herds on Harper's Touchdown. He said so.
Woody Pearsall smiled. "Well, thank you. I did learn a few tricks aboard Hawk Flight—our chief cook could make you smack your lips over broiled plastic."
Jay affected surprise. "On a ship that size, you had to put up with Couriers' rations?"
Glenna laughed. "It never fails—spacemen swapping whoppers. Oh, go ahead—I enjoy it."
After a time, though, the talk became more general. Occasionally Jay noticed Woody's gaze intent on him, but the searching questions he dreaded did not come. And when the evening ended, he returned to quarters in a pleasant mood.
That feeling lasted until he checked the phone. He found no messages.
Next day, leaving a recording in case Raelle should call, he went to a vacation resort that catered largely to space personnel. There he swam, hiked, sunned himself, gambled sparingly, drank to the brink of excess but no further, and sampled some approved hallucinogens his own Earth had not developed. After three days he could no longer convince himself that he was having a good time, so he checked out and returned to the port.
Still, Raelle had not called. For an uncomfortable part of that night, Jay did not sleep.
When she did call, he was out. Returning from breakfast he viewed the recording. Raelle smiled as she said, "Sorry I missed you, Jay, but I'll be back this evening—rather late, I expect."For a moment, laughing, she looked aside to someone outside his view, then back to him. "Jay—I'm so happy—it's every bit as wonderful as I'd dared to hope. And tonight you'll meet someone—a Courier, like us, who's leaving tomorrow." She paused, then said, "We'll see you tonight."
The screen darkened; after a time Jay looked away from it. Within him, thought battled feeling. Who, that Raelle had been with—was still with—would he meet tonight? She'd never told him who or what she sought. A lost love, a recapturing of the past?
But she'd said she was happy, and that the person was leaving. A brief fling, a completion of some sort? Or—would Raelle depart with the other?
He shook his head—one thing at a time. There was no proof that she had betrayed their vows. If she had, and still wanted to return to him—what would he do?
The answer hit like a hammer—of course he'd take her back. The hurt—to him and to their closeness—it could be bad, perhaps permanent. Even his mother's strict brand of Monogamism, though, allowed the right to forgive…
But what if she chose to leave him, to go with the unknown other?
Suddenly he could not face a day of loneliness—but who did he know?
He thought, then turned to the phone and punched code for the admiral's office. As he had hoped, Saela Blumquist answered.
"Headquarters, Admiral Forgues—oh, hello, Jay. Well! I've thought of you lately—did your problem work out?" Her offtrack gaze narrowed to a squint. "From your looks, I guess it hasn't."
"No. Saela, I'd like to see you again. Could we meet for lunch? Where we had drinks the other evening?"
"Let me check." She looked down; he could see the movement of her upper arm and judged she was turning pages of an engagement pad. "Yes," she said. "Sure—and I'll tell my relief that it may be a long lunch." She set the time; he nodded. "Then I'll be there, Jay." She smiled and cut the circuit.
What good it might do, he didn't know—but he had to talk with her. His motives? He shook his head—if Raelle left him, certainly Saela Blumquist could never fill her place; her attitudes and his could never match. But still his instinct drew him to her.
Finally he shrugged—Saela had warmth and compassion, and she already knew his problem. Comfort and understanding, he decided, were all he sought—and he would make sure to invite nothing more.
Jay arrived early; when Saela joined him he had obtained a table. She hung her light wrap over an empty chair and sat. She wore a blue-green dress, cut perfectly to her slim form.
"I told Forgy we'd probably be having daiquiris. He says that for lunch, two's my limit." Then, her expression serious, "What's happened, Jay?"
When their drinks were served and menus lay open before them, he told her. "So I don't really know anything—whether it's all right, whether I can make it all right, or nearly—or whether it's all shot to hell."
She touched his hand. "Poor Jay—your beliefs don't make life easy for you, do they? Too bad you weren't raised to be a little more liberal." He felt his face stiffen; she gestured and said, "Oh, nothing extreme—the Pansexualists seem to have just as much trouble with their own ideas." She shrugged. "The more moderate ways—they're more comfortable to live with, that's all."
