The console flickered, murmured, as he paged through his work files—reading, listening, questioning. There was a lot here to assimilate, much that challenged him. Many of the files seemed fragmentary, or carelessly organized. Nevertheless, it was obvious that he had worked in advanced astrophysics; one of his specialties seemed to be gravitational interactions through the n-dimensional folds of space-time used for interstellar travel. Another subject that kept coming up was the behavior of large superconducting hyperstrings—interspatial structures thousands of light-years long and billions of years old, infrequently observed remnants of a critical phase-change in the expanding primitive universe. The subject jangled at his memory—he recalled it as an important part of cosmological theory—but the practical applications, if any, eluded him. He recalled seeing references to it in his searches at the office. But what exactly had he learned there?
It seemed that everything was hard to remember—not just details from the past, but details from two minutes ago.
He shifted to another file:
". . . the Tandesko Triune, which grew out of a period of exploration dominated by the NewAge Socialist Coalition—which itself had originated half a century earlier on Old Earth in the turbulent days of the first interstellar colonizations. At the time of the boldest NewAge explorations, the capitalistic colonizing ventures were mired in a period of retrenchment and consolidation. The latter had passed through a long period of rivalry marked by costly interstellar war; and the uneasy union that had emerged from the Ceti Peace Conference—later to become the forerunner of the Auricle Alliance—was then passing through a time of testing and adjustment. The NewAgers took advantage of the post-Ceti hiatus to open new exploration lanes into southern Orion space. Shortly afterward, the Descan cultures were discovered, and the NewAge Coalition was changed forever. . . .
"The tight interlinkage that grew out of the synthesis of the NewAge and Descan cultures was, almost from the start, anathema to the alliance of 'free marketers' that was emerging from the Ceti agreement. There existed among the free marketers a potent distaste for the sacrifice of individuality that the people of the new Triune chose for themselves. . . ."
Information shimmered into focus in his mind and shimmered away again, out of his grasp. It was like trying to reconstruct a dream even as the details slipped away in a fog of forgetfulness.
((An accurate analogy.))
(What?) He glanced at Tamika as Dax spoke to him. Her hand was touching his shoulder, squeezing gently. He caught her hand and pressed it to his cheek.
((You may or may not be losing the knowledge. It's a question of processing and storage, and it actually is much like the forgetfulness of dreams. Sometimes dreams return unbidden.))
"So what's causing it?" he growled in frustration.
"What?" Tamika cocked her head in puzzlement. "What's causing what?"
"What?" He blinked. "No, sorry—I was talking to Dax."
"Oh." She hitched her chair closer, looking worried.
((I'm guessing. Partly interference from the unfriendlies, though maybe not intentional. Probably conflict between them and your subconscious mind. Possibly trauma from your head wound.))
(Well, for godsake, can't you do anything about it?) As the litany of obstacles grew, so did the temptation to despair.
((I'm trying, Willard. But it's not easy; there are problems of both short-term and long-term memory. It's a process of discovery. I can help to trigger your recall when the associations occur, but it's—))
Ruskin was aware of Tamika's hand stroking the line of his cheekbone. She was bending to peer up into his face. "Rus'lem, what's happening?"
For a heartbeat, he was conscious only of her fingers touching his skin; then his heart skipped a beat, and with a start, he let his attention return to Dax. (What was that for?)
((Please listen! I need your attention. The point is, you must not try too hard. That only inhibits the process. Sometimes you have to let them control you, so that I can study them.))
(Let them control me . . .) And do what with my body, with my mind?
((Your memories may seem to come and go. You have to accept that.))
"Can't you tell me what's wrong?" Tamika was stroking his hair now, running her fingers along his temples.
"Wrong? What do you mean?"
And then he realized—tears were streaming down his face. He hadn't even known he was crying. He caught Tamika's hand again and held it, unable to speak, unable to move. The fear washed through him in waves, the anger, the self-pity. "I'm sorry," he whispered finally and drew away to blow his nose.
"Rus'lem?" She reached out to him again.
He shook his head, willing the tears to stop. He had to get through this, had to keep control.
((Willard, you have to let go.))
(Shut up.) He cleared his throat and wiped the tears out of his eyes until he could focus on the display again. He forced himself to read. Supernovae . . .
All kinds of detailed information. Probably it was important. But he didn't know why, or what it meant. "Do you—" he cleared his throat again—"do you know anything about this supernova stuff—about what I was doing with it?"
"Rus'lem, maybe you should stop for a while." He looked at her uncomprehendingly, and finally she sighed and peered at the screen. "You were studying supernovas, yes. I don't know much beyond that, except that you were involved in some expedition that you couldn't tell me about—"
"Expedition!" He swiveled in his chair and stared at her.
"Yes—and you were to be leaving fairly soon. But I can't tell you about it. I just don't know. I think you wanted to tell me, but it was classified."
His gaze intensified. "Would I have been planning to buy a spaceship?" he demanded.
"Maybe. I—I don't know, really."
"Damn!" He glared at the console display, then rubbed his forehead until the intensity subsided. "Twig," he whispered, a note of fear creeping into his voice again. "I have to ask you something."
"Yes?"
He took a breath. "Do you trust me?"
"What?"
"I mean, can I count on you to stick with me through this?"
"What the hell kind of question is that? What do you think I'm doing here now?"
He nodded stupidly. "Yes—of course. But if there comes a time when . . . when I start acting strangely . . ."
She reached toward him. "Rus'lem, don't—isn't Dax supposed to stop that sort of thing?"
He shook his head in agitation. "I don't mean violent, or psychotic—I just mean strange. Dax is working on this memory problem. But he says I have to . . . give him freedom. So if I start doing things that you, and I, might not understand—"
"Willard, please—"
"I just want to know that you'll forgive me. Please." He looked up to meet her gaze, pleading. "Please, Tamika. I just want to know that you'll forgive me."
She gazed at him for a moment with her golden cat eyes, then bent forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I forgive you," she murmured.
* * *
He sighted through the slender-stemmed, wine-filled crystal, ruby against the light. After a moment, he lowered the glass. "So—there was this big astrophysical project for the Alliance." Tamika was facing him on the sofa. They were sitting cross-legged, their knees inches apart. "Only, I gather, it wasn't strictly what you would call pure research."
"And that," she answered, "was what got us into all those talks about politics. And political morality."
"I remember, a little." He sipped the tart wine and peered through the glass again. The ruby glow seemed to help him focus his thoughts. "It distracted me from my work, didn't it?"
"A little." Tamika smiled faintly and swirled her own glass. "I guess I didn't mind that—since I had some reservations about what you were doing, anyway. What I knew about it."
"Did you?" he whispered. "And did you tell me about it?" He was starting to feel a little lightheaded.
"Well—I tried to be subtle. But you were working for the Auricle Science Council, and you knew how much I trusted them." She shrugged. "You were very sincere about what you were doing. I just thought you were misguided in where you put your trust." Her eyes seemed to change focus, gazing off into space. Her lips pursed, shaped a frown.
Thinking of where she had put her trust? he wondered. There were enough mistakes to keep them both feeling guilty for a long time. She had trusted her Omega group, and especially Stanley Broder. Look where that trust had gotten them.
"Chasing demons, Twig?" he said softly.
She looked startled, and a smile flickered across her lips, followed by a look of remorse.
"Don't. You didn't know."
"Yes, but—"
"Tell me why you had reservations about my work." And he wondered: Had he been engaged in crime, or torture, or exploitation of the wretched and the poor? No. No—he was engaged in scientific research. Cosmic hyperstring. Supernovae. Evaluating areas for exploration. But all for the Auricle Science Council. Was that it? Did she think the Science Council's business was the exploitation of the wretched and the poor?
((Listen to her, will you?))
". . . because of the Auricle policies," she was saying. "I'm not saying that they were all bad—I never said that—just that there should be more to choose from than unrestrained economic expansion on one hand, or forced political structure on the other. There are alternatives that just never get an equal opportunity to survive and prosper."
"You always were an idealist, weren't you?" he said, allowing himself a quizzical smile.
She looked away from him, embarrassed.
Something stirred in his heart, and he found himself saying something that he only in that instant knew to be true: "It's one of the things I liked about you, isn't it?" (Right, Dax?)
((You remember well.))
"That's what you always said," she murmured. She turned back to him, raised a hand, touched his cheek again.
When I remember, anyway. Like a dream, evaporating . . .
She seemed to read his thoughts. "Rus'lem, don't try too hard. Give it time. All right?"
He nodded, feeling her fingertips walk against his bristly skin. Beard hair coming back in? His beard growth had been turned off years ago, by—medical agents. NAGs, perhaps. Was this another sign of skirmishes raging inside him? He sighed. "I need to know these things, Twig."
((And many other things. There was urgency; time was short . . .))
(Yes. I was buying a spaceship. . . .)
"It will come," Tamika said softly. "It will come."
He met her gaze, and felt his smile return with a flutter. Reaching for the decanter, he poured for both of them.
* * *
"Rus'lem, how do they do it?"
"Mm?" He shifted position slightly; her head was now resting on his shoulder. They hadn't been talking much. "Do what?"
"The NAGs. How do they know what they're doing inside you? How can they be that fast and smart?"
"Well," he murmured, "remember the scale. Think of molecular vibrations, and think of beads sliding on an abacus. The one is a billion times faster than the other. And the memory storage is . . . well, a NAG that looks like a speck next to a human cell probably has a larger data base than my system here. Think of the information packed into a DNA strand."
She nodded, her head still on his shoulder. Maybe, he realized, she wasn't really all that interested in the NAGs. He set down his glass and began stroking her hair. "Twig—"
"Mm."
"Tell me something."
"Mm-hm?"
"About yourself."
She didn't move. "What should I tell you?"
"Anything. Tell me about—I don't know—you and your sister."
"Sharon?" She sighed, thinking. "Okay, Sharon. You remember the picture of her, right? Do you remember how she used to invite us over for dinner?"
He shook his head.
"Well, she did—and you liked her cooking. You always said her bean-curd parmesan was the best."
"Hm." He tried to remember, and couldn't. "What was she like? Is she like, I mean."
"Oh, she's very gracious—makes me look like a mule, by comparison. She always used to look at us like, so what's with you two, are you ever going to settle down? But she never said it. For which I was even more grateful than you."
Ruskin nodded silently. Tamika rocked her head back against his shoulder to look up at him. "She was my best friend, Rus'lem. We came here to Kantano's World after our parents died, and she was the one who convinced me I could make it on my own. She never had any doubts about me, which was more than I could say about myself. Of course, after she had a family, it was different; then she couldn't wait for me to follow her example. You used to tease me that I'd turn out just like her, if I gave up my independence."
"Ho-ho. Did I like her?"
"Uh-huh. You teased each other a lot. You called her the Happy Homemaker; she called you the Sorcerer's Apprentice."
He chuckled. "Was she political, too?"
"Sharon? Nope. But she knew I was always needling you about the Science Council."
Ruskin nodded, picked up his wine, swirled it. "So, you said she went off-planet. To Graemonholde?"
Tamika sat up straight. Her voice dropped in pitch. "She and her husband got all excited about moving with the kids to the new colony. I couldn't believe it. She tried to—she wanted me, or us, to come along. But I—wasn't ready. And you had your work here, and all."
He felt a lump growing in his throat. "Why weren't you ready?"
She didn't answer until she'd rested her head back on his shoulder, and when she spoke, her voice was muffled in his shirt. "I might have. Except you were here . . ."
After a time, he began stroking her hair again, and then he pressed his cheek against her hair; and she put her arms around his chest and hugged him hard.
For a long time neither of them moved, and in the near-silence, he realized just how much he had missed her, how terribly much he had missed knowing her—how deeply he had once drunk of her tenderness and her understanding and beauty, and how much he now desired her. A tension grew in his shoulders as he tried to modulate his breathing, thinking how much he desired her. His heart beat faster. Was he crazy? But Dax had told him to let go, let go. . . .
After an eternity, Tamika looked up at him. He cradled her head in his hands and studied her face, haloed by her disarrayed hair; he studied her angular brow and her narrow mouth with her lips parted as if she wanted to say something. He studied her honey-colored eyes and struggled to think what to say.
"Rus'lem," she whispered, and her gaze dropped to look at his sinewy arms, and she stroked his biceps; and for a moment, perhaps, both of them thought of another time, not long ago, when his hands had cradled her neck but not so lovingly.
"Twig," he murmured, and her eyes came back up to meet his. Her slitted pupils were nearly oval in the gloom, oval with desire, and perhaps with fear. "Twig, I—"
(Dax!) he thought, with a sudden twinge of desperation. (I need to know.)
((Yes?))
(Is it safe?)
((Do you mean—))
(If anything happens, can you keep me from harming her?)
For a moment, there was no answer. He swallowed, holding Tamika's gaze, wondering if he was crazy for not getting up and walking away right now. Then Dax answered:
((It's safe, yes. As safe as I know how to make it.))
"Thank you," he whispered in reply, and he closed his eyes, wondering if Tamika would be as confident as Dax was.
"You're welcome," he heard. When he opened his eyes again, she was studying him with a trace of amusement.
"Willard Jerusalem Ruskin," she murmured, placing a finger to his lips. "Were you talking to Dax?"
He tried to nod, found he was so overcome with desire that he could scarcely move the muscles. Her face was so beautiful, framed by the shadow of her hair, that it nearly stopped his heart to look at her. At last he whispered, "It's me. Just you and me." And before she could answer, he touched his lips to hers, feeling her breath on his mouth. They both began to sigh at once, and he kissed her again. This time she returned it, her lips softening, then growing firm, pressing hard against his.
They broke and hugged tightly. Tears were leaking from his eyes again. When they pulled back from each other, her face seemed to glow from the shadows. He had never wanted her so much. "Yes?" he asked.
"Oh yes. . . ."
* * *
In the near-darkness, in the cradling embrace of the varigrav bed, their bodies were like fluid objects in space, slowly and rhythmically moving. Naked, they explored the wondrous newness of their bodies, as though they had never made love before; and they reveled in the familiarities, the joy of remembered movements. Her eyes, and the hair that drifted across them, so enchanted him that he could scarcely look away except to admire the rest of her body: her slim torso, ribs just showing; the angular shape of her small but sharp breasts, nipples skewed slightly outward; the sharply defined lines of her hips, and the tuft of shadow at their center; her movements, legs entwining with his, hands running through his hair.
And awakening in his mind, the memories . . .
So well they had once known each other, so well they had loved. He remembered the touch and the smell and the sound and the movement . . . the memory of joining, two becoming one, the pressure that would build and the desire, and the shuddering release that would follow . . .
And awakening in his mind was a new fear. (Dax!)
He could not help pulling back a little with the suddenness of the thought, the fear. She peered at him in the dark, tugging him toward her again. He resisted. He had to know—
(Dax, damn it!)
((I'm here.))
(Is it safe, Dax? Tell me!)
((Yes. I told you. I won't let you hurt her . . .))
(Not that, damn it! Is she safe from—)
"Rus'lem," she whispered, closing her legs around him, pulling him in. He was as hard now as he could possibly be, and he wanted her so badly, but . . .
(Am I going to infect her, damn it? Am I going to pass on your NAGs to her? Dax, I can't risk that!) Jesus, he wanted her, and her hands were cradling him now, guiding him . . . (Dax!)
((It's safe, Willard. The NAGs have been cleared from that part of your—))
(That's all I want to know.)
In the darkness they drew apart, then drew together. In the darkness, the two bodies moved together, one body now moving.