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Chapter 16

He faced her, cross-legged in the darkness. "Do you mind if we talk politics some more?" She groaned, letting her head fall back onto the pillow. "Well, I just thought, as long as neither of us can sleep . . ."

Her eyes surveyed his face in the gloom; her fingers ran down his bare left arm, pausing in the crook of his elbow. "We could talk about us," she said. Her hand moved to his chest, fingering his hair.

He nodded. "Yeah." He caught her hand and kissed it. "But there are some things—" He shrugged. "Can you tell me about the Omega group? I hardly remember it at all."

"Good God, Rus'lem! So soon after making love?" He shrugged, looked down as her hand lingered over his stomach, then moved lower. He exhaled slowly as she cupped him. "You sure?" she murmured. He hesitated, closing his eyes, focusing for a moment on the sensation of her touch. Finally he nodded.

She withdrew her hand. He caught and held it between his own. "Forget the Omegas. Tell me about how I was politically naive."

"Hell," she said, and drew the thin coverlet up to her neck. She rolled away from him, laughing bitterly. "You were naive? How about me?"

He shook his head. "Let's just talk about my mistakes. Not yours. Tell me what I believed. What did I say?"

She sighed and rolled back. "You didn't really have formulated opinions. You just wanted to do your science and let other people worry about the rest, and you were content to defend the system you'd lived in all your life."

"What else?"

"You said it only made sense that the worlds that had the power to expand and encompass others should do that."

He blinked. Yes; that seemed to make sense. At least it sounded like something he might have thought. He remembered that his political views had been unsophisticated. He'd seen no need for sophistication when simplicity served.

"Well, I tried to convince you otherwise. And after a while you agreed. Maybe because I showed you enough examples of planets that had either been raped or swallowed whole by the Alliance, all in the name of stable economic growth." She rolled her head on the pillow, then smiled. "Or maybe it was because you thought I was good in bed."

He closed his eyes as an eruption of memories filled his mind. Memories of Tamika, of making love. "Have I hit upon the answer?" she asked wryly. "I never did really know."

He grinned and shook his head. "Why did you hang around with me, if you thought I was so dumb?"

"At first?" She grinned back at him. "Because I thought you were sexy. And I always did like dumb brilliant men."

He nodded, not quite able to laugh.

"And after that? Well, I always liked a challenge. And I liked making love with you." She kissed the back of his hand.

He smiled in answer, but his thoughts drifted. He still believed in the Auricle Alliance, didn't he? What else was there? The Tandesko Triune: a collection of worlds that was more like an interstellar beehive, and far less democratic than the Auricle worlds—a culture dedicated to an interlinkage of three races where individuality was as highly valued as the dirt on the floor. Was that a better alternative?

"Hey!" She nudged him. "Come back. Where'd you go?"

"Sorry. Just thinking. Remembering."

"Remembering us, I hope?" Her hand crept up his leg.

He didn't move to stop it, but said, "Tell me what you were offering as an alternative."

"To what?"

"To the Auricle Alliance."

She sat up, trying in vain to hide her exasperation.

"You didn't side with the Tandeskoes, did you?" He peered at her in puzzlement—not wanting to make her angry, but he had to know. His memory was a confused swirl. Fragmentary images rose up in his mind and darted away. Images of arguments, of beliefs, of hopes.

"Ruskin, you're about as romantic as a stone, you know that?" She sighed and looked away. "No, I didn't side with the goddamn Tandeskoes. All right?"

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. "But I have to ask. What did you want me to believe in? Who were the Omegas? I mean—who did you think they were?"

She snapped, "I was an idiot about the Omegas, okay? I've admitted that."

"I'm not trying to blame you, Twig." He reached out and gently entwined her hair in his fingers. "But it could be important."

Finally she nodded and faced him, knees drawn up to her chin. She spoke mutedly. "The Omegas are dedicated to nonexploitive progress. To the idea that worlds can be opened without their having to be owned. Or so it was presented. But apparently I was deceived." She rested her chin on her forearms, frowning. "I don't know whether the whole thing is a fraud, or I just got taken by some—"

"Infiltrator."

"Yes."

"How'd you first get started in it? Where'd you hear of it?"

She looked away again. "You really don't remember?"

"No."

"I wish we didn't have to dredge this all up again."

"Dredge—?"

"Yeah." She chewed her lip for a moment. "Well. You and I had been seeing each other for, I don't know, a few months. And I . . . had a brief flirtation—" her voice weakened—"I had an affair with a guy who quickly turned out to be a shit, which was exactly what I deserved, and I wish I didn't have to repeat all this. It wasn't exactly the highlight of yours and my relationship." She paused, and he gazed at her without speaking. Hints of a remembered pain danced at the back of his mind.

"Anyway, the one good thing that came of it—at least I thought it was a good thing at the time—was that through him I heard of the Omega group. Mind you, he was totally insincere—he only talked about it to get me into bed with him—and he dropped out right away after I dropped him. But I kept going to their meetings."

"And you got me interested in going, too?"

"Right. Well, sort of—after a while. You were no easy convert, let me tell you." She scratched her head and grinned sheepishly.

Ruskin nodded, studying her face. Would he have been attracted to a group like that, if their views seemed reasonable? He wasn't sure; it would require thought—and memory. He wondered how Dax and his army of NAGs were doing, back there inside his skull.

((We're working on it, but it's going to take time. It'd be best if you let things come naturally.))

He twitched. (Ah.)

Tamika was still staring at him in the dark. He smiled and rubbed the back of his hand against the back of hers. "Do you have to be at work or . . . anything, tomorrow? I mean, today?" It was, he suddenly realized, hours past midnight. He was still wide awake.

Tamika shook her head. Her eyes seemed luminous in the night, flecks of gold catching stray light from the clock, from the tiny LED night-lights that marked off the edge of the floor. "I don't have any work lined up for this week. I've been taking time off."

He felt a moment of confusion, then clarity. Of course. The memory had crystallized so suddenly, it was almost as if he'd known it all along: Tamika worked as a freelance editor on the internet, out of her home. She edited all sorts of political and scientific material, and in fact—"That's how we met, isn't it?" he said suddenly. "You edited a paper of mine, on—" He rubbed his forehead, trying to recall.

"'Patterns of Growth in the Habitat of Humanity.' Do you remember how I called you after I'd worked on it—and asked to meet you, because I liked what you'd written? And you said okay—but it took months to convince you that I didn't just call up every man whose work came across my screen?" She nudged him.

He grinned and put his hand over hers. She squeezed back. For a few heartbeats, he gazed at her, aroused all over again by the sight of her wide eyes, her shadowed face and hair. The coverlet had slipped down, exposing her right breast. She made no move to cover herself.

As his hand rose to cup her breast, she leaned forward to meet him, to kiss him. They floated just off the surface of the bed as their lips touched. It was a long kiss, and did not end there.

 

* * *

 

"Twig." Ruskin stood in front of his closet, flipping through the racks of clothes. He pulled out a burgundy-colored pullover. "Do you remember this?"

She padded in from the whirlmist, wearing his bathrobe. "That?" She took it out of his hand and held it up, chuckling. It was far too small for him. "You don't remember?"

He shook his head.

"It was the first present I ever gave you." She handed it back. "I got the size wrong, but you insisted on keeping it because you said it was precious to you—wrong size and all. You said it symbolized your current stature in the world, and you wanted to make sure that we both remembered it years later."

"I did not."

"Yes, you did. But see now who remembered?" Her expression softened and she blew him a kiss as she walked into the kitchen.

Ruskin stared after her, stared down at the maroon pullover. Something in her words resonated.

Stature in the world. Was I worried about that? What was I doing that I might have cared?

Images were crowding into his mind, more dreamlike sensations that he couldn't quite retain long enough to make sense of. He seemed to glimpse in his mind people, crowds of them in large meeting rooms, and research holos, laboratories, and telescopes. He swayed dizzily. Where was this memory from? There was a sense of fear, of deep anxiety . . .

"Rus'lem, how does broiled waffle-cheese sound?" Tamika was standing in the doorway.

He trembled, startled. "What? Yes. Fine." She disappeared. What had he been remembering? Anxiety and disillusionment . . . he couldn't quite recapture it. (Dax?)

((Yes.))

(There's something in that memory. I don't know what. . . .) His stomach fluttered as a greater wave of dizziness came over him. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead.

((Something in you is fighting it, Willard. I'm trying to trace it, but you've got to let go. Trust me to protect you.))

(Easy to say. I'm trying—)

((Don't try. Just relax.))

He breathed deeply and paced the room. The images and the dizziness receded. Give it up to Dax, he thought. Give it up to Dax.

"Rus'lem, someone's at the door!" Tamika called.

Suddenly alert, he strode out through the kitchen. "Who is it?"

Tamika was at the front-door monitor. "It's a robot."

"What the hell?" He went to the door. In the monitor he saw a short, gray mech waiting patiently in the hallway. He thumbed the intercom. "What do you want?"

"Repair unit Forty-six Fred, under contract to the apartment management," the mech answered. "You were notified last week of scheduled service calls to check on kitchen utilities."

"Like hell I was."

"Yessir, all tenants were memoed," the mech said smoothly. "In any case, it's a routine service and won't take more than a few minutes of your time."

"Not a chance. You'll have to come back another time."

"Sir, I have a schedule to keep. If I make exceptions for one tenant, it will inconvenience others."

"Nevertheless, you'll have to come back. Next time, confirm the appointment before you come," Ruskin said.

The robot stood silent in the hallway. Ruskin watched it in the monitor, wondering suddenly if it was a bomb. But something in him felt unafraid. No effort had been made to kill him since his return. Why would anyone try now?

The mech turned. "As you wish, sir. But please—could you double-check, sir, to see if our notice to you arrived?"

Ruskin shrugged. "I told you, I didn't get a notice."

"Could you please just double-check your console, sir? If our memo didn't reach you—"

"I'll check," Ruskin promised. "All right? Now, goodbye."

"Thank you, sir, and good day." The mech swiveled and trundled down the hallway.

Ruskin watched until it disappeared from the monitor. With an exasperated look at Tamika, he strode to his console and checked incoming memos from the past week. He grunted. "Son of a bitch, there is a memo here from the service company. And they say I acknowledged." He flipped off the console. "Well, I don't remember it."

Tamika rubbed the nape of his neck. "What difference does it make? We don't need it interrupting our morning." She kissed his neck. "Come on, help me get breakfast ready."

"You mean lunch?"

"Just come, okay?"

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