He dreamed, a dream in which he was very young, his father a figure that towered over him. He was in his room in the Academy building, the old Denver museum, where he felt as safe as he ever had anywhere in the world, safe with his books and toys and computers and his phone, waiting for that precious hour when his father came back from work and might play with him, if his mood wasn’t for punishment.
He didn’t know how long he slept. When he woke the room was dark.
There was somebody else on the bed, lying on top of the blanket, legs spooned behind his, a heavy, comforting arm across his hip. Somebody heavy. “Dad?” Of course it wasn’t Dad.
“It’s all right,” Harry whispered. “I just wanted to make sure you’re OK. I care for you, you know that.” His breath was warm on the back of Zane’s neck as he spoke.
“My father-”
“They’ll have more news in the morning.” Harry’s arm moved up over Zane’s hip, and his hand pressed Zane’s chest, so Zane’s body was pulled back against him.
Zane felt as if he couldn’t move, as if he was trapped in a dream of immobility.
Harry whispered, “You poor kid.”
“Why am I a poor kid?”
“Well, so much is up in the air now. Your father may not recover. Even if he does there is bound to be a rescoping of the project. People died, Zane.” His hand moved, rubbing over Zane’s chest and stomach through his shirt, tender but strong. “You can’t be sure there will be a place for you after this. None of us can know that, not yet.”
That black fear bubbled. “I hadn’t thought that far.”
Harry hushed him. “I know, I know.” He pulled at the blanket so they both lay beneath it. Now Zane could feel the length of his body through his clothes, as they lay in the bed. Harry shifted and he passed his left arm under Zane’s body, and worked that hand under his shirt. His fingers roamed over Zane’s chest and belly, pushing down toward his groin. “Hush. Don’t worry.”
“But my father-”
“He fights with Edward Kenzie, you know. I don’t think Edward ever forgave Jerzy for the way he helped the President sequester the project. What Edward wants is for Kelly to be on that ship. Now it’s out of his hands. Oh, he’s angry at your father for that. Angry at you. ” All this was whispered in Zane’s ear. Harry’s mouth was so close now that Zane could feel his stubble on the back of his neck, a soft scraping. Still he talked, steadily. “And then there’s this strange crew demography they’re planning, everybody the same age. As soon as I saw that I thought of you, Zane. You’re an outlier in the age distribution. There’s so much stacked against you, isn’t there?” The words were harder now, the breath hot and percussive against Zane’s neck.
With his right arm Harry reached over and grabbed Zane’s hand in his own. Zane resisted, just for a second, but Harry was so much stronger, and he pulled the hand behind Zane’s back, between their bodies.
“But I’m here.” He pushed Zane’s hand down. Zane felt a tangle of hair, and an erection, hot, the skin smooth. Harry made him close his fingers around the shaft, and Harry started thrusting, subtly. “I’ll defend you,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe. Without me-without me-the others will get rid of you. But I’m here, and I’ll always make sure..” It didn’t last long. The words broke up in gasps and a shudder.
Harry released his hand, and Zane pulled his arm back. There was semen on his palm, hot and stringy. He wiped it on the sheet.
For long minutes Harry just lay there, his left arm still under Zane’s body. Then he withdrew his arm and kissed Zane on the neck. “Sleep now.” Zane felt the weight shift as Harry got out of the bed, and then a fumbling as he adjusted his clothes before walking out through the door.
Zane felt behind himself in the dark. The sheets where Harry had lain were a sticky mess, as were the back of Zane’s own pants. Zane got out of the bed, and stripped off his pants and threw them to the floor. Then he pulled the blanket off the other bed, wrapped it around his shoulders, and huddled down in the corner of the room, facing the door. He sat there, sleepless until morning.
21
Three days after the accident Gordon James Alonzo hosted a preliminary inquiry in the Capitol building in Denver. To her surprise Holle was summoned, along with Kelly Kenzie and Mel Belbruno.
The walk across town, escorted by Don Meisel, was grim. The city was now surrounded by rings of defensive perimeters, and internally was sliced up into control zones, with barriers between Auraria and LoDo and the Central Business District. The civic center was like a fortress. Don was alert, wary. There was a fear that the Candidates could be a target.
Holle thought the mood was changing, generally. The rising flood had now passed the altitude of the lowest point in Colorado, a place called Holly in the valley of the Arkansas, a symbolic moment. The water was coming, and the inward flow of refugees was intensifying. Invesco Field and Coors Field and the Pepsi Center had become not so much processing as detention centers. A potato blight had drastically worsened the food situation. And now the Byers incident had raised tensions. As the flood went on and on, relentlessly rising, the waters seemed to be washing away any hope, any optimism that this vast convulsion would ever come to an end. For the first time the idea that this really was an end of the world was being taken seriously, absorbed imaginatively. That was what lay under all the stress, she thought. And that tension crackled across the dingy downtown.
Magnus Howe met them at the State Capitol. Once they were through the security barriers he escorted them to a meeting room, and showed where they should take their places at a big conference table.
Holle looked around warily. Gordo himself sat at the head of the table. Behind him was a big interactive whiteboard, and flipcharts summarizing the status of the project’s various aspects. Screens and touch pads were set into the surface of the table before the attendees.
Down one side of the table sat senior air force, NASA and government people. The big names of the old civilian control of the project were lined up along the other side, including Holle’s and Kelly’s fathers. Liu Zheng and more of the technical team sat looking impatient, abashed. Some of the attendees had teams of assistants sitting behind their seniors, backs against the walls, so the room was filling up.
Holle’s father caught her eye and smiled. She hadn’t spoken to him face to face since the accident. Everybody had been running around too much, scrambling to cope with the accident’s aftermath, preparing for reviews like this, and thinking about options for recovery and rescoping. But Holle knew that it was at Patrick’s and Edward’s insistence that the Candidates had representatives here at this crucial meeting. They might not be able to contribute much, but in a sense the whole exercise was for them; they ought to be here. “Even if,” as Kelly had said gloomily, “it’s only to hear the whole show is going to be canceled.”
The air was already hot. The aircon was juddery, even here in the Capitol building. Everything was breaking down. Water jugs stood full on the table, glinting with dew, and Holle longed to pour herself a glass, but she didn’t dare. As the attendees filed in there was silence save for a scraping of chairs, an occasional cough. Everybody seemed so old, save the Candidates and one or two aides.
At last only one space remained at the table, and there was a tense pause. Then the doors opened, held back by an air force orderly, and a paramedic in a bright orange coverall pushed in a wheelchair. Jerzy Glemp sat in the chair, his whole body swathed in a green blanket. A patch covered one eye.