Her granddaughter Miranda. Richard’s daughter. Richard, her son, who had chosen to side with Miranda’s treachery against his own mother. Richard, who was there with Miranda now.
“Ten seconds.”
She couldn’t remember Richard as a baby. She had been so young, and so involved in creating Sanctuary, and she had not yet trained herself to the discipline of remembering everything. It was Miranda’s babyhood that she recalled. Miranda, with her dark eyes and unruly black hair, laughing at the stars as Jennifer held her to the window in this very room. Miranda.
Miri—
“No!” Jennifer cried, and her cry blotted out the calm voice of the terminal in the corner.
“It’s over, Jenny,” Will said softly. “It’s over.” But Jennifer was crying, sobbing so hard she barely heard the system add, “New Mexico operation complete.” Later, she would resent that she had sobbed, and resent Will for seeing it. It was a disgrace to her own discipline, but now she cried like a two-year-old because it shouldn’t have to be this way, the choices shouldn’t have to be so hard. The terrible choices of war.
Miri—
Will held her as if she were a frightened child, and even through her sobbing and resentment and her inexcusable weakness she knew that as long as he, with his despised kindness, still did this for her, she was going to keep Will Sandaleros around.
Fourteen
Light on her face woke Theresa, and she cried out.
A moment later, she remembered where she was. Slumped on the window seat at the end of the upper-floor hallway—since last night? All night? She’d only meant to sit down a minute, look out at the park, escape her study for a little while.
Painfully she uncramped her body from the narrow seat. Her back ached, her neck felt stiff, her mouth tasted horrible. How long since she’d slept, before last night? How long since she’d eaten? She had lost track. Jackson hadn’t been home for days. Theresa had been alone, locked in her study, watching the news grids and printing pictures for her wall. Pictures of dying unChanged babies, of adults fighting each other savagely for nonexistent Change syringes, of raids for Y-cones, for furniture, for terminals, on dipped enclaves in Oregon, in New Jersey, in Wisconsin… Theresa had watched it all.
I am come to bear witness to the destruction of worlds. Thomas had found her the quote. Theresa had stared at it until her eyes blurred. Then she had stared at the newsgrids some more. Then she had stared at the message on her system, the message that should not have been there:
I saw the pictures of the Liver babies. You have to find Miranda Sharifi and make her give us some more Change syringes. You’re a donkey, you have all this money, you can get to Miranda, in ways we can’t—
The message had been spoken, of course, but Theresa had asked Thomas to write it out. Then Theresa had stared at it, sleepless, for however many days it had been since Jackson was home. At first she’d tried to pretend that the message was a mistake, a fluke, one of the thousands of messages people all over the country were composing to beam up to Selene, and that it had leaked onto Theresa’s personal system through some weird Net error. But even while she told herself that, Theresa knew she wasn’t crazy enough to believe it.
Too bad.
The message was from that girl that Jackson had brought home, the Liver girl with the baby made fearful by neuropharms, and the message was intended for Theresa. Jackson always wanted her to face facts; those were the facts. The message was for her.
Of course, that didn’t mean she had to do anything about it.
She had been staring at the message, away from it, at the newsholos of the dying babies, away from them, at the walls of her study, away, for two days. Or three. Until last night she’d suddenly thought that if she didn’t get out of that room, she would go crazy. Crazier. And she’d stumbled to the window seat, and looked down at the night-lighted park and up through the enclave dome at the stars, and she’d started to sob until she couldn’t stop. For no reason, no reason at all…
Take a neuropharm, Jackson said in her mind. Tessie, it’s biochemical, you don’t have to feel this way…
“Fuck off,” Tessie said aloud, for the first time in her life, and started to cry again.
No. Enough of that. She had to pull herself together, take a bath, eat something… She had to return to her study. Babies were dying, little children being scarred and disfigured by horrible diseases, mothers like that girl Lizzie holding babies writhing in pain… Why couldn’t she forget about it? Other people did! Just push it out of her mind, stay out of her stupid study…
Take a neuropharm, Tessie.
“Ms. Aranow,” Jones said, “you have a priority-one call.”
“Tell them I’m dead.”
“Ms. Aranow?”
It could only be Jackson. She mustn’t worry him. She mustn’t… shouldn’t… couldn’t…
“Ms. Aranow?”
“Say I’m coming, Jones.”
Theresa climbed off the window seat. Her head swam. Leaning against the wall until her vision cleared, she felt her knees wobble. She locked them and took the call in the bathroom, where she wouldn’t have to send her image, it wasn’t Jackson.
“Tess? Where’s visual?” Cazie, looking crisp and fierce in a severe black suit.
“I just got out of the shower.” Cazie knew that Theresa didn’t like her body on display.
“Oh, sorry. Listen, where’s Jackson?”
“Isn’t he with you?” Theresa said.
“You know quite well he’s not with me; I can hear it in your voice. Don’t play games with me, Tess. Where did he take those Livers?”
“I don’t… which Livers?”
Cazie’s face changed. This, Theresa thought, must be the face that Jackson saw when he and Cazie fought: high, sharp cheekbones sprung out of soft skin, eyes as hard as the marble floor beneath Theresa’s bare feet. Theresa shrank back a little against the sink.
“Tell. Me. Theresa. Where. Jackson. Is.”
Theresa squeezed her eyes shut.
“You won’t tell me. All right, I’m coming over there now.”
“No! I’m… I’m on my way out!”
“Oh, right. When was the last time you went out? Ten minutes, Tess.” The screen blanked.
Panic seized Theresa. Cazie would get it out of her, Cazie could get anything out of her, she’d tell Cazie that Jackson had taken Lizzie and the others to Kelvin-Castner in Boston… Jackson had said not to say anything. To anyone. Especially not to Cazie. But Cazie was on her way… Theresa would order Jones not to let her in.
Cazie would know the overrides. For the apartment, for the building. For Theresa’s mind.
All right, then—Theresa wouldn’t be here when Cazie came.
The moment the thought came, Theresa knew it was right. She needed to leave before Cazie arrived. Also, she needed to do what the message on her system told her to do—get to Miranda Sharifi and make her give out more Change syringes. You’re a donkey, you have all this money, you can get to Miranda, you, in ways we can’t—Theresa had spent two days (three?), she now saw, trying to push what she had to do out of her mind. And it hadn’t worked—it never did. Ignoring the summons to pain only made the pain worse. The summons was a gift, she’d somehow overlooked that, and not acting on the gift had only made her crazy.
Crazier.
But not now.
Quickly, with a smoothness that surprised her, Theresa darted from the bathroom. No time for a shower now. But shoes—she’d need shoes. And a coat. It was April outside the enclave—wasn’t April cold? She grabbed shoes and coat. “The roof,” she told the elevator. “Please.”