Carlo stood his ground, head back. "God may only be a fable, whereas I have an investment to watch over. In any case, my family has generally found bullets rather more reliable than prayer."
"All right," Sandoz said, smiling briefly and broadly. "All right. Why not? My experience with illusions has not been happy, but who knows? Perhaps—short-term—yours will help us both."
Satisfied with what he had learned, Carlo nodded to Nico. He turned to leave the exercise bay and saw John Candotti standing in the doorway. "Worried, Gianni?" Carlo asked blithely, as he brushed past him. John glared and Carlo backed away in mock alarm, raising both hands. "I swear: I didn’t touch him."
"Screw you, Carlo."
"Any time," Carlo purred as he and Nico retreated down the curving passageway.
Emilio was already back on the treadmill.
"Why?" John demanded, facing him.
"I told you, John—"
"No! Not that! Not just trying to pilot the lander! I mean, all of it. Why have anything to do with Carlo? Why are you helping him? Why are you teaching them the languages? Why are you willing to go back—"
" ’Night and day lie open the gates of death’s dark kingdom,’ " Sandoz recited, hiding behind Virgil, amused but by whom it was not clear. " ’To find the way back to daylight: that is work, that is labor—’»
"Don’t. Don’t shut me out like this!" John hit the treadmill power toggle so abruptly Sandoz stumbled. "Dammit, Emilio, you owe me something—an explanation, at least! I just want to understand—" He stopped himself, startled by the reaction. Shout at me, John thought, going cold, but don’t look at me like that.
Finally Sandoz willed the trembling to stop, and when he spoke, his eyes were so hard and his voice so soft that his words seemed to John a vicious insult. "Were your parents married?" he asked.
"Yes," John hissed.
"To each other?" Sandoz pressed, just as quietly.
"I don’t have to take this shit," John muttered, but before he could leave, Emilio turned and kicked the door shut.
"Mine weren’t," he said.
John froze, and Emilio looked at him for a long time. "One of my earliest memories is of my mother’s husband yelling at me for calling him Papi. I remember wondering, Maybe I should call him Papa. Or maybe Padre? Perhaps that’s when I became a linguist—I thought there was another word I was supposed to use! I would try saying it a different way, but he’d get even madder and knock me across the room for being a smart-ass. Usually he’d end up beating the crap out of my mother—and I knew it was my fault somehow, but I didn’t know what I’d done wrong! I kept trying to find the right way to say things. Nothing worked." He paused and looked away. "And there was my older brother. It seemed like he was permanently pissed off at me—nothing I did was right or good enough. And there was the way everyone would stop talking when my mother and I walked into a store or passed people in the street." Emilio’s eyes returned to John’s. "You know what puta means?"
John nodded slightly. Whore.
"I’d hear that when my mother and I were out together. From kids, yes? You know—just kids, trying to be real witty and bold. I didn’t get it, of course. Shit, I was what? Three, four years old? All I knew was there was something going on and I didn’t understand it. So I kept looking for an explanation." He stared at John for a time and then asked, "Ever been to Puerto Rico?" John shook his head. "Puerto Rico is really mixed. Spanish, African, Dutch, English, Chinese, you name it. People are all different colors. For a long time it didn’t strike me as odd that my mother and her husband and my older brother were all light-haired and fair-skinned, and here I was, this little Indio, like a cowbird in a warbler’s nest, yes? But one day, when I was about eleven, I slipped and called my mother’s husband Papa. Not to his face—I just said something like, When did Papa come home? He always got ugly when he was drunk, but that time—Jesus! He really took me apart. And he kept yelling, Don’t call me that! You’re nothing to me, you little bastard! Don’t ever call me that!"
John closed his eyes, but then opened them and looked at Emilio. "So you got your explanation."
Emilio shrugged. "It still took me a while—Christ, what a dumb kid! Anyway, afterward, when they were putting the cast on my arm, I was thinking, How can a son be nothing to a father? Then it hit me, so to speak." There was a brief bleak smile. "I thought, Well, he’s been telling me I was a bastard all along. I was just too stupid to realize he meant it."
"Emilio, I didn’t mean to—"
"No! You said you wanted to understand. I’m trying to explain, okay? So just shut up and listen!" Emilio sank onto the edge of the treadmill. "Sit down, will you?" he said wearily, neck craned. "Everybody on this goddamned ship is so fucking big," he muttered, blinking spasmodically. "I feel like a dwarf. I hate that."
For an instant John could see a skinny little kid, huddled up and waiting for the beating to be over; a small man in a stone cell, waiting for a rape to end…. Jesus, John thought, sitting on the floor across from Sandoz. "I’m listening," he said.
Emilio took a deep breath, and started again. "See, the thing about all this is, when I finally worked it out, I wasn’t angry, okay? I wasn’t ashamed. I wasn’t hurt. Well, I was hurt—I mean, the guy put me in the hospital, right? But I swear: my feelings weren’t hurt." He watched John carefully. "I was relieved. Can you believe that? I was just so fucking relieved."
"Because things finally made sense," said John.
Emilio inclined his head. "Yes. Things finally made sense. They still sucked, but at least they made sense."
"And that’s why you want to go back now. To Rakhat. To find out if things make sense?"
"Want to go back? Want to?" Emilio cried. The bitterness was sharp but short-lived, replaced by simple tiredness. He looked down at the floor of the exercise bay, and then shook his head, the bone-straight hair, more silver than black now, falling over eyes almost bloody with fatigue. "I keep thinking of that line: if you are asked to go a mile, go two. Maybe this is the extra mile. Maybe I’ve got to give it all another chance," Emilio said quietly. "I can tolerate a great deal if I just understand why…. And there’s only one place I can find that out."
He was silent for a long time. "John, when you arrive on Rakhat, all you will have are the knowledge and skills you and your companions can bring to bear on problems you cannot imagine or anticipate—problems you cannot pray or buy or bluff or even shoot your way out of. If I withhold information from Carlo and his people and if something happens because of their ignorance, I will be responsible. I’m not willing to take that chance."
He pulled in a breath and held it before asking "Did you hear what Carlo said? Before? That I’m frightened?" John nodded. "John, I’m not just scared, I’m probably fucked up for life," he said, laughing at how awful it was, the glittering black eyes held wide with the effort to contain the tears that had not yet spilled. "Even with Gina—. I don’t know, maybe it would have gotten better, but I still had nightmares, even with her. And now— Jesus! They’re worse than ever! Sometimes I think, maybe it’s better this way. The screaming would have scared Celestina, you know? What kind of life is that for a little kid, growing up with her stepfather screaming every night?" he asked, the sound wrung from his voice. "Maybe it’s better for her, this way."
"Maybe," John said doubtfully, "but that’s not much of a silver lining, is it?"
"No, it’s not," Emilio agreed. "I’ll take what I can get, I guess." He glanced at John, infinitely grateful that there had been no platitudes, no half-assed attempt to make him feel okay. He filled his lungs shudderingly, and got a grip on himself. "John, I—. Listen, you’ve been—"
"Forget it," John said, and thought, That’s what I’m here for.