Jon began to speak, raising his voice so all could hear, his Belter’s slur gone and his words ringing out clear and strong as the notes of a trumpet.
“Dr. Georgory Marchey, you were brought here among us against your will, and as a stranger. You are a stranger no more. You have been a true friend to us all. Now you say that it is time for you to leave us. Although we wish you would stay, you depart with our blessings. But there are some things we want to give you before you go.
“Our friend, we give you our lives, for it is you who has redeemed them for us. We give you our trust, for that is the least of what you have earned. We give you our eternal friendship, for you have been a true friend to us when we needed a friend the most. We give you our love, for love is the font from which friendship and trust and even life itself flows.”
Jon put his hand on Marchey’s shoulder, his face grave as a judge’s and yet suffused with pleasure. “Last of all, we give you our home. It is your home now, because home is the place where love and trust and friendship and life wait for you. Come in fear or come in joy, come in triumph or come in direst extremity; know that you can return here to your home and you will find us waiting to embrace you in full welcome.”
Jon embraced Marchey then, kissing both of his cheeks. When he stepped back, his brown eyes sparkled with tears of joy. The Kindred had few rituals, and this was their oldest and most precious. It meant all the more to him and all the rest because it had so nearly died with them.
“Come home again, Brother Marchey,” he intoned, completing the rite, “Come home to where your kindred wait for you.”
No one broke the throbbing silence that followed. Every eye was upon Marchey, many of them gleaming with tears.
Marchey realized that they were waiting for him to respond. Their simple, sincere offering had moved him deeply, leaving him at a loss for words.
“Thank you,” he said, the tightness in his chest and throat turning it into a strangled croak. He gazed out over their upturned faces, so many of them familiar to him now. His whole body felt rocked by the massive wave of love and gratitude washing over him, threatening to carry him away. Deep enough to drown him.
Vast enough to bury him there.
“Thank you!” This time it was a desperate shout, and a thunderous cheer echoed back from it, shivering him from end to end. It grew louder and more jubilant.
He clumsily turned toward the lock tube, breathless and shaking. Jon offered his misshapen hand. He took it, silver fingers gripping the gnarled pink-and-black knot. There was no thought of its being an imperfect work. It was the hand of a friend.
“Fare you well, my friend,” Jon yelled over the uproar. He winked. “It’s still not too late to change your mind!”
Marchey ducked his head, an inarticulate yes and no all at once. Jon released his hand, and he hauled himself up the sagging guide-line into his ship with one arm, the bottle clutched to his chest in the other.
Once inside he banged on the lock’s close bar with desperate haste. The doors hissed shut, silencing the cheers and farewells. He crossed the main compartment at a stumbling half run. When he reached the control board he tucked the bottle under his arm and slapped the pad that brought up the message:
DEPARTURE SEQUENCE INITIATED
The ship rumbled into life around him like a steel beast preparing to digest what had fallen into its belly. He stood there, silver hands locked on to the edge of the board like vises, eyes blindly fixed on the orange abort pad.
The battered panels covering the docking area ground back to reveal the starry void. There was a slight jolt as the clamps were released, then the ship started to fall slowly toward the waiting emptiness.
A minute later it emerged from the uncovered blister on Ananke’s stony, pockmarked surface into pale warmthless sunlight. The craft sideslipped, angling away, electronic senses casting for the next destination.
The abort pad still glowed as the time to change his mind ticked away. He closed his eyes, putting temptation out of sight.
The acceleration warning sounded. Ten seconds later the ship’s primary drive flared. Weight settled over Marchey, pressing him down as the ship flung him away from Ananke, gathering speed with every passing second.
At last he opened his eyes, and stood there watching the barren gray moon dwindle to a smeary dot on the screen.
Such a small, pitiful place. Ugly inside and out. Barely 20 km in diameter, scarcely enough gravity to attract dust.
Yet he could feel it pulling at him, raising a tide in his blood. The stupendous gravity of Jupiter was a weak force beside it. That could only captivate the body.
“Doctor,” he muttered tonelessly, “I diagnose a serious need for medication to help you recover from your time in near free fall.” He turned his back on the screen and lurched toward the galley nook.
A pad combination he knew by heart got him a cup of synthetic vodka from the dispenser. As always, the ship was ready to provide him with what he needed. All forms of escape at his fingertips.
He tossed it back, shuddering as it went down. When his eyes quit watering enough to see the pad clearly he called for another.
This one he raised in mock salute. “Well, I made it. I’m safe now.”
He laughed, but it had a hollow, mocking sound, and the expression on his face was not that of a man who has slipped free of a trap and regained his freedom.
Angel watched the shining blue mote centered in the star-flecked darkness of her bedroom screen dwindle and dim. When she could no longer differentiate it from the other glowing points, she turned the unit off.
The screen blanked, the light fading with it.
Her angel eye automatically shifted fo a combination of light amplification and infrared, allowing her to see in the gloom. But there was nothing it could do to help her find her way through the blackness that had descended inside her. Only one light could do that, and now it was gone.
She hung her head, admitting defeat.
There were so many things she had wanted to tell him.
But she hadn’t even said good-bye.
Angel heaved herself to her feet with a sigh. There was work to be done. Work at least was something she was good at. Good for.
Maybe if she filled all her hours with it, she could keep her mind off the endless, comfortless night that was the future.
Marchey managed to pry his eyelids open, even though they seemed to weigh several kilos each. Bright light crashed into his bloodshot eyes like broken glass fired from a shotgun. He squeezed them shut again to keep from getting holes in his brain.
He lay there for several seconds, steeling himself for another attempt. Groaning at the effort it took to lift his head, he squinted blearily around to get his bearings. Little by little his brain ground into action like a gearbox full of sand, rocks, and tar.
He licked his lips. “Yurk.” His mouth felt like a dog with mange had slept in it.
He found out that he’d passed out at the galley table, which explained why one side of his face felt flat and numb. Clear memories of his first and second helpings of vodka remained. He recalled using the table’s touchpad to check on his passenger, and remembered the drink he’d gotten himself as a reward for remembering to do so. After that things got kind of fuzzy.
A glance at the clock told him that twelve hours had passed since his last grip on reality. Wincing at the thunderous clang of his fingers against the auto-kitchen’s touchpads, he punched in an order for coffee spiked with brandy. He gulped it down greedily, scalding the fur from his tongue.