Jake had set the shows up to portray Priscilla in the role of Maggie, one of the more aggressive students, and himself as Charles, the inept local police chief, who was terrified of the girls. In her favorite episode, a few gangsters make the mistake of kidnapping two boyfriends and holding them for ransom. The police are effectively helpless, but the thugs have no chance against the girls, led by an outraged Maggie.
When she’d finished her research, she decided to go back to Venable High. But she became quickly bored. It should have come as no surprise. Priscilla had never been much interested in watching HV or going to the theater alone. She needed company to make entertainment work. Though maybe she had an option. “Lily?”
“Yes, Priscilla?”
“Would you be interested in watching a show this afternoon?”
“Absolutely. What did you have in mind?”
She thought her best bet was to find something that would be intellectually challenging for Lily. “How about The Broken Seal?” she said. “It’s a murder mystery.”
“That sounds good.”
She put it on. Grant Seagal was a homicide detective who always seemed overmatched by the killer. But the killer’s tendency to underestimate the inspector inevitably proved his undoing. The audience always knew from the start who had committed the murder, and it never took Seagal long to figure it out. The suspense always lay in discovering how the detective would establish the truth.
The Broken Seal was a good show. But watching it with an AI who was effectively invisible turned out to be not much different from watching it alone. Priscilla stayed with it, but she was glad when it ended.
* * *
IN THE MORNING, she had breakfast in her pajamas and sat down on the bridge and gazed out at the mists. She played a couple of games of chess with Lily, and, when the eggs and toast had settled, got into her workout gear and did her daily physical routine. Then she went looking for a book and came up with a collection of plays by Jason Woodwell, the celebrated dramatist whose career had spanned the early years of the century. She decided to try Square Pegs, in which a pair of government workers decide to opt for honesty and efficiency and discover there’s an innate danger in an effective bureaucracy. She could read it, or watch it, as she preferred. She didn’t feel much like watching another show, so she stayed with the book version.
“Lily,” she said, “I need some music.”
“What would you prefer, Priscilla?”
“Rachmaninoff,” she said.
“Are you serious?” Lily sounded shocked.
“Yes. Why, is that a problem?”
“You seem rather young to have a taste for classical music.”
“Put him on the piano,” she said. “Nobody’s better.”
“How loud do you want it?”
“Keep it soft. It’s for background.” And she started on the first act.
* * *
THEN SHE READ Paper Tiger, another Woodwell play, a political drama that had won the Americus Award. It had been one of her assignments in college, but Priscilla had not been able to get past the first act. This time she enjoyed it thoroughly. Background music came from Joel Martin, the string guitarist who had brought in a new era a few years back with his light-speed rhythms. She read Woodwell’s other plays as well, Firelight, Taking the Plunge, Gift Horse, The Last Virgin, Harmony Island, and kept going, usually at a rate of two per day. She also read several of his essays, which weren’t as much fun as the plays, but they were interesting and helped pass the time.
She talked about her reactions with Lily, who showed, of course, a complete familiarity with Woodwell’s work. And that was the problem. She knew all the facts but didn’t really grasp what the plays were about. She did not understand why, for example, characters would want to cling to belief systems not supported by evidence. Unlike people, Lily had no fear of being turned off. Or proven wrong.
Each morning, Priscilla arrived on the bridge, asked Lily if anything had changed since the previous night, heard the negative response, and went back to the passenger cabin, where she had breakfast. Two hours later she was in the workout area. She hadn’t expected to miss Jake as much as she did. Or miss having somebody on board. Thank God, she thought, for Monika Wolf.
* * *
PRISCILLA’S JOURNAL
This is the first time I’ve been out here by myself. I thought I understood about the solitude, when I was alone with a few other cadets, or with Jake. But when there’s actually nobody else in the ship, nobody within light-years, it takes on a whole new aspect. I can’t help wondering whether, eventually, being alone under these conditions might not have a deleterious effect on emotional stability.
—December 5, 2195
Chapter 18
JAKE WAS SITTING with Alicia at Burstein’s German Restaurant in Roanoke, enjoying sauerbraten and red cabbage, when she surprised him. “Are you doing anything tomorrow evening?” she asked.
“Well,” he said, “I can’t say I have any plans that can’t be broken. Why? What’s going on?”
“I was wondering if you’d be interested in watching a basketball game?”
That sounded as if she had a nephew or someone playing for one of the local high schools. The prospect of spending two hours watching teenagers run up and down the court wasn’t exactly appealing. “Who’s playing?” he asked, making no real effort to hide his feelings.
She delivered a mischievous smile. “I am.”
“You are?”
“I play for the Christiansburg Hawks. We’re playing Pulaski tomorrow evening.”
“I didn’t know you were a basketball player.”
She produced a ticket and held it out for him. “It’s at the Pulaski Recreation Center. If you’re interested.”
“Sure,” he said. “I love watching beautiful women play basketball.”
* * *
THEY DROVE OVER in Jake’s car. “I don’t usually start,” she said.
“They put you in when the game’s on the line.”
“Right. You should also know that the Jets—that’s the Pulaski team—are in first place.”
“And you guys are right behind them?”
“I wish. No, we’re down in the middle of the pack.”
“Well, knock this crew over, and I’ll treat for drinks afterward.”
“How about if we don’t knock them over?”
“That’s not exactly a championship attitude, Alicia.”
She laughed. “Call it reality.”
Maybe it would be just what he needed, now that he had a second death to feel guilty about. He was trying to persuade himself Leon’s suicide wasn’t his fault, either. It wasn’t. Not really. But had he met his responsibility and turned him over to the Feds, he’d still be alive.
“You okay?” asked Alicia.
“I’m fine.” He hadn’t told her about Leon’s visit, hadn’t told anyone. He’d hated Leon after he found out he was the culprit. He’d never forget those terrible hours on the Copperhead while they waited for news of the Thompson. And the moment when he’d stood silent while Joshua went down to the cargo bay. Nobody had actually confronted him about that. Even Patricia had ducked. Or tried to. But she’d been the one who had framed the words that had cut him so deeply: “To be clear, nobody’s blaming you for what happened.”