After the Fire
They don't give you training for days like these.
Sure, there are the orientation courses that take you through all the
likely downsides of the job. But nothing quite as weird as this. And
nothing that really tells you what it will be like when it happens.
So I'm standing here, knowing I don't look good in black, especially
the long drapy thing Mme. Beryl came up with for me, feeling like a
sack done up in the middle, and wondering what I should be doing and
thinking.
Life has been good for me and such of my family as I still keep in
touch with, and the UG makes sure that there's enough medical cover for
modern treatments that I'd been able to live my life to date without
having to attend a funeral. What a one to start out with.
The Syncretist Neo-Shinto priest in all the robes is intoning away in
high flown Japanese, and despite all efforts, I've simply not managed
to do more than get to the tourist getting by stage in that language.
I'd probably understand more of what he's going on about if it were the
padre that great-gran always insisted on dragging me off to, when I was
just an ankle-biter, doing the whole thing in Latin - and that is all
Greek as far as I'm concerned.
Her father is standing opposite me, across the grave, a small man, who
has let his hair grey at the temples to get the distinguished look that
a mid-ranking functionary needs. Her mother is holding on to his arm.
He has a dark suit, she has a kimono that she's now too dumpy to look
dignified in.
Neither of them has met my glance.
They still blame me for taking their little flower and leading her
astray - and that was back when we were freshman students. That's
ancient history - heck, I wasn't even me, the me I am now, back then.
Barely more than a naïve little kid myself.
Two of her older brothers, standing behind them. They look like they
could be enforcers for the yakuza in their dark suits and slicked hair.
Today, for the first time, they're not looking at me like they want to
get into my drawers. There's anger and bewilderment in their looks and
posture instead.
On my side, the Chief, standing there with that worried expression he
always has whenever we see him, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt;
and Mme. Beryl looking like everyone's favourite sainted aunt. But then
she must have attended every TroCon's funeral for longer than I care to
think about - and while the CC doesn't circulate the numbers, in our
line of work, that'll be a very large number. I hear she even invited
herself to Deirdre's - and she had wanted that to just be a personal
affair.
The priest is rambling on. If I've kept up with the order of service,
this must be the bit where he's praying for good things for her soul in
its next life. Myself, I always thought you get one life, and you've
got to - I plan to - live that one to the full. But now, with back-ups
- well - I'm no longer the me of yesterday, not yet the me of tomorrow,
so if it's not me personally there then, I won't really notice the
difference in each here and now. I'll live each life to the full.
I must get another engram back up taken before I return to duty.
Someone - some me - has to remember today. Even where it hurts. I've
already backed up the bad parts. Two of her, each dying at the other's
hand. That some last flickers of life remained was enough to drive me
on. If there had been none, if they had been more efficient, more
competent, more brutal, I wonder if I might not have simply given her a
Viking send-off in the pyre of Egawa, and performed suttee into the
bargain.
A crazy mad flight. Days like a raw wound, like a brand.
I think I treated the staff at base hospital worse this time than when
I was a patient there, until I was sure that they were doing all they
possibly could for her.
It's getting to the "Earth to Earth, the cycle continues" bit. The
little digger mech is starting to move.
She looks so serene, as if she were sleeping, the white brocade looking
like a wedding dress. Even though I know she's well on the mend in her
hospital bed, truly asleep, waiting for me, I feel my eyes filling. I
tell myself that I'm in control, calm and dignified, but I can't help
my face screwing up, hot tears leaking slowly down my cheeks.
This is the one I've laughed with, gotten drunk with, chased guys with,
had rows with, worked with, studied with - though, honestly, she did
most of the studying - and never held close to me as I want to hold her
now. At least they were able to get her engram, even if they couldn't
save her body.
That was the first thing they did - tissue for cloning they could take
at somewhat more leisure - take a backup from both of them. It came as
a surprise that only one of the results was playable. When it was clear
she was out of danger, but still comatose, they were able to reconcile
her memories and stabilise her mental balance. The back-up problem
certainly caused a stir, and they've gotten a lot of people involved,
working on fixing that, up to and including the CC itself. But for the
moment, she's write-only. If the worst comes to pass, she'll lose
everything since New Eysenck.
And if that happens, I'll find the bastards who did it and kill them.
And then take their back ups and do it again. Actually, I plan to do
that anyway. It's just not quite so urgent just at the moment. Not
while she's still to get well again, will need me there, even if she
doesn't know it.
The mech is firming the soil down now, ready to roll out the turf and
plant flowers.
Everyone else is wandering off. There's a buffet in a pavilion. An
acceptable reason to move people along, remind them that life goes on
for the living. The Chief is talking to the grieving relatives,
expressing his condolences, while Mme. Beryl is accepting the wishes
for a swift recovery, and I'm standing here, leaning on an old
fashioned walking stick, and my leg is killing me where it's still in
its cast.
As I stand here alone by her grave, I can hear a sound in the distance
like surf against a cliff. Beyond the security perimeter, the sound of
the riot, as mourners, distraught fans - off-world as well as local -
are clashing with those who would rather be burying both of us today,
backups and all. Closer, but keeping their distance, the press pack,
reporters talking to their audiences, with camera drones hovering
around them. The handful actually at the graveside are only the ones
who were obliged to come.
I wipe my eyes with my sleeve, and snuffle.
Now the priest is out of the way, and my eyes are no longer blurring, I
can see the stone her parents had chosen for her. A formal portrait - I
think it was one of the ones they insisted she had done when we
graduated - and some sentimental words. I know she'll hate it when she
sees it.
I take the exercise that I know I should - necessary upkeep on the most
gorgeous legs in the galaxy. It's not the physical discomfort of new-
healed muscle that holds me back. It's the fact that I don't know what
to say - if any of her family actually do speak to me. Even though I
saved her life, they will look at that headstone, and say different,
the child they raised is dead, and that it was my fault.
The buffet looks great, and well over-catered for such a small group of
mourners. Normally, with free food on offer, I'd be scarfing it up -
but today I have no appetite. Sheer habit drives me to take a plate,
put a few things on it. There's nothing stronger on offer to drink than
warm sake by the thimble, so I'm spared the decision of whether I'm
finally going to go and get stinking drunk now, as opposed to later.
I keep my distance from the others. I don't know what would be worse -
getting into a brawl if any of her family says anything to push me over
the edge, or wrecking my bad-ass reputation by bawling in public, on
UG-wide live hyperwave news. There's something screaming inside me to
be let out, but I grit my teeth. She would not believe the amount of
self-control I'm having to use today. I think of her, and breathe again
- a gasp for breath, not a sob or a howl.
I look up from the plate I'm holding, and see her father and the Chief
talking together. They must have been talking about me - their glances
suddenly turn in my direction - the Chief showing a strange expression
that it takes me a moment to recognize as concern, rather than his
usual worry; and her father showing startled incomprehension - does he
find it surprising that I could be as broken up as I am? - that her
life is not just a family matter, and hasn't been for years, since we
first met each other? When they see I'm looking up, they hastily look
away again, embarrassed. What had been said? Does the Chief know,
suspect, the thing I haven't even told her. Did he tell her father that
he thinks, knows, I love his daughter? Or is it just that I'm looking
such a mess today that they can see I'm in anguish, simply at the death
of a close colleague?
If she were here, she'd have a mirror so I could see what a state I'm
in. I don't - that's not my sort of thing.
That nearly sets me off again, as I remember that she is - was - here.
I want out of here. If I could, I'd hobble out of here, right now, take
the elevator back up the World Tree, and fly back to her side this
instant. But this trip, I'm strictly a passenger. Something about
public profile after Egawa - and concern about having the _Lovely
Angel_ in orbit around a world with only domed cities, especially with
one of us piloting.
I think they can read that need on my face. There's some encrypted
chatter between the Chief and Mme. Beryl - they've both been deskbound
so long that at times I forget that they still have their field-agent
upgrades maintained - and they start to make their excuses. A glance, a
nod, a tilt of the head are clear enough to say that we're moving out,
the Chief in the lead as we head past the family.
As I turn to go, something happens that surprises me. Her father
catches my attention. I'm about to bite his head off, when he bows to
me and says "Thank you for saving our daughter's life."
I'm taken aback, don't know if I can have heard this right. I really
wonder what the Chief must have said to make this man swallow his years
of dislike. But I know what I must do.
I return his bow, grope wildly for the right words to say. I don't know
if there even is a word for what it was. It was like breathing -
something you have to do, and do without really thinking about it -
when you do it because you gotta do what you gotta do. It wasn't even
as if this was the first time. Just the first time I hadn't been
completely successful. I open my mouth to speak.
"That's what I'm here for." are the words that come out. Because they
are true, though they only scratch the surface of the truth.
The moment is over; the walls come up again. We look away from each
other. I feel relieved that I didn't blurt out the secret, nor descend
to the "Aw, shucks, just doin' my job." cliché. And shaken, both by the
surprise of the gesture, and at the fierce choking rush that grabs at
my throat when I tried to think how I would put my true feelings into
words. That I would fight the whole friggin' universe to protect *my*
little flower.
Just the press pack to deal with now, and the car is in sight just past
where they are waiting. They are moving forwards now, with the cameras
swarming. I don't have my gun, otherwise I'd clear the skies of these
vultures.
"What about the rumour that you've only buried a clone?"
"- that there's a clone out there already causing another disaster?"
"- that this is the first time one of them has actually survived a
disaster?"
The Chief meets them all with a studied "We have no comment at this
time." Mme. Beryl is twitching one hand in a manner that is so achingly
familiar, a gesture that says that she would dearly love to use a
BloodyCard and is barely managing to stop herself. I'm strongly tempted
to just give them the finger, but then I think of my - our - fans, and
give a cheesy smile, and the old Victory-V salute.
" - that it's always a new set of clones each time, so that it's never
the fault of the current release of the D-"
"Say that name, pal, and you'll be eating that microphone."
I know I'm too much of a state, looking too much of a hag, right now,
to do my usual glare of death at twenty paces, but the message is
understood.
" - of the Lovely Angels?"
I don't know where in the UG we'll be able to carry out our work after
this. Maybe it is the end of the line for the Lovely Angels. Maybe
we'll even the get the month off that we joked about so long ago. The
CC hasn't said anything, no one's been sniffing around to measure me up
for a desk job. It's been completely quiet while we rest up and
recover. I have this ridiculous notion of sweeping her off her feet,
taking her away somewhere and living happily ever after - even though
the thought of settling down creeps me out, even though we have shared
flats ever since we first met.
But when we are together, I know I won't be able to find the words to
tell her, will be too scared to let actions take their place. Even if I
thought she'd understand.
I'll probably choke up, keep my distance, try not to blub, and just
give her a prettified version of what has happened today, say "care
about" or "like" rather than anything more dangerous, rather than tell
her the truly important thing, in case she runs from me.
There is one faint hope, though. For all her bluster, even when
completely out of her tree, she couldn't bring herself to pull the
trigger or even just leave me to burn. What does she think about, about
me, when lying awake in the dead of the night?
At last, we are at the car. I sink into one of the deeply upholstered
seats, a sigh escaping my lips, glad to take the weight off my leg. One
day, one day, my beloved, when you are able to remember it forever, I
will open my heart to you. Until then I will always be there by your
side. Soon I will be back where I belong.
The car starts to move.
Soon, I think, so soon.
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