Glasshouse - Charles Stross [85]
“Where’ve you been?” I ask. “I was going to sort out some food.”
“I’ve been with Martin and Greg and Alf, down at the churchyard.” I look at him, closer. His shirt is sweat-stained, and there’s dirt under his fingernails. “Doing the burying.”
“Burying?” For a moment I don’t get what he’s talking about, then it clicks into place and I feel dizzy, as if the whole world’s revolving around my head. “The—you should have told me.”
“You were busy.” He shrugs dismissively.
I peer at him, concerned. “You look tired. Why don’t you go have a shower? I’ll fix you some food.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”
“Yes you are.” I take hold of his right arm and lead him toward the kitchen. “You didn’t eat any lunch unless you sneaked a snack while I wasn’t looking, and it’s getting late.” I take a deep breath. “How bad was it?”
“It was—” He stops and takes a deep breath. “It was—” He stops again. Then he bursts into tears.
I am absolutely certain that Sam has seen death before, up close and personal. He’s at least three gigs old, he’s been through memory surgery, he’s experienced the psychopathic dissociation that comes with it, he’s hung out with dueling fools like me in my postsurgery phase, and he’s lived among pretech aliens for whom violent death and disease are all part of life’s unpalatable banquet. But there’s an enormous difference between the effects of a semiformal duel between consenting adults, with A-gate backups to make resurrection a minor headache, and cleaning up after a random act of senseless brutality in a Church parking lot.
Forget about no backups, no second chances, nobody coming home again scratching their heads and wondering what was in the two kiloseconds of their life that’s just vanished. The difference is that it could have been you. Because, when you get down to it, the one thing you know for sure is that if the toad in the pulpit had got the wrong name, it would have been you up there in the branches, choking and twitching on the end of a rope. It could have been you. It wasn’t, but that’s nothing but an accident of fate. Sam’s just back from the wars, and he’s definitely got the message.
Maybe that’s why we end up on the wooden bench on the back deck, me sitting up and him with his head in my lap, not crying like a baby but sobbing occasionally between gasping breaths. I’m stroking his hair and trying not to let it get to me either way—the jagged razor edge of sympathy, or the urge to tell him to pull himself together and get with the program. Judgment hurts, and he’ll talk it out in his own way if I just lend him an ear. If not—
Well, I could have used a listener the other night, but I won’t hold that against him.
“Greg rang while you were in the shed,” he says eventually. “Asked if I’d help clean up. What I was saying this morning. Not letting them give me any shit. I figured part of that was, if I couldn’t do anything at the time I could maybe do some good afterward.” And he’s off again, sobbing for about a minute.
When he stops, he manages to speak quietly and evenly, in thoughtful tones. It sounds as if he’s explaining it to himself, trying to make sense of it. “I caught a taxi to Church. Greg told me to bring a shovel, so I did. I got there and Martin and Alf were there, along with Liz, Phil’s—former wife. Mal is in hospital. He tried to stop them. They hurt him. The mob, I mean. There are other decent people here, but they’re mostly too frightened to even help bury the bodies or comfort the widow.”
“Widow.” It’s a new word in our little prison, like “pregnant” and “lynch mob.” It’s an equally unwelcome arrival. (Along with “mortal” if we stay here long enough, I guess.)
“Greg got a ladder from inside the Church hall, and Martin went up to cut down the bodies. Liz was very quiet when we got Phil down, but couldn’t take it when he was lowering Esther. Luckily Xara showed up with a bottle of rye and sat with her. Then Greg and Martin and Alf and me started digging. Actually, we started