Up Against It - M. J. Locke [43]
She loved this place. She, its executioner.
Jane closed her eyes. Floating on a pillow of exhaustion, she thought about the Voice again. It had been a hallucination. She knew that. But something in her longed to hear it again. To be known again, and loved, the way that Voice had known and loved her. She remembered how it had felt, ringing through her like a sigh, like a wave, a slow and powerful current sweeping her along. It reminded her of the arms and soft croons of a mother—cherishing, giving comfort, a comfort as powerful and gentle as Kukuyoshi’s green presence.…
And thus it came, a tuneful whisper, summoned by her desire and welling up on her memory of the earlier time. Jane …
Her eyes flew open; she came upright and looked around, her breath caged in her throat. Its tone had been cautious, almost despairing, as if It expected to be denied. But somehow It felt more real than reality itself. It came from so deep within that It opened onto some infinite inner space.
But all around, everything seemed normal. Birds were twittering. Breezes and small animals rustled the leaves. She sat there, absolutely quiet, with that strong acceleration tugging at her limbs and face and heart.
Despair. Now there was a disturbing thought. If God despaired, what hope could there be?
“What do you want?” she asked finally, hoarsely (What do You want?). Her pulse pounded dully in her throat as she spoke, and her breath grew short. (By answering, she acknowledged Its existence.)
No response came. Not in words. But she sensed that Whoever or Whatever this Being was—and she couldn’t help thinking of It in capitals—It needed her help. Hers, Jane’s. She choked on an incredulous laugh. “You need my help?” You must be joking.
Vast, unutterable sorrow came.
“No,” Jane protested. She hunched her shoulders under the onslaught.
“Commissioner Navio.”
Jane jerked at the sound, knocking rocks into the stream. The otters scampered up onto the far bank, flung water off their oiled coats, and vanished into the underbrush. She spotted two men in business suits. They stood at the side of the clearing nearest the exit.
Jane stood, brushing herself off. “Gentleman, if you need to talk to me, you’ll have to make an appointment.”
“I’m afraid there’s not time,” the slim one said. “I’m invoking legal privacy on behalf of my client.” At his words, a dusting of dead spy-motes drifted down around them. A lawyer, then. And she did not know him, which meant he wasn’t local. A power broker, flown in from elsewhere. He wore a four-piece suit that had to have been bought on Earth or Mars: they did not manufacture five-thousand-troy business suits this side of Mars orbit. His sammy cache was all but empty; his companion’s was not, and contained a lot more red than green. Not a good sign.
Some company had sent these two to see what advantage could be gained during the crisis. The privacy likely meant a bribe was in the offing. And/or a veiled threat or two. She had seen it all before.
“I have an urgent matter to discuss with you,” he went on. “On behalf of Ogilvie & Sons, Inc.”
Ogilvie & Sons! Of course. It made perfect sense. Arms folded, eyebrows raised, she let the silence stretch. The big, stout one moved and started to say something, but fell silent at the thin one’s look.
“I’m Nathan H. Glease,” the thin one said, and beamed his business data to her. He did not introduce his companion. Ah; the unspoken threat.
“I’m waiting for you to tell me something I don’t know, Mr. Grease.”
Glease gave her a pained smile at her mispronunciation of his name. Yes, it was a childish thing to do, she thought. So sue me.
“See here,” he was saying, “perhaps we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.” A native Upsider