Winston Duarte watched his daughter playing at the fountain’s edge. Teresa was ten now, and almost as tall as her mother had been. She was working with a clay boat, discovering the relationship between buoyancy and displacement for herself. Forming and re-forming the little craft of her own design. Finding not only what was the most efficient but also what was the most aesthetically pleasing. What would float and also steer and also be beautiful in its own right. Her tutor, Colonel Ilich, sat on the edge of the fountain as well, talking with her. Guiding her thoughts through the process, and helping her to connect the work of her hands to the lessons in mathematics and history and art.
He didn’t know whether she was aware how lonesome a childhood she’d had. The State Building had facilities for the children of the government to live and work and attend lessons while their parents saw to the mechanisms of the empire, but most of the classrooms—like the offices—were empty. Prepared for a generation that was still just beginning. The timing was wrong for Teresa. Someday children would run and play together in the streets and parks of Laconia, but by then Teresa would be grown.
She leaned forward, lowered her latest design into the water. Ilich asked her something, and she replied. Duarte couldn’t hear what they were saying from this distance, but he saw the change in the way she held the little boat. And more than that, he saw her mind change.
That had started more recently, and he wasn’t certain what to make of it yet. A pattern of something around her head when she was thinking strongly. As she worked the clay, it infused her hands as well. Ilich had it too, though not as intensely. Of all the ways his changes affected his senses, this new one was the most interesting. He had the suspicion that he was, in some sense, seeing thought.
Teresa glanced over, and the whatever-it-was shifted just before she raised her hand. He waved back, returning her smile, then stepped away into the State Building to let her continue her studies undistracted. He loved his daughter profoundly, and the joy of watching her learn was better than anything else he had scheduled, but his presence wouldn’t help her or the empire. Duty called.
He found Kelly waiting for him in his private office. The look on the man’s face was enough to tell him that they had arrived. His heart sank. He had been dreading this moment since he’d heard that Natalia Singh had requested the personal meeting. It was her right, though. And his obligation.
“They’re in the east drawing room, sir.”
“They?”
“She brought her daughter.”
Another little punch to the gut. But …“All right. Thank you, Kelly.”
Natalia and Elsa Singh were dressed in matching clothes. Dark blue with white accents. Not the full black of mourning, but somber. He sat across from them as Kelly served tea and cakes. Duarte felt the temptation to focus on the whatever-it-was, to see if grief and anger looked different from Teresa’s lesson with the clay boats, but it seemed impolite, so he didn’t.
Kelly closed the door behind him as he left. Duarte sipped his tea. Natalia Singh didn’t touch hers, but the little girl ate some cake. The sweetness of sugar overcame everything for children. Even loss. There was something profound in that. Beautiful and sad both.
“Doctor Singh,” Duarte said. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
Her chin lifted a few degrees, proud and defiant. He hoped she wasn’t going to do anything stupid. Grief was a terrible thing.
“Thank you, sir,” she said through a tight throat. The little one looked over, confused less by the words than by her mother’s tone of voice. Elsa was a smart child, he could see that. Empathetic, which was more important really than other kinds of intelligence. She shifted on the couch, scooted toward her mother.
Duarte leaned forward, putting down his teacup. He laced his fingers together, and when he spoke, he tried to put as much warmth and care into his voice as the little girl had expressed in her movement.
“You asked to speak with me. How can I help you?”
“I would like to request a copy of the formal inquiry into my husband’s death,” she said, then swallowed.
Duarte slipped. His focus shifted, and the whatever-it-was—thought, consciousness, attention—became clear to him for a moment. It was tight in around Natalia Singh’s head and chest, wrapping her like a shroud. The little one—Elsa—hers was diffused around her, thicker toward her mother, like something physical in her was reaching out. Longing to comfort and be comforted in a field effect that was something more, apparently, than just metaphor. He pulled his attention back to his more usual senses with a little echo of shame, as if he’d eavesdropped on something.
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll see that it’s delivered to you.”
Natalia Singh nodded once and wiped a tear away like it was an insect that had landed on her cheek.
“He was a good man,” Duarte said. “I know that. You know that. In another time and another place, he would have been celebrated.”
“He wasn’t a killer,” she said, and her voice had pressed down to a whisper.
“He was put into an extreme position, and he overreacted,” Duarte said. “Our place in humanity is special. The rules that apply to us are harsh. You and me and him. But there’s a reason for that, and I want you to know how much I honor his sacrifice. And yours. Both of yours.”
Elsa looked at him now as if she knew he was talking about her. He smiled at the girl, and after a moment, she smiled back. He could see an echo of her mother’s face in her small, soft features. Her father’s too. He took Natalia’s hand, and she didn’t pull away.
“You will have the full support of the government,” he said, “if you want it. Your daughter has a guaranteed place in the academy. Your work is important to us. To me. I know this is hard, and you have my word that you will not face this alone. We’re all with you, whatever you need.”
She nodded more slowly this time. She didn’t wipe the tears away. Her daughter climbed into her lap, and Natalia put her free arm around her, rocked her slowly back and forth. It was heartbreaking, but he’d made the decision. He wouldn’t look away from the consequences of it. This was his duty too.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
She shook her head. Speech was beyond her. While she wept, he poured her more tea, and sat, witnessing her sorrow and being present with her and her child. After a few minutes, she looked up at him, her eyes clearer, calmer. He took a deep breath, squeezed her hand gently, and released it.
“Thank you,” Natalia said.
He made a little bow to her, a last gesture of respect, and withdrew. Anytime a Laconian died in the service of the empire, their family had the right to a private audience with the high consul. It was a tradition he’d begun when they first passed through the gate. It would have to be reconsidered as the empire expanded, but for now, it was still in his power to honor it, so he did.
Kelly was waiting for him in his office, a look of sympathy in his eyes. He didn’t mention the widow or her daughter in the drawing room. Kelly was a man of perfect tact.
“A report from Doctor Cortazár, sir,” he said.
Duarte pulled up the new file, opening it with a gesture. Cumulative update on the debriefing of Prisoner 17. Duarte spooled down the file, seeing Cortazár’s questions, the prisoner’s responses. They were only words. Designs of light drawn on air. After glimpsing the living thoughts of Dr. Singh and her daughter, mere language seemed sterile. He looked at Kelly, closed the file.
“I think,” Duarte said, “it may be time I met this Captain Holden.”
The man sat on the floor, his back to the wall of the cell. His splayed legs and bright eyes made him seem younger than his graying hair. As Duarte came in, Holden’s gaze shifted between him and his guard—back and forth—until it settled on him. Duarte sat on the bunk, hands on his thighs, and looked down at the man who had caused so much trouble over so many years. He didn’t look like anything more than an old ice bucker with a little too much curiosity and too little impulse control.
Duarte had known people like him from his time in the service. Hotheads and gadflies. The ones who were always sure they knew better than anyone else. The truth was, they had their place. Like anyone else, they could be apt tools if they were well suited to the task at hand.
Here he had no qualms about using his new senses. Holden was an enemy and an asset. He had no right to any privacy. And the pattern mind was … fascinating.