“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.
When he’d been a boy, Duarte had seen an optical illusion that changed one face into another as the viewer came near it. Holden was like that. There was something about the way the pattern of his thoughts moved that reminded him of dry riverbeds. The traces of something that had been there and was now gone, but not without leaving the trail of its passage behind it. Patterns inside patterns.
“You’re Winston Duarte,” Holden said, snapping Duarte’s attention back to his more usual ways of seeing.
“Yes,” Duarte said. “I am.”
Holden pulled his knees up, rested his arms on them. His eyes were wide, and even a little bit frightened. “What the fuck happened to you?”
It took Duarte a moment to understand, then he chuckled. “Yes. I forget. I’ve been through some changes. Not everyone notices, but there have been some … I don’t know. Shifts?”
“You’re using that shit on
“I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot, Captain. Let me try this again. I’m High Consul Duarte. You and I have a shared interest, I understand, in the origins and function of the protomolecule. Did I get that right?”
“You have to listen to me. I saw what happened to them. To the things that made the protomolecule. There was a record on the ring station from before they got shut down.”
