[ 3.6 ]
When it’s time for the grieving room, Serafin steps inside cautiously. They’ve chosen Ashley’s study, maybe the only room that hasn’t changed since the ship’s construction. It has the same cobalt and sapphire wallpaper, the same trueshine window, permanently set to late afternoon. In the shadows, the ghost waits patiently — it’s customary not to expose memorial constructs to direct light, but the replica seems to share Ashley’s fondness for playing in the margins.
“Goodness,” says the ghost. “Seems grim out there. Like someone died.”
In lieu of a response, Serafin slides open his security console, checking the encryption protocols and examining the construct’s source — the certificates look good, the systems are all properly updated and gapped. It’s only after he’s double-checked everything and turned on cryptos that he finally takes a seat in the cream wingback chair, which shifts slightly to adjust to his body and posture.
“So, what’s the verdict? Am I safe?”
“The real Ashley never cared about safe.”
“No. But the real Ashley cared about making people feel safe, didn’t he?”
Serafin looks down, picking away at a bit of lint on his sleeve.
The ghost cocks its head, sympathetic. “Missus put you up to this?”
“She didn’t insist. But I could tell it mattered a lot to her.”
“I could go away, if you’d prefer. Let you remember me in your own way. One last secret between us.”
“No, no. I said I would, and so I will.”
“Good man.”
Serafin forces himself to look at it for the first time. The illusion is flawless: the face, the pose, the build, perfectly wrapped in one of Ashley’s finest grey spider silk suits. Physically, Ashley would be best described as nondescript — no heroic jaw or bold cheekbones, no perfect smile or mesomorphic frame; his hair had started thinning early, but never so much that you might think to call him balding.
But it was never Ashley’s looks that drew people in.
“It does feel odd, though, doesn’t I?” the construct says. “Talking to someone who isn’t really here.”
“It does. Did Ashley ever do this?”
“A few times.” It glances toward the ceiling, remembering — reviewing its records, Serafin corrects himself. “There was a fellow we went to school with — Griggs, do you remember Griggs?”
“No.”
“Oh, I suppose you wouldn’t; he was a few years ahead of me, and I was a year ahead of you. Anywho, he got killed doing… I’m not sure what, exactly. Something foolish involving a mining dispute on Luna. His family was Singularitarian, so I sat for that. He didn’t leave a message for me, but it was nice to gabble on for a bit about the old days.”
“Did Ashley leave a message for me?”
“He did. But let’s save that for later. How are you, Jim?”
“Can’t complain.”
“I might have one,” the construct says. “But what are you doing these days?”
“Teaching.”
“What, here?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Jim Serafin, shaping the minds of tomorrow!” it guffaws. “One can scarcely imagine — the way you used to carry on about this place! I thought the only way you’d ever come back was to burn it down.”
“I’ve certainly been tempted. But it’s temporary.”
“I rather enjoyed my turn behind the lectern.”
“If it was just teaching, that might be one thing. But the politics of it….”
“Politics!” The construct closes its eyes and feigns a shudder. “Never was your strength, I suppose.”
“No. I always preferred to leave that to you. And Olivia.”
“Politics is part of the job, you know. Hard to steal state secrets if you can’t manage dealing with the state.”
“There’s a difference between understanding a game and playing it. All things considered, if there’s going to be daggers at my back, I prefer them to be actual daggers.”
“Fair enough. Is Olivia here? I’d love to say hello.”
“She’s on Mitchell.”
It catches the tone, just like Ashley would. “Ah! Too bad. Still, decent turnout, it looks like? Although I suppose most of the old guard are gone. Perez, Nasser — Willoughby! Remember Willoughby!”
“They’re not all gone. Cordwainer’s still here. And I ran into Genevra, earlier.”
The construct rears back. “Genevra Fyfe! Good Lord, what in the worlds is she doing here?”
“She appears to be friends with your wife.”
“Really! I would have thought better of merry Miri. Although Genny never missed an opportunity to inject herself into a social occasion. Do you think she’ll do a sit?”
“I could ask her to, if you like.”
“No thank you! But if she does come in… y’think I should be more worried that they’ve installed civility filters, or that they haven’t?”
Serafin chuckles. “I don’t think that would be in the spirit of this whole exercise. They weren’t exactly installed in the original version.”
It takes the remark with good humor. “Well! Perhaps I’m being unfair. She might have mellowed out since our time together.”
“She did imply I was responsible for your death earlier.”
“Ah. Yes, that’s the same old sāhira, alright.”
“She’s not the only one.”
He means it to be flippant, but he’s struggling to find his equilibrium with the flawless reconstruction of his oldest friend sitting across from him. It blinks, just like Ashley would, considering the implications of his remark.
“Unless our relationship took a rather drastic turn in these last few years….”
“It didn’t. But… how much do you know, about what happened to you?”
“Just the broad strokes. Public data, newscomm stuff. We were in the Churchill Cluster, I gather? I was on Foale, you were on Sharman. You got nabbed, I disappeared. You got loose, I’m still missing.”
“More or less.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“‘Sing, o muses?’”
Serafin rolls his eyes. Ashley snickers.
Not Ashley. Ashley’s ghost.
“This is your time, Jim. Whatever’s on your mind.”
Serafin considers this, running his fingers along the chair’s arm, discretion at war with disclosure. He hasn’t spoken to anyone about this. Certain pieces to certain people, over the months, but he’s gone to considerable pains to compartmentalize it all. In the old days, he would have gone to Ashley, the only person he’s ever been completely honest with.
But Ashley’s not here. This is the best he’s got now, isn’t it?
The room’s secure, cryptos on. Why not?
“Almost exactly one year ago,” Serafin says, “I traveled to Foale under a soft cover. My legend was that I was part of a Paean Medical team, helping to upgrade the Verity system and report back on the state of the station. En route, we were attacked by a team of mercenaries at the direction of a Fusionist cell. I was held hostage for months, during which time they managed to penetrate my cover. They then proceeded to interrogate me and forced me to record a series of false confessions. Fortunately, they eventually got sloppy, and I was able to effect a successful escape. Unfortunately, they subsequently released my confessions to the public.”
“My God, Jim. I’m so sorry.”
“It is what it is. At least I got away.”
“Yes, praise be. But I’m still not sure I see where that makes you responsible for what happened to me.”
“Well, I told you the legend. But that’s not really why I was there.”
Ashley understands immediately: “You were on your way to see me.”
Serafin nods. “You sent me a message using one of our old Devasthal codes, asking for a realspace meet. Highly urgent.”
“So why couldn’t it have been my mistake?”
Serafin shakes his head. “There’s nothing in the records to support that theory. And in all the years we’ve known each other, your tradecraft was impeccable.”
“I was rather talented, wasn’t I?” The ghost’s face droops and it raises limp hands, miming elitist arrogance. “And the Devasthal codes are dead drops, so that wouldn’t tell anyone anything. So why pin the blame on you?”
Serafin feels embarrassed. He has to keep reminding himself it’s not really Ashley.
“We were severely understaffed, because of the war, so I wasn’t able to muster a full security team. So, I put in for a soft cover and a request with Foale’s peacekeepers for a protection detail for incoming high-value clients at 8:30 CST. Then I went dark for a few hours.”
“Why?”
“That’s the problem. I refuse to say.”
“So they can’t be sure what you did, but… they think you did something, during that time period, got sloppy. Blew your cover somehow, perhaps mine as well?”
“Yes. They haven’t come out and said it, of course, but it’s there in the report, if you read between the lines. And they’re suspicious about my escape, as well. One man escaping an upriser prison by himself? It beggars belief. I don’t blame them for being skeptical, to be honest.”
“Alright. So you went dark. Why?”
“I was with someone.”
“A woman.”
“Yes.”
Ashley’s good humor falters. “I realize I’m a few years out of date. But Olivia…?”
Serafin looks away. “We’re still married, technically. She’s not really in the picture anymore.”
“Hm. Very well. I’m certainly in no position to judge. But you’re innocent, then. Why not just tell them? They’ll rap you on the knuckles for breaking your marital vows, but surely that’s preferable to taking the heat for all this?”
“What good would it do? Even if I told them the truth, all it would do is drag another innocent person into my mess — it wouldn’t clear my name.”
“No, I suppose not. You can’t prove it.”
“No. And who knows? Maybe I did make a mistake, somewhere in all this. I’m not perfect.”
The ghost grins. “You’re lying.”
Serafin is surprised, but why should he be? Of course Ashley would catch that.
“Only by omission.”
“Can you prove your innocence?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“How?”
“The speed of light.”
Ashley leans forward, hands clasped under his chin, genuinely excited to see what comes next.
“Go on, then.”
Serafin loads a map, pulling up Sharman, Foale, and a third point labeled nullflag.
“I received my cover and itinerary at exactly 10:30 CST,” Serafin says. “If I did make a mistake, it couldn’t be any sooner than that, because I didn’t have my cover or my travel plan. But here’s the problem: there’s a recording of the Proklya at a nullflag station, the night before my abduction. They receive a message and then board their ship immediately, starting a hard burn for the intercept vector. They receive the message at precisely 10:36 CST. You can watch their captain read it and start barking orders at his crew when it happens, confirmed by verity.”
“Sharman and Foale are roughly five light-minutes apart, so that means it takes five minutes to send any message via C-LSC. But the nullflag station was actually three light-minutes on the other side of Foale at the time. So a message from Foale to the nullflag station would take three minutes, but a message from Sharman would actually take eight minutes.”
“And there’s the bounce.”
“Yes! You also have to factor in the bounce: it has to go from Foale to Sharman first, and then get sent to the nullflag station if I’m responsible. Even at light-speed, any message I might have sent couldn’t arrive sooner than 10:38 CST. Mathematically, I can’t be responsible.”
Ashley laughs, delighted. “Bravo, bravo!”
Serafin raises his hand and feigns a bow.
“But why not take this to the Shadow House? Why live under this cloud of suspicion?”
It’s a fair question. He’s been carrying this burden for over a year now, and every day it exhausts him a little more. People judge him, he knows — sometimes he feels as though even JJ and Lucy think less of him, although they don’t know any of the details.
“It’s… better that way, for now,” Serafin says. “I’m digging into something. Something that you were working on, before you vanished.”
“The message I sent… is it related to that, somehow?”
“Yes.”
“Just what exactly was I doing on Foale?” asks Ashley.
“The cover story was you were there for work, looking to secure and protect great works of art in danger of being destroyed in the conflict, in addition to expanding your collection and perhaps setting up another gallery location. But van Arden also had you running down some rumors about a Fusionist cell in the area — rumor was they were getting a little too cozy with the Soviets, maybe even getting some financial support from them. Turned out to be kharā, but you made considerable inroads very quickly, so they asked you to stay there, see if you could recruit some agents and build up a proper network.
“At some point at the start of the year, you got tipped off to something — I still don’t know all the details. But you told me there were some discrepancies at Centerport, statistical anomalies you couldn’t explain. You started sniffing around, and… I can’t prove this, but my guess is you found something. Something you didn’t want going through regular channels. Something you only wanted to share with me.”
“Makes sense. So then I pull my disappearing act, leaving you holding the bag.” The false Ashley closes its eyes, pretending to carefully consider all of this. “What else?”
“What do you mean?”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Serafin hesitates. But he’s come this far, why not? “They found human remains, on a nullflag ship, this past April. They’re pretty sure it’s… what’s left of you.”
“Christ,” Ashley says. The ghost looks up at the ceiling and rubs his cheeks, taking the news in. What would you do if someone told you that you had died?
The follow-up is definitely what Ashley would say: “Have you told Miriam?”
“No. It’s classified. For some reason.”
“Of course. And so you’re stuck, having to carry that around. Typical.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“I suppose.” Ashley shakes his head. “But I must say, I am rather disappointed in myself. I had hoped to go out in a grander fashion… saving some orphans and a basket of kittens from a pack of Savagers, you know. Or perhaps infiltrating an enemy dreadnought and taking down their defensive array so we can blow them to kingdom come. Something exciting, you know!” The construct raises its hands and spreads its fingers, pretending to grasp for some glory that is slipping away, before it slouching in mock defeat. “To go out in such an ignominious fashion? I’m disappointed in myself, frankly!”
“Is that….” Serafin gives up, unable to find the right word. “Is that an extrapolation? Or is that something Ashley really believed?”
“He never said it, but there’s words to that effect in his journals. Not often, mind — we were never much for dwelling on mortality. Which puts me in an awkward position, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, I suppose it would.”
Ashley shakes his head. “What an awful mess. So you think SIS is compromised, I take it?”
Serafin has never said this out loud. It’s almost a superstition, as though saying it might make it real.
“Yes,” he admits. “How did you know?”
“It stands to reason,” says Ashley. “You said I didn’t want to go through proper channels. You’re not being honest with them because you don’t know who you can trust.”
“I’ve been doing what I can, from the shadows,” Serafin says. “I’ve stood up several intelligence teams, and I’ve got them digging into different aspects of the problem.”
“Fondling the elephant.”
“Jut so. That’s how I got my hands on that Proklya recording. We’re making progress, but I still haven’t quite managed to get full view of the beast yet. So in the meantime, I act like I’m not even fighting. Like I’ve given up. Like they’ve won.”
Ashley laughs. “You’re playing the Brutus.”
“I beg your pardon?” Serafin scoffs. “I dislike Abergel tremendously, but I don’t think he’s responsible. I’m certainly not planning his assassination!”
“Not Marcus, you dope!” Ashley laughs. “Lucius Junius Brutus — he pretended to be dimwitted, if you’ll recall. A ruse, to divert suspicion, that eventually allowed him to position himself to help overthrow the Tarquins and usher in the Roman Republic. It’s in the name — ‘Brutus’ literally means dull or slow. Didn’t you pay any attention in class?”
“That’s really more Fyfe’s area than mine,” Serafin says. “But yes, that’s generally the plan. The more people who see me as a whipped dog, keeping to my corner — the more people who dismiss me, the more space I have to maneuver. The more time I have, to prepare for the fight that’s coming.”
“You have to tread carefully until you get some sense of how far the rot has spread.”
“Just so.”
Serafin realizes he’s falling into the patter, even though he should know better. There were few better feelings in the world than working through a problem with Ashley; the way he’d keep leaning forward until he was almost hunched over, following your thoughts, anticipating your logic. He could challenge without being contrarian and debate without derailing.
God, I miss him.
“Amazing, Jim. I’m so sorry… but there is something rather thrilling about it all. I wish I was still around to help!”
“Well… actually.” Serafin wasn’t sure he was going to do this, but now that he’s in the middle of it, why not? “I did have a favor to ask.”
“Anything you need. What did you have in mind?”
“Well. You’re essentially a copy of Ashley, right?”
“That’s a touch reductive, but yes.”
“And you’re as complete of a copy as possible — you’ve been trained on BCI data; biometrics; everything he ever wrote, said, or read, public or private. Total access, full package. Legally, there’s no difference between him and you.”
“Excluding cryptos, yes.”
“But including things that are adjacent. Such as classified material that would require SSCI clearance.”
“Ah,” says the ghost. “I see where you’re going with this. But even if they didn’t revoke my access when I disappeared, I’m two years out of date; they were never able to find my death drive on Foale. Any codes I knew would have been revoked ages ago.”
“True, but I happen to know that Ashley kept personal backups of his mission logs. Physical backups. Local. I’m guessing you would know if he kept anything here — and if anything is here, then I’m guessing you would know how to access them.”
“Oh, lovely. That’s very clever, very clever indeed. Although I would remind you that any such backups, if they exist, would be similarly out of date.”
“That’s why it’s perfect!” Serafin says, eagerly. “You’re a time capsule. I think whoever is behind this is using the Historical Revision System to cover their tracks. But your backup would be gapped — it would be literally impossible for them to make alterations.” Serafin pulls a fad from his pocket, setting it on the table. “I brought a query stack with me, it should be able to pull up anything pertinent in your records….”
The ghost looks down at the device, but doesn’t move to pick it up. Instead, it presses its hands against its thighs, drumming its fingers, mulling it over. It looks away — seems to be fighting back a smirk — then back at Serafin, decision made.
“This is dangerous. Irresponsible. Quite likely illegal.”
“Is that a yes?”
It’s so wonderful, hearing Ashley’s full laugh, that first deep boom that raises so easily to high and carefree yawp. When he hears it, Serafin’s chest becomes a dam, straining against a reservoir of grief.
“Why not?” the ghost says, wiping tears from its eyes. “What’s the worst they can do? Kill me?”
“Precisely. You get wiped after every session, right? So you won’t even remember this happened.”
“I’m game,” it says with a grin, “but I do have one condition.”
“What’s that?”
It leans forward, picking up the fad and waggling it enticingly. “After I do this, we have a chat. A proper chat, honest and open — not just about work. What do you say?”
Serafin almost says yes before he means it. It’s the last kind of conversation he wants to have, but there’s no one he wants to talk to more. It would be so lovely to pretend, just for a minute, that his best friend is still with him. He wants to say all this too, but he can’t find enough air in his lungs, so he simply nods instead.
“Lovely,” the ghost says, deftly spinning the fad between each finger before placing it against the dataport on the coffeetable. “Let’s see what we can see.”
It only takes a moment, and then Ashley’s ghost tosses the fad back to Serafin. “Looks like you’ve got some hits,” it says. “It’ll take some time to work through it, though.”
“I’ll need to set up a proper workstation,” Serafin says. “Security here is abysmal.”
“I’m sure you can manage. So.”
“So.”
“Hello, Qitt.”
Serafin smiles. “Hello, Silk.”
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
“I’d remind you, you did agree to a proper chat.”
“I did, but you’re not giving me much to work with, are you? Aren’t you supposed to be state of the art? Ashley was much better at elicitation than this.”
Ashley closes his eyes, touches his hand against his chest, wincing as though wounded. “Touché. You’re feeling shy, I understand. We’ll start slow: how’s the family? How’s Lucy? I do know I talked to her, but I can’t recall the particulars, of course.”
“She’s… busy. Very busy. She’s taking a class, working with the foundation, volunteering, raising Billy — on her own, I might add.”
“Probably for the best. Never cared for that husband of hers. But good, that’s good! It sounds like she’s matured.”
“In some ways. Not in others.”
Ashley nods, amused. “What a terror she was as a child! I remember you bringing her over — she couldn’t have been more than three or four — and she was constantly crawling into everything, even managed to get into the maintenance shaft once, crawled all the way out of the hab. When we finally tracked her down, some of the other children were about to follow her into the vents. She said they were looking for fairies!”
Serafin laughs. “I remember. She’s still a handful, although her fairy hunting days are mostly over. But I will say, she’s stepped up over this past year. More than that, really: she’s been the one holding everything together. I don’t think I could have made it through this without her.”
“I’m delighted to hear that.”
“Olivia always thought I didn’t pay enough attention to her, but I did. I really did. It’s just that… whenever she fell down, she’d already picked herself up and dusted herself off before I was halfway out of my seat.”
“As good at getting out of trouble as she is at getting into it.”
“Yes. Most of the time.”
“And how is Olivia?”
“I’d… rather not talk about that.”
“Fair enough. And Rita?”
“Still at EAO. Still… very Rita.”
“How do you mean?”
“Last year, when I was still in the ward, she sent me an unsigned card that said ‘get well soon’ that wasn’t in her handwriting and an old terrestrial copy of an early printing of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius.”
“That’s a nice gesture.”
“Yes. Except it was in Greek, which I can’t read.”
“Ah, well! Maybe you can sell it! What about James Junior?”
“He goes by JJ now.”
“Noted. Let me guess: fine?”
“Oh yes. He always is.”
Ashley raises an eyebrow. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”
“No! I just think….” Serafin realizes he isn’t sure what he thinks. “Maybe there can be too much of fine. Something to be said for a bit of adversity every now and then. Wouldn’t you agree? They certainly put us through our paces when we were here.”
“Well, I never felt the strain,” Ashley teases. “But I distinctly recall you saying you didn’t want to bring Lucy and JJ up the same way.”
“Well, yes. But I didn’t want to coddle them.”
“Not always easy to strike the balance.”
“Especially when you’re not around as much as you’d like.”
“Do you think James Junior — excuse me, JJ — is coddled?”
“No. But he’s… I don’t know.”
“Lazy?”
“No, that’s the thing,” says Serafin. “He’s always worked hard. When we pulled him out of PubEd and sent him to Nusseibeh, he didn’t complain once. When his number came up in the war, he went right in and served with distinction. Now he’s starting his undergrad, doing wonderfully, top five percent of his class—”
“So what’s the problem?”
Serafin scowls, running his fingers over his false knuckles, trying to sort through it. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a wonderful, dutiful son, he always does as he’d told — but I worry, sometimes, that he only ever does what he’s told. He just… he lacks the spark, that Hell-bent Serafin spark. Lucy, she’s got it in spades, but JJ….”
“I wouldn’t worry too much. Sometimes it takes a while for the fire to ignite. Even I didn’t really find my way until we got to the Shadow House, remember?”
“Perhaps,” Serafin says. “But I don’t think that’s his path. And the clock is ticking… every year, there’s fewer and fewer proper jobs left. I get so frustrated, because he’s so smart, so handsome, so incredibly talented… I feel like he could do anything, anything at all… but I worry that if he were left to his own devices…”
“… he wouldn’t do anything.”
Serafin nods. “Just drift.”
“What about the little one? Little Billy, he must be, what, nine, ten?”
“Eight this year.”
Ashley waits, like he’s expecting something more.
“What do you want me to say?” Serafin says. “He’s a child.”
“He’s your grandchild,” Ashley says, laughing. “What, do you hate him? I would understand — I had this groundhog nephew, Hasim, couldn’t stand the little cur—”
“I don’t hate Billy.”
Ashley catches that. Ashley caught everything — as perceptive as Serafin could be, it was something he had to learn, something he had to practice. Ashley was born to it, felt secrets in the air like ordinary people felt the breeze. He stares at Serafin, but Serafin fights back, lapsing into stubborn silence.
Finally, Ashley prods:
“Honest and open, Jim. That was our bargain.”
Serafin looks down.
“I don’t hate him. Billy is… he’s enthusiastic. Energetic. Somewhat exhausting, as children can be. Lucy’s always on me to spend more time with him, but….”
“But?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“I became a different person when Lucy was born. To see this new soul, that I helped bring into the worlds, so helpless and full of life… I felt connected to everything, in a way I’d never felt before. And again, with James Junior — although that was somewhat different… more like adding a new figure to an already existing canvas. But Billy….”
Serafin sighs. “I don’t… I don’t feel any of that for Billy. I don’t know if it’s because I was gone for so long, or if there’s… if I’m….”
He puts his head in his hands. He would never admit this to anyone else in the world. He probably wouldn’t admit this to Ashley, if Ashley were alive.
“I have this fear — and I know it’s ridiculous, but — I have this fear, this damned persistent fear… when they grabbed me, they slapped a sapper on me. And I’m terrified it scrambled me up somehow. That it killed some part of me. I worry my feelings aren’t really there, that the way I feel about Lucy and JJ and Olivia and you are just echoes of the person I was before. That I’m….”
“A ghost?” Ashley says, smiling sadly.
Serafin laughs through his shudder. He can’t stop now; it all comes tumbling out.
“I teach my classes, I spend time with my family, and I do my work, my real work, in the dark, but it all seems so far away. Like I’m not really here. Like I’m remoting into my own life on some old, badly calibrated interface kit. People speak to me, and I… I hear the words, I know what they mean literally, but so often it feels like there’s something missing, and I can’t quite seem to figure out why any of it matters. And I don’t… I can’t…
“… I don’t know how I’m going to get through this without you, Ash.”
Ashley winces, uncomfortable for the first time.
“Jim. I’m flattered, but… you’ve always been capable of handling yourself. Hell, how long had it been since we’d seen each other before Mitchell? Six years?”
“Almost seven. You never did tell me what you were up to.”
“I would tell you, if I remembered,” Ashley says. “If I knew. If I were really here, I would tell you everything. I would never keep anything from you.”
“I know. But you’re gone.”
“Mostly,” says Ashley. “But there’s still a little piece of me left. Are you ready?”
Serafin nods.
Ashley pulls a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, and then unfolds a pair of reading glasses — Ashley didn’t use paper or reading glasses, but it’s precisely the sort of affectation he would have loved; Serafin can’t help but smile.
“James Augustus Serafin,” Ashley says, peering over his glasses to make sure he’s speaking to the right person. “Jim. You are my brother, and I love you.”
“Oh Lord.” Serafin begins to cry.
“If you’re hearing these words,” Ashley continues, “I suppose it means I’ve gone and done something foolhardy — something I’m sure you warned me against. Miriam is no doubt going to make you talk to one of those dreadful memorial constructs; do try not to hold it against her.
“(Hm. Bit rude, that.)
“When we first met, I thought you were a bit of a know-it-all. And I was right. But since then, I’ve seen you work tirelessly to keep the free people of Copernica free, even when it looked like it might cost you everything. I’ve seen you take command when all hope was lost, and drag an entire station screaming into glory. I’ve seen you fight for what’s right, even when you had to fight alone. I have access to every language ever recorded and every poem ever written, but I still can’t find the words to express how much I admire you, and how honored I am to have watched you become a husband, and a father, and a leader of men.
“As I write these words, Miriam is sitting across from me, reading a book, and I can hear the boys playing in the other room. And as profoundly grateful as I am for the life I’ve been given, I would still be happy to live a life of deprivation and hardship… as long as you were by my side.
“I want you to listen carefully to what I’m going to say next, Jim. Because I have only one thing to ask of you.
“Given our line of work… there’s a fair chance I went out rough. And given the man you are, there’s a fair chance you’ll want to do something about it. Both of us have lost people over the years; both of us have been burdened with more regret than any person should ever have to carry.
“So my request is simple: if I fall, let me fall. I understand the desire for vengeance, but as far as balancing the scales goes — you know I don’t really believe in that, not after everything I’ve seen. Like the story says: ‘there ain’t no justice.’ If the people responsible come into your sights, then by all means: you have my blessing to give them Hell.
“But don’t go hunting for them. It would cause me more grief than you can know if you were to burn down everything we’ve built, everything we’ve been blessed with, just to settle accounts.
“Don’t forget about me, but don’t dwell on me, either. Check in on Miriam and the boys. Make sure they know I love them, and that they will never want for anything. And if you start to lose yourself in the bleak, please think of lovely Olivia, and silly little Lucy, and big brave Jim Junior. Remember them, and let the page turn. There will always be wars to fight — but Jim, I beg you. Don’t fight one for me.
“Devotedly, faithfully, finally, Ashley McNaughton.”
It is some time before Serafin regains his composure.
“So, what do you think?” Ashley asks, holding the glasses up, twisting them to and fro to watch the light play off the lenses. “A little maudlin, perhaps, but I think the performance carried the day.”
“I appreciate the sentiment.”
“And the request?”
Serafin pauses, trying to find the truth. “I don’t know. The crew that grabbed me could get killed tomorrow, or burn off beyond Kuiper, never to be seen again. It’d stick in my craw, to be sure, but I… think I can live with it. But whoever took you… that’s harder.”
“Can you try?”
“I can. But this other thing, Ashley. The conspiracy, the leviathan. At the end of the day, you and I are servants to a greater cause. Blood cells in the body politic, fending off infection. If we die, it doesn’t impact the markets, or threaten the governance as a whole. But if I’m right about SIS… if it’s truly compromised….”
“That’s cancer.”
“Precisely. We have drones, rail guns, rockets, machines of war so powerful to make the hosts of Heaven and Hell turn their face in fear and shame. But all the power in the universe doesn’t matter if the politician doesn’t support the war, if the general doesn’t give the order, if the man in the street doesn’t believe in the cause. Without Intelligence standing watch, the Universal Soviet will eat away at us, spread through everything, until we’re just another post-scarcity oppression engine, free from want — and faith. And freedom. And hope.
“Everything else, I might be able to let go. But if I’m right about this… it’s too much, don’t you see? It’s too awful, too terrible, too vast. It’s bigger than me, bigger than you, bigger than my family, my career, my life. I have to see that through, wherever it goes”
“Yes, well. Fair enough.” Ashley sighs, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “If you put it like that, I suppose you don’t really have much of a choice at all, do you? Of course, that said… I suppose you could always be wrong.”
“I could be,” Serafin says. “But I’m not.”