Infinite Day (74 page)

A
s the
Sacrifice
continued on its way to Farholme, Merral struggled with Isabella's death. He spent hours alone either on his bed or in his office, gazing at the ash gray world about him with unseeing eyes.

In a rare moment of clarity, he realized that the problem wasn't just the enormity of the blow; it was the way that it struck him at different levels in many different ways. So he would feel guilty and try to deal with that; but then the guilt would mutate into anger, and he would have to try to come to grips with that. And then, when he felt he might be managing the anger, it would shift into a self-pitying nostalgia, in which he tried to turn the clock back, and he would have to try to grapple with
that
.

The anger was perhaps the most troubling. It would build up in his mind like thunderclouds and—like an electrical storm—he could never predict on what it would expend its energy. Sometimes he felt angry with himself for the way he had retreated into his private world without confronting Isabella. Sometimes he felt angry with Lezaroth for triggering the Krallen. Sometimes he felt angry with Betafor for concealing the existence of the Krallen. And sometimes he even felt angry with Vero for turning up on his doorstep almost a year ago and dragging him and those around him into this whole sorry mess. He had times too—and he hated himself for this—when he was even angry with Isabella for allowing this to happen to her. Sometimes the anger found no focus at all.

Two days after they had returned into Below-Space, Merral was sitting in his office, staring at, but not seeing, a file on the screen, when there was a faltering knock on the door. It was Vero. He slipped into the room, a frail figure whose cheekbones now seemed visible.

“My friend,” he began with a slow hesitancy, “I'm not even sure that I have anything to say that can help. I just w-wanted to come and sit with you.” He sat down on the edge of the spare chair and, shoulders hunched, stared at Merral with wide, soulful eyes. For a long time, no words were said.

“Do you blame yourself?” The voice was a cracked whisper.

Merral gave a drawn-out sigh. “Yes. And almost everybody else, too.”

“I just thought you ought to know . . . that everybody I've talked to on the ship feels guilty too. I do.” Merral saw Vero's dark, agile fingers interweave. “They—we—are saying, ‘If only we had tried,' ‘If only we had persisted,' ‘If only we had watched.'”

Merral shook his head. “One of the problems of grief, Vero—” he found himself surprised at how cool he sounded—“is that there's a separation between head and heart. In my head I know, I think, that anything we might have done could have been counterproductive. She was rebelling against us.” He heard his words and felt they came from someone else. “So my head says, ‘No, you're not to blame.' But my heart . . . says I am guilty.”

“It is going to take time, my friend. Healing is like growing trees, Merral. It doesn't occur instantly, however much you wish it.”

The look on his friend's face reminded Merral that Vero knew about suffering and loss.

“True.”

“I feel very bad. Stupid, too.” Vero shook his head in dismay. “I had been stuck there in my cabin focusing on how we deal with evil. And I'd been looking at an enormous scale: how whole battle fleets work; finding weapons capable of destroying planets from a million kilometers away. And all the time, a hundred
meters
from where I sat, a pack of Krallen was waiting to get out. I grieve, my friend, but I am also rebuked.”

Merral heard people pass by outside the door, talking in low voices.
The entire ship's company is subdued.

“Vero, it's more than just Isabella. She's a symbol . . .” Merral felt a lump in his throat. “A symbol of the way everything has fallen apart. At once. In barely a year, my world has disintegrated.”

Vero just looked at the floor and, apparently beyond words, shook his head.

After a few minutes of silence he got up, patted Merral on the shoulder, and headed for the door. “I said I hadn't any answers. I meant it. But you have my prayers.”

Later that day, Merral was walking down the corridor, deep in unhappy thoughts, when he almost bumped into Anya. He started and looked up to see her face pale, the freckles oddly highlighted in the Below-Space light.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“I just want to say . . . ,” she began, and then dried up. In her eyes he read confusion and blankness. “I'm sorry . . . ,” she blurted out. “I really am.”

Then as tears began, she brushed past him and walked off with a clumsy rapidity. Merral stared after her, uncertain whether the tears were for Isabella, him, or even Anya herself.

The awkward encounter with Anya did at least have one positive outcome. Merral felt that, in his current tormented state, it would be all too easy for him to fall into her arms. But the considerable attraction this posed was countered by the realization that blending his pain with her guilty self-criticism would help neither of them. So he resolved to keep his distance. When the thought came to him that now he was free from Isabella, he pushed it to one side as being too terrible for words.
And anyway, I promised to stay clear of any such relationships until the war is over. And the war is most certainly not over.

Later that evening Luke took Merral down to the now-empty gym and encouraged him to work out. Merral, initially reluctant, saw the wisdom and, sparing only his wounded leg, threw himself into exercising. Eventually they lay on the weight mats, saying little, engrossed in raising and lowering the heavy metal bars.

“Luke,” Merral said as he slowly lifted a bar, “I've decided I don't need evil
explained
. I just wanted it ended on
my
ship. Killing my friends. Is
that
too much to ask?”

“All serious evil kills someone's friends. What right have
you
to be exempt?”

Merral looked at the chaplain, seeing the beads of sweat on the gaunt face.

“I am on his side.”

Luke lifted his bar again and slowly lowered it before answering. “I'm not sure that ‘being on his side' is a correct description of how grace works. . . .”

“I put my life on the line on the Blade. I did everything I could,” Merral protested.

“That was heroic. It truly was.”

“And now
this
happens. Someone who was . . . once my best friend is now dead.”

“I'm sorry, I don't see the relationship.”

“Doesn't being prepared to sacrifice yourself have any payoff?”

Luke gave him a quizzical stare. “Why should it have?”

“I thought it ought to.”

Luke caught his breath before he answered. “Merral, do you really understand grace?”

“Of course I do.”

“I wonder. All sorts of things that we took for granted are now becoming obscured. Grace means that God loves us and, in Jesus, saves us from our sins freely.”

“Of course.”

“But there is an implication to that, isn't there? About doing good things.”

“I'm sure there is, but you better spell it out.”

“Quite simply, we gain no merit from them. God loves us before we do them and he loves us after we do them. So we gain no leverage with him through them. God owes you no favors.”

“I suppose so. . . .”

“And when I look at the Word, I see no guarantees of exemption for the children of the covenant.” Luke gave a slight groan. “Maybe we should get the gravity reduced here. Look . . . in the ancient past, it was only ever the heresies that offered exemption from suffering in this life. The Son of the Most High bore death for us so that the sting might be taken from it. It's only destroyed on the Last Day. But we aren't there yet.” He pushed up the weight again. “
Phew
. Definitely not yet.”

“I am hardly going to disagree.”

“Good. And, of course, you don't need me to point out again that because the envoy takes his orders from God your rage is really against the Almighty.”

Merral pressed up with an energy that seemed to express his anger. “Under the circumstances . . . is that too terrible a sin?”

Luke gave a little gasp and lay back on the mat. “Okay, that's enough for me. Too terrible a sin? Well, it probably depends what you are angry with him for. I'm not going to make a snap judgment. In the old covenant, Job gets pretty mad with God.” Merral caught a brief, weary smile. “For which I am glad.”

“I'm human, Luke. If I were a Krallen, it wouldn't matter, because I wouldn't have feelings. If I were like Betafor, I could erase my feelings. But I am neither.”

“For which I am glad too. You know, Merral, we make things very hard for God. If he acts, we get mad at him because he restricts our freedom. If he doesn't, we get mad at him because he doesn't act. The guy can't win.”

“I appreciate your logic, Luke. It's just that, at the moment, I
feel
rather than
think
.”

“Rebuke accepted.” The chaplain got to his feet and picked up a towel. “Well, I guess this conversation is going to continue. But a last word for now: you've had a bad blow. Do your duty.” His stern tone reminded Merral uncomfortably of the envoy. “You just have to keep on, day by day, hour by hour. These people need you.”

Then he headed for the shower. After he had gone, Merral stood up, wiped the sweat off his face, and cautiously stretched his wounded leg.

He's right. He's always right. Whatever my pain, I have to keep on going. I have my duty.

Partly as a result of Luke's words and partly because he felt it would help him put the past behind him, Merral began to try to focus ahead.
What are we going to do at Farholme? And what is the best strategy for reaching the Assembly?

He decided to consult Vero. He found him at his desk but was pleased that this time he switched the screen off at his entry.

“My friend, are you better?”

“Better?” Merral closed the door behind him. “
No
. But I am functioning. I have set myself tasks.”

“Good.”

“We need to think about what happens at Farholme. The Dominion may be close behind us.”

“Indeed. H-how long before we're there?”

“Laura's current estimate is another six days. We haven't done badly without a steersman.”

“Not at all. Where are we emerging?”

“As close in as we dare to Near Station. The plan is to go up to just below Normal-Space and check first. We don't want to be greeted by a missile from Ludovica. And we need to be sure Farholme isn't in enemy hands.”

Vero closed his eyes. “I don't think it will be.”

Merral was struck by the certainty in his friend's voice. “Why? Do you know something?”

“
Know
? For certain, not a lot.” He gave a nod toward the silver box. “But I have read the strategy documents and the records of war games—”

“Games?”

“Simulations.”

“I see. Why didn't you tell me?”

“It's only come together in the last few days. Anyway, it looks as if the attack plan will be a direct and rapid push for Earth. Worlds that are not strategic will be bypassed. Until Earth is taken.” There was a feeble smile. “Being ‘Worlds' End' may save Farholme any immediate harm. Let me show you.” Vero called up a wallscreen. “Be easier in color, but never mind. They have a map of the route to Earth. Remember, they've been listening to our signals for centuries, and the ship that pursued the
Rahllman's Star
was able to pick up a lot of data.”

Merral saw the list of worlds and star systems on the gray screen. The twenty or more names began with Anthraman, Bannermene's star, and went on through Lungarlast, Manprovedi, Hanstalt . . . He scanned to the end.
Sol and Ancient Earth
. A bittersweet memory of playing a game at Nativity with Vero came back to him. “Cross the Assembly,” he murmured. “Fast.”