The Unearthing (22 page)

“I need to hear this,” she said, tightly. Bloom said nothing else. She knew exactly how Laura felt because it was how she felt: the news would be horrid, the details would be traumatic but she needed to hear for herself what had happened.

“I actually saw him walk towards us,” James said, “He got out of a car…Christ only knows how long he’d been sitting there. I didn’t think anything of it as he walked up to us. I didn’t even realize he was reaching for a gun until he started shooting…Scott was dead and then the Prof went down.” He choked back tears; not out of shame, but so he could say what he had to say. Bloom was crying, as was Laura, Peter and Aiziz. Kodo and Andrews were choked, throats lumped and sore, their faces tight. James continued.

“I went to him…trying to help…trying to stop the blood…Oh, God, there was so much blood…but I couldn’t. I couldn’t and he…died…” He broke down then, the memory of Echohawk coughing up a great gout of blood, the look of confusion and pain in his mentor’s dying eyes too much for James to bear.

“There was nothing you could have done James,” Bloom said, “He was shot in the chest at point blank range.” She choked on the words, shuddering as she recalled James’ description of Echohawk’s final moments. Over the next few minutes, everyone preoccupied themselves with regaining their composure; Aiziz was helped by Andrew’s comforting rubbing of her shoulders, Laura with a tight squeeze of Bloom’s hand, James by staring at the floor between his feet.

“Oh, fuck,” Someone sighed at long last.

“Yeah,” Bloom said, identifying Peter’s voice. They all looked tired, she reflected, worn out. No surprise there, actually and she knew she must look much the same, if not worse. Such was the way of funerals; strained faces, tired from loss, tired from pain, tired of both.

“We should go out and get something to eat,” She said, “Or at least send up for room service. The visitation tonight’s not until seven.” And she knew that before long she’d be coordinating linxes from members of Mark’s family, of hers, all of them flying in for the funeral, tomorrow.

“Is there anything we can do, Meg?” Peter asked.

“You can get on some headsets,” she said, Peter’s offer seeming to come in answer to her prayers, “And help me organize the hundred or so people we’re expecting.”

“I’d be happy to,” He said. Bloom had no doubt he would be. Dealing with a funeral was always easier if you had something to do with it; be it making calls, ordering flowers, or any of the dozen other tasks left to survivors to deal with. It was a headache she would appreciate help with and didn’t want to put Laura through more than necessary.

Everything got busy after that. Between arrivals at the airport, rail stations and by car, linxes to make, more to answer, information to be given out, Bloom, Peter and James and Laura spent most of the rest of the afternoon working on funerary arrangements. That night was a blur of faces. Faculty associates from the university; Echohawk’s family, including a younger sister, a nephew, Echohawk’s stepfather and cousin; Bloom’s family, mutual friends, Paul Santino and others from the last weeks of Mark’s life…they all blended together for her forever after in dreams as one unfocused, sad androgynous face wearing black. After everything that had happened today Bloom didn’t have the capacity or motivation to recognize everyone there.

♦♦♦

It was really only the following day, when Mark was buried, that she was finally focused again; finally over the worst of it. The last hurt would be watching him being lowered into the ground. She knew after it would all be letting go and that before it would be grim anticipation. She’d been through the worst of the pain already, and it wasn’t the first time she’d buried someone she’d loved. Both her parents were long dead; her brother died in a car wreck shortly after she came home from the Australian Conflict. But Mark...losing Mark so suddenly, so violently...

What struck Bloom most about the day was its silence. The noises that were heard were all incidental; all background. The alarm going off at five, audio preset to an all-news channel. This last deliberate, so as not to tune in to any music that might be out of place today. Getting up out of bed; going for a run she needed more for its constancy than the exercise; getting into the shower afterwards; the shower’s spray hot, cleansing but not warming. Not today. She felt as though she’d never be warm again. Dress uniform; medals over the left breast; rank insignia firmly affixed; hat tucked under right arm. Breakfast; something light; tea over coffee to keep the stomach from any potential upset; a cigarette after the last of the tea, the smoke inhaled deep and stinging into her lungs, outlining them in a shadow of pain.
Pain is life. Feel more pain, feel more alive
. Remember that under the costume of mourning a human being was waiting to come back out. Life yet to be lived; her own. Let the nicotine take root in the blood. Exhale one blast through the nose for old times’ sake. Time to face the day. Back in the kitchen for another cup of tea. At the breakfast table Laura and her roommate: Allison, a pale-skinned girl, short, curvy; long, wavy red hair. Comely enough that she pulled off black in a way that Bloom admired, but in a way she also knew would be morbidly inappropriate at a funeral.

“Hello Allison,” The words out of her mouth, the tea poured, she made her exit. Later, on their way in Laura’s car to the funeral parlour. There, a chance to see Mark one last time; laid out in a proper casket but poorly made up. His skin shaded too pale for his Apache background. The stench of flowers, cloying, sweet, forever the scent of death: the piss-sweet scent of lilies. Now a chance to spot who was here; some strangely conspicuous in their absence. Shaking hands, comforting embraces, more words about the loss. Sympathetic nods and a few private moments with Mark’s body, time to reminisce and regret, before it was time to proceed with services. The pain beginning to surface again, that particular tightness in her throat as the casket was closed; the realization she’d had her last glimpse of him ever just before the casket was shuttled from the funeral parlour to the hearse. Getting into the limousine that would follow the hearse to the funeral home with her daughter and other members of Mark’s family. Mark’s stepfather looked broken. Laura and Bloom shared a quick glance. They’d want to keep watch over their Pops. The solemn ride in silence to the church. The service Catholic, interspersed with readings in Mark’s native tongue. Eulogies, three: one by Mark’s closest colleague from the university; another by Mark’s stepfather and one from Laura. All of them touching, beautiful. Laura’s bringing fresh tears to Bloom’s eyes. From church again to the cars and then to the cemetery and the graveside service. The final farewell, the last words by the priest and Mark’s body being lowered into the ground.

It hit her then as Mark’s funeral concluded, as she knew it would. Watching as the mourners each took an handful of earth and dropped it down onto the coffin, as at last it came her turn to do the same, looking down that narrow, deep hole at the coffin. Inside, his inert body, eyes closed, lifeless and still, while above the living shovelled earth in on top of him. It was over for him, his end like all their ends would be: sealed in a box and buried. The storm ended inside of her with one last downpour. She cried, her heart wrenching with each sob, unable, unwilling to stop the tears. Laura walked with her, crying as hard as she; both of them clinging to one another for support. Even as she cried, though, Bloom reflected that the tears this time weren’t as bad a deluge as when she’d first seen Mark’s body, but still rain enough to drown her heart. Laura helped her back to the car and leaving Mark’s grave, somehow made it all the worse; it felt as though she were abandoning him without quite being ready to say goodbye.

EIGHT

CONTINUATIONS

“Paul Santino?” Santino looked in the direction of the voice. It was reassuringly American, especially to someone who had just re-discovered the chaos of travel in Europe. As an undergrad Santino had toured the Continent with a girl he’d been seeing at the time; he’d not been out of North America since. Any desire Santino had to visit foreign lands was satisfied with either a trip to the backwards little Canadian province of Quebec or to the sunny climes of Mexico. He scanned for the source of the voice in the maddening crowd of tourists, Clusters of priests and priestesses in Catholic vestments, European business commuters and frenetic families going to or from Rome on holiday or other travel. Santino knew he was being met but he no longer knew if he was in the right airport, let alone the right terminal. They’d buried Mark Echohawk only the day before. Except that wasn’t necessarily right, considering he was seven time zones from home and hadn’t slept since leaving Albuquerque. It had been, he reflected, one hellishly long day, indeed. There was a break in the crowd. A young black man in some sort of uniform…Catholic vestments; not a Priest’s costume, the young man must have been a Novice.

“I’m Brother Simon Gage,” He said, shaking Santino’s hand, “On behalf of the Roman Catholic Church, I’d like to welcome you to Vatican City.” He shrugged, “Well, we aren’t in Vatican City just yet. This is Rome, actually.”

“Hi,” Santino said, blearily. “How far is it to…to wherever it is I’m staying?”

“That depends entirely on the traffic,” Gage said. “At this time of day…probably half an hour.”

“I thought someone from the Aboriginal Council was going to be here.”

“I’m the Liaison to the Aboriginal Council for the Catholic Church. As hosts we have to look after all the delegates,” Gage replied, leading Santino back to their car, “You should have actually been on a diplomatic flight but as I understand there was a problem getting clearance into New Mexico.”

“A jet from the Vatican’s missionary services would have made a tasty target, Brother Simon,” Santino said, “The attack that killed Professors Scott and Echohawk was most likely the work of a terrorist cult.”

“The United Trinity Observants,” Gage said knowingly, helping Santino stow his luggage in the sedan the monk had led him to, “I saw the reports on INN. What happened was tragic.” They climbed into the car which was soon powered up and fighting to leave the airport parking lot.

“To be honest, Elder Santino, Even if you weren’t part of the delegation, I think you’d have been invited to the talks.”

Santino hated the “Elder” honorific. He’d been a Shaman once, but not for long. He’d made a better scholar than practitioner.

“How so?” he asked, politely.

“You were
there
!” Gage said, “When the Ship unearthed itself. You saw it
happen
!”

“I didn’t actually see the unearthing, but I suppose you’re right,” Santino said, “I’ve been to the Ship. Well, closer than most before the blockades went up. I’ve been too busy to go since the Expedition started. But if you don’t mind, right now I’d like to sleep from here, to wherever.”

“I understand perfectly,” Gage said, as the car shot from the airport out onto the street, “Have a good rest and leave the driving to me.” Santino closed his eyes and allowed the silent rushing of road noise to work with his exhaustion and provide him some rest.

♦♦♦

The Minister finished his coffee, staring out the windows of
Wilfrid’s
, the café/bar just off the lobby of the Laurier Hotel. The view was not the most auspicious; he looked out across the divide where Rideau Street became Wellington Avenue, out at the old rail station which had long since become the Ottawa Convention Center. He often came here for a late lunch or a cup of coffee; the Laurier was only a few minutes’ walk from Parliament Hill and as such a convenient getaway. Far better than trips to the food court at the Rideau Center or the fast food shops down Bank Street. Not that the Minister didn’t enjoy a sub from Quizzno’s or a Taco Bell now and again. But
Wilfrid’s
was, to him, an oasis of calm and elegance in his otherwise hectic and often indecorous days. The Minister put his coffee cup down and sighed. He was going back to work, but that wasn’t what troubled him; when the Minister got back to his office, he would be going directly into a meeting of the Committee.

He was learning fast as a Committee member; the Minister supposed that one had to. His initiation into the Committee had been very thorough, conducted by his British counterpart.

“You’ll find that the Committee is anything but a normal government agency,” The British Minister of Defence had told him when they had met as part of a NATO conference, “First off, we don’t answer to any branch of any of the three governments who make up our membership. Our organization is of benefit to our respective governments, but to protect them, plausible deniability has to be maintained.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“All governments are partisan,” She explained, “And the Committee is not. Were partisan politics to come into play, the Committee would be rendered useless. Simply put, none of us can trust our governments with the secrets of the Committee.”

Trust was a major issue for the Committee, the Minister discovered. One of the first things he’d learned was how little anyone on the Committee trusted anyone else. He of course trusted his fellow Canadians on the Committee; He’d known the Solicitor General since they’d both been junior backbenchers and the Minister for Natural Resources was another Party veteran. It seemed almost everyone trusted only their fellow countrymen. Beyond that the Canadians trusted the British within reason, but resented their patriarchal attitude. The Americans were viewed with a double-edged sword: They were, of course, Canada’s closest neighbour and single largest trading partner; Canada and the US were also partners in the North American Union. But the Americans were also politically domineering, forever trying to grasp the reigns of international power that they had held until after War Three’s disastrous conclusion. A strange mix here: both England and America had each had their time in the sun as the rulers of the world. Canada’s traditional role had been as the world’s mediators and Peacekeepers and as a moral leader, never interested in power. Canada and England had helped to lead the way towards founding the World Council and the United States had bowed to Canada’s suggestion that Cuba, the Dominican Republic and others long considered “Undesirable” by Washington be let in to the North American Union. And now, working with representatives from Canada’s two most important allies, the Minister still felt somewhat suspicious of his fellow Committee members. It wasn’t that they weren’t men and women of character, or ideal; they were. But their agendas, or more precisely the agendas of their respective governments, were another matter. Both England and the United States were interested in the Ship. The ‘States out of some hope that the territorial advantage of having the Ship on homeland soil would give it influence on the World’s political stage once more. The English were more interested in access to the Ship than control of it. They wanted second pick at the technologies inside the Ship. That meant shared residuals from whatever the States got first, plus exclusive rights to whatever was found that the Americans overlooked or discarded.