Mosaic (15 page)

Even so, it was unnerving. Janeway hated the feeling of

powerlessness, just sitting, waiting, hoping, depending on

luck that the plasma flares wouldn't hit them, or if they

did, that the damage would be minimal. She preferred to be

on the move, active, taking charge and doing things her

way. But sometimes that wasn't an option. She'd learned

that over the years, the way she'd learned most of the

lessons of her life: painfully. So she hunkered down in her

chair, trying to quiet her mind, listening to the muffled

explosions of the Kazon flares, and trying not to think

about those she'd left behind.

CHEB PACKER PUT HIS HAND ON HER

ARM TO HELP GUIDE HER through the darkness, and Kathryn

felt a thrill ripple through her, ending in her fingertips,

which tingled intensely. She still felt that sensation

every time he touched her, every time he looked at her,

every time he smiled his funny crooked smile at her.

She loved everything about him. She loved his dark hair

with the one funny lock that kept falling over his

forehead. She loved his eyes, which were the deepest shade

of blue she'd ever seen. She loved his broad shoulders and

strong arms. She loved his intellect, which was as

formidable as any she'd ever encountered in someone her

age.

She still couldn't believe that of all the young women at

the Academy Institute-all of them the best of the be/cheb

was attracted to her. She was not the most beautiful; she

frankly thought she looked like a tomboy with her angular

features and her whippet-thin body. She was not the most

brilliant; though she always ranked near the top in her

classes there were always those who surpassed her. She was

not the most talented or the most athletic. And yet, in

this, their senior year, Cheb had pursued her.

Until she'd begun dating Cheb, she never thought of

herself in comparison to other girls. But now she found

herself thinking of them in a competitive way: Bess Terman

had a much better figure; Allie Keagle had better skin;

Nath Malone had a better sense of humor. Everybody had

better hair. What did he see in her?

Ahead, in the cold dark woods of southern Ohio, Anna Mears

giggled, and immediately Cheb hissed a "Shhhhhh" at her.

Why he felt the need to be quiet, she wasn't sure. The

chance of anyone's being out in these particular woods at

this time of year was remote. It was frigid, and the ground

was covered with icy snow that crunched under the footsteps

of the four young people who walked, single-file, along a

barely visible path among the trees. Only the moon, radiant

in a starry sky, illuminated their way.

They had made the transport-completely unauthorized, of

course-from school. Cheb claimed to know how to cover

evidence of their maneuver so no one would realize they had

commandeered a transporter for a purely personal, nonschool

function. He had set it to bring them back in two hours

from their beam-in site.

That had been less than a kilometer from their ultimate

destination: the Magruder Mansion, an abandoned structure

deep in the woods of a southern Ohio farm. Cheb had told

them about it, how he had once gone with his older brother

and his pals to see it, how intriguing and spooky it was,

and how easy it would be for them to use the school's

transporter to get there. He had made all the arrangements

for this clandestine visit. It seemed as if they'd been

walking forever; the air was cold enough to burn her

nostrils, and her feet were numb. 111

But Kathryn felt warmed by the touch of Cheb's hand on her

arm. She gazed upward, looking for familiar stars, and saw

leafless branches arching upward toward the sky, stark and

desolate. Orion dominated the sky, and Sirius shone

brilliantly above the southern horizon. Castor and Pollux,

the Gemini twins, hung close to the zenith.

"There it is," she heard Cheb whisper, and the group drew

up behind him, peering through the darkness toward the huge

dark shadow that loomed ahead of them.

"It was built in the twentyfirst century,"

breathed Cheb. "But it was modeled after castles in Ireland

and England over a hundred years before that."

Kathryn had seen pictures of such castles, but seeing one

in person was a different matter. It was set on a knoll,

and loomed above them, four stories towering into the night

sky. Crenellated gables, turrets, and pinnacles jutted from

different levels, gradually building up to a massive

central tower. She was awed by its power and majesty.

"Let's go." Cheb started toward the mansion.

"How do we get in?" asked Blake Thomas, a thin, serious

boy who was Captain of the Parrises Squares team, and one

of the academic standouts of the senior class. His

acceptance into Starfleet Academy was a foregone conclusion.

"Through the basement," said Cheb, leading the small band

of adventurers through drifts of crackling snow to the back

of the house, where he disabled motion sensors and opened a

ground-level window, then helped them climb down into the

basement.

Now, they could use their lights. Cheb and Blake turned on

palm beacons and played them around a cavernous room that

was elegantly appointed, with wood paneling and vaulted

ceilings. Running the length of the room were two wooden

alleys, separated by deep grooves.

"What are they?" she asked Cheb, and he smiled at her.

"Bowling alleys," he answered, but that told her nothing.

"It's a game that was. popular until about a hundred years

ago. You rolled a heavy ball down this wooden alley and

tried to knock over an arrangement of ten pins."

Kathryn shook her head. It sounded ludicrous.

But people had played some very strange games in the past.

"Whose mansion was this, Cheb? And why was it abandoned?

Does anyone own it now?"

"It was built early in the twentyfirst century by a

wealthy man who was an amateur historian.

He wanted an authentic Irish castle for the woman he loved,

who came from Ireland. So he spent a fortune having it

built here, in Ohio.

But she was never happy here-too isolated, too far from

home. She wanted to leave him, but he begged her, pleaded

with her, even threatened her. One day, she vanished,

leaving a note that she was going home.

He was so distraught he packed up, moved out, closed the

house, and never came back. The castle has been empty for

three hundred years. It's kept up through a provision in

his will, but it's never to be occupied again." They all

reflected silently on the strangeness of this tale. It was

grand and romantic, and perfectly suited the ambience of

the imposing structure. It seemed neither improbable nor

far-fetched. "Of course," continued Cheb, "there were

rumors that he killed her. Buried her somewhere here, in

the house. Maybe in this basement."

Kathryn shot him a glance. "Are you trying to scare us

with ghost stories, Cheb?"

He shrugged. "Just telling you what I know."

"Let's see the rest." Anna had found the stairway up and

was heading toward it; the others followed, climbing upward

in the darkness. Cheb and Kathryn were last, and she felt

him pull her back, holding her behind for a moment. Then he

moved close and kissed her.

Kathryn was amazed that her knees suddenly felt wobbly and

jelly-like. You really could get weak in the knees! That

was the effect Cheb Packer had on her, and she liked the

sensation, enjoyed the stirring of such powerful feelings.

Her fingertips were an explosion of sensation; tiny,

intense firecrackers danced within them.

They followed the others upstairs, and discovered them in

a huge, paneled dining room, whose table and chairs were

covered with sheets, lending a ghostly presence to the

room. It was a once-elegant room, boasting of a huge marble

fireplace at one end and a ceiling that was stenciled in a

faded design of shamrocks and thistle.

The young people removed the sheets from the furniture,

opened the duffels they'd been carrying, and began to set

up the picnic dinner they'd brought. That had been their

plan-to hold a feast in an Irish castle. They'd brought

soup and sandwiches and Kathryn's mother's caramel

brownies. Blake lit candles and they sat in the flickering

light around a carved wooden table with bear claw legs.

"You realize," said Cheb, "that probably every one of us

is going to end up at Starfleet Academy next fall. I

propose we repeat this dinner-next February in San

Francisco."

Cheb searched in his duffel and extracted a bottle of wine.

"A toast to the occasion."

"Is that real?" asked Anna. "It's synthehol, isn't it?"

"This is an authentic Pinot Noir from northern California,"

said Cheb, pouring some into a cup and sniffing it with the

elan of a wine steward. Kathryn wasn't sure how she felt

about real alcohol. She'd never actually tasted it; she had

experimented with synthehol because it was a substance over

which one had 114

control. Alcohol was not, and she'd always considered it

somewhat subversive because of that.

Cheb tasted it, pronounced it satisfactory, and then moved

around the room, pouring for each of them.

Kathryn watched to see if anyone else would refuse, but no

one did. When he reached her, she found that she couldn't

be the only one in the group to say she didn't want it. She

watched as Cheb poured her some of the dark red liquid.

Well, one cup couldn't hurt-and it did seem in keeping with

the romantic atmosphere they were creating. Cheb raised his

cup, held it high, said solemnly, "Next year in San

Francisco," and they all took a sip of the wine. It tasted

like liquid velvet to Kathryn, dark and pungent.

They munched sandwiches and sipped hot, fragrant soup,

talking softly as they gazed around the shadowy room.

Ancient damask wallpaper was threadbare, peeling in places,

lending to the air of faded grandeur. The house was like an

aging doyenne, trying to present the elegant faqade of

youth, but

showing instead its wrinkles and gray roots. One bottle of

wine split among four of them gave each a little less than

two cups apiece.

Kathryn found herself wishing there were more; a rosy

warmth had permeated her body, a pleasurable sensation that

enhanced the glow she always felt when she was with Cheb.

"All right," he announced, "time to explore the rest of

the house. Wait till you see the bed on the third floor.

It's a huge four-poster with this incredible brocade

canopy."

Cheb led them into a huge entrance hall, around which

wrapped an ornate carved staircase that climbed four

stories to a central skylight high above. It was

intimidating and foreboding, but utterly inviting at the

same time. The young people moved toward the stairs, ran

their hands over a burnished wood banister that, strangely,

was polished and dust-free.

Kathryn inspected her fingers.

"You'd think it would be covered with dust. It's almost as

if someone has polished it." She sniffed at her fingers and

caught a faint scent of pine oil. "And not long ago."

Cheb shrugged. "Magruder's will provided for the house to

be kept up. There may have been a cleaning crew in here

recently."

But now Kathryn detected another vague scent, a woody,

smoky trace that was there one moment, then gone. "Do you

smell that?" she asked.

"It's like . . . like a fireplace that's been left to

smolder."

The others stared at her. She realized that she was the

only one of the group who would have had any experience

with a fireplace. There was one in her house, and her

parents lit a fire frequently. But that was because they

were traditionalists; most families whose children attended

the Institute would not have such an archaic feature in

their homes. They had climbed to a landing which held a

huge, elaborately carved armoire. It, too, had been

recently polished, and gleamed in the reflected light of

their palm beacons. Again, Kathryn couldn't resist running

her fingers over the lustrous wood, as though by doing so

she could make a connection to the former inhabitants.

But Cheb pulled her on. As they climbed upward, their

lights created strange, ghostly shadows, elongated

patterns, distorted and eerie. Kathryn found herself

feeling apprehensive. She was not a fearful person, and

gave absolutely no credence to ghost stories-and yet she

found herself remembering what Cheb had said about the

former mistress of this castle. Had she met her death here,

at the hands of a willful, possessive husband? Did her

bones lie silently within the walls of this edifice? Had it

become not only her monument but her tomb?

She tried to shake off the feeling. She was now a little

light-headed, a sensation she owed to the wine, and it