Foundation (21 page)

Trumaine wondered what Benedict was aiming at.

“
Grant and my father worked together. That makes him think he has an obligation toward his son as well.”

“
He told me you’ve lost your beloved daughter in an unfortunate accident and, possibly because of that, the care of the woman you once loved.”

Trumaine felt the blood go straight to his head, Firrell had no right to tell Benedict anything about his personal life.

“
Why not ask me? I could have told you myself.”

“
I doubt it, Detective. There are things we hardly confide to ourselves. Things we’re afraid of, things that hurt us. No, you would have never told me about Maia. I
had
to ask someone else.”

“
I guess that changes everything, now that you know.”

“
I’m not a busybody. I asked for a good reason.”

“
I can hardly imagine.”

“
I need to know if we are having any progress at all in the search for the crawler. The time you spend in the chamber can be in vain if you focus too much on personal matters. It is my duty to know if there are any elements that might ... cloud your judgment.”

“
I ain’t focusing on anything. Those dreams just come to me, I can’t do anything about it.”

“
If you’re too involved in your dreams, you might be overlooking—”

“
I ain’t overlooking a darned thing!” exploded Trumaine. “I’m doing just what you told me. I’m alert to anything that might be slightly off than how I remember it, I’m alert to every single word that’s being said. The trouble is, everything is as it should be. That’s exactly how all those damn things happened, that’s exactly the words we’d been saying to each other, the same way we said them. There’s nothing off, there’s nothing wrong. Everything is as it’s supposed to be.”

Trumaine looked in the distance, lost in thought.

“
I have never dreamed as clearly. The ocean, the lashing rain, Starshanna’s kisses, Maia’s lifeless body ... It all felt so real.”

“
The heightened perception depends on the feed you’re exposed to,” explained Benedict. “As I told you, it takes a bit to get accustomed to it.”

He exhaled in a long sigh.

“
Would you care to talk about what you see when you’re in the feed?”

“
I dream about my daughter, about my wife. They’re episodes from our lives; about when I first fell in love with Starshanna, about Maia’s birth, her obsession with chasing the dolphin. About her death ...”

“
A painful experience,” commented Benedict.

“
Which keeps repeating itself. Maybe it’s the feed as well?”

“
I don’t think so. Clearly, after all these years, the loss of your daughter still haunts you. Somehow, you can’t accept what happened. Your subconscious relives that awful moment for you to try and change it but, even if the images of that event are in your memory, they’re just flimsy remnants, shadows. Because that event truly belongs to the past—you can’t possibly change it.”

Trumaine nodded tiredly.

“
Don’t make the mistake of believing you’re the one whom death has touched, Detective. Death is not a privilege. I’ve lost beloved ones as well, your captain did too—everybody does. It’s in our nature as mortal beings. Medical science as well as technology can’t stop time. We age, we die. It’s as simple as that. It might be cynical, yes, but that’s what life is all about ...”

“
Dying?” scoffed Trumaine.

“
On the contrary; living. Living in such a way that when we are close to the end, we aren’t left with complaints or regrets, but with the full realization of the even few accomplishments we have so hardly achieved. I’m sure the life of your daughter, however short, was full and happy.”

“
She was only twelve ...”

“
Nonetheless, as hard as it might be on us, life goes on.”

“
I should have stopped her ...”

“
Does anyone else populate your dreams, beside your beloved ones?”

“
There’s an Aquarian nurse and the clerk at the Aquarian embassy.”

“
Are you sure they are who they pretend to be?”

“
I’m sure.”

“
And you haven’t noticed anything strange in your visions, since you entered the empty feed? Quirky, odd things that don’t belong to you?”

Trumaine shook his head. “It all belongs to me, I told you. I’m sorry, maybe your theory about curiosity doesn’t apply in this case.”

Benedict exhaled. “Anything is possible, of course.”

“
What are we going to do now?”

“
We stick to the original plan,” said Benedict, flatly. “We keep combing the feed until we find the crawler.”

“
I tried and I came up with nothing!” snarled Trumaine. “It’s no use and there’s no time left! Why continue?”

He pointed at the choice believers floating in their corner.

“
Look at them! It’s three whole days tomorrow and they keep searching! What have they found? Nothing! The Hibiscus is gone, Benedict! They are all dead, that’s why your believers cannot find them! Why insist?”

“
Because there’s no alternative,” said Benedict, filled with a quiet resolve.

“
I can’t force you into believing that we’re going to catch the crawler in less than twenty-four hours, of course. But if we don’t stop him, intergalactic travels won’t be safe anymore. People will begin to fear possible attacks—it’s going to be the end of Credence. I just can’t permit that. I don’t like the sound of it, but I have a responsibility toward mankind, Detective ...”

He made a long pause.

“
Help me. Help me find the crawler hiding in Credence,” he pleaded.

Trumaine looked up at the large signboard hanging above the turnstiles as he shuffled past them.

It said:
501
and
05:55 AM
.

He felt old, tired and helpless. He needed a cup of coffee and he needed it badly, so he steered his steps to his left, entering Credence’s canteen.

Strangely enough, the canteen was almost empty. The few believers hanging around were slumped in their chairs; they kept yawning, fighting hard not to drop their heads in their breakfast.

Trumaine approached the large cupboard flooded with UV rays and recovered a white sterile mug. He filled it with a black, hot, fuming stream of liquid. Even if its smell was anything like the powerful aroma he had inhaled at Faith’s, it would do all the same.

Anything would do this morning.

Without realizing, he strode to the same table in the corner Faith had showed him the previous day.

He sat, clutching the mug with both hands, enjoying the little heat the ceramic released. He sipped some coffee, feeling it go down in his stomach, ever so slowly, savoring every moment of it.

Lying in the chamber had stirred something buried deep within; memories he thought forgotten, but that had never really left him, memories that lay smoldering just a few inches below the many layers of his limited awareness.

Trumaine took out his sleek, self-sealing plastic wallet, opened it and retrieved something he hadn’t looked at for a very long time; it was a three-dimensional picture about three inches long and two wide of a young girl. The carefree, sparkling smile of Maia shone on her tanned face. She was about eleven, then, her chestnut hair was fairer than it used to be—since the summer sun had bleached it—but her eyes always looked the same. They had that touch of craziness and unpredictability that went not just with the flourishing, young people like Maia, but even with older ones, who were supposed to be more controlled and self-possessed, like her mother.

The picture had been in his pocket for three years straight now. He touched his thumb to it, tracing the outline of Maia’s cheek, as if to caress her, recalling everything about her—

When, all of a sudden, a shadow appeared in front of him: the movement had been so abrupt he had almost jumped.

He looked up ... but it was just Faith.

He had been so absorbed in Maia’s picture he had forgotten everything that was going on around him.

“
You mind if I sit?”

He looked up at her eyes and, for a moment, he thought they were a bit shinier than the usual, and flushed, as if she had been crying. Was it just an impression? Was it the light? Was it exhaustion? What else? Trumaine wasn’t sure.

“
Not at all,” he said.

He motioned Faith to the next chair and she sat across from him.

“
You going in or coming out?” he asked.

“
I’m coming out. Sometimes, I think I should move to Credence and live the rest of my life here. Any good news?”

Trumaine shook his head. “Not yet.”

He turned the picture upside down and went back to drink his coffee.

“
Who is she? Your daughter?” Faith asked suddenly.

Trumaine nodded his head; there weren’t many things he could hide from her. He flicked the picture over again and around for her to see.

“
She’s Maia.”

“
She was very young.”

“
Was
?” asked Trumaine with a frown.

“
She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Trumaine looked struck. “How do you know?”

“
People don’t stare at pictures the way you do,” said Faith, with a hint of sadness in her voice.

“
You guessed it just from that?”

“
Just from that.”

Trumaine toyed with the corner of the picture, then turned it around to look at it.

“
She died chasing a little girl’s dream,” he said, keeping his eyes on the still.

There was a long, awkward silence, and Faith put her hand over Trumaine’s. The detective looked at the small hand, then at Faith and he half smiled. The touch was meant to give some comfort and possibly to stand for a late condolence and he was grateful for that. All the same, he retrieved his hand.

“
If Credence were what Jarva meant for it to be, Maia could be alive once again ...” said Faith in a whisper, her eyes searching Trumaine’s.

“
There’s little sense in talking about that now, since Jarva is dead, don’t you think?”

“
I suppose so ... Would you have him try and bring her back, if he was still alive?”

“
There’s no point in living in the past.”

“
What about meaning?”

“
Once your lesson is learned, the past is better left behind, forgotten once and for all.”

“
Is that why you keep looking at that still? To forget her?” snarled Faith.

Trumaine thought for a while, but ultimately didn’t say anything—he had no answer to that.

Trumaine left Faith at the canteen.

He had walked back to the hall of Credence, entering one of the many video-message booths that lined it.

He swept his card in the credit slot and the obsidian monitor hanging on the wall switched on, turning to a pearl-white.

“
Call for Captain Grant Firrell, Department of Police,” he said.

The monitor blinked two words:
CALL SENT
.

In moments, the large, yawning face of Firrell came into view.

“
Trumaine,” he grumbled.

“
I hope I haven’t rolled you out of the bed, Grant, but I thought you should have the forensics about the Goldmars’ car by now.”

“
I sure do,” said Firrell, opening wide in another yawn. “The traces of DNA Boyle found in the Meteor belong to both the Goldmars and their cat. Boyle compared his samples with those they sent him from Santorini—they match.”

“
Nothing else?” asked Trumaine, hoping for something more.

“
Nothing else. The Goldmars don’t have a garage, that’s why they always leave the car under the porch. They don’t even bother locking it—it’s an old piece of junk, they said. They didn’t think someone would pick it up.”

“
What about their neighbor? That Alveraz girl? I guess they know her.”