They picked up some lunch at a small café outside of the Berkeley campus and settled down to eat beside a small, man-made pool. Their giddiness settled to a quiet contentment. Ruth sat cross-legged, leaning one elbow on her knee, staring into the surface of the water. She didn’t complain when Terry moved to rest his head on her lap, nor when he periodically craned his neck up to lightly kiss the underside of her breast.
“Will you tell me about your family?” he asked quietly.
Ruth stared at the reflections in the water, the sky, the clouds, her own face. The blueness before and above her, the gold light, usually familiar and normal, seemed exotic in Terry’s company. Exotic, yet almost dreary. It had been along time since the sky had changed colors for her. She’d never before been on any one planet – Antares included - for more than a few weeks at a time. And she’d been on Terra nearly two years. “The sky on Antares is green,” she said with sudden intensity. “What’s it like on Indi?”
“Pale purplish – lavender, I guess,” he replied. “Why?”
"I’m getting bored with blue,” she answered, not realizing it was true until she‘d said it. To cover her surprise at herself, she answered his question. “I suppose I’m an only child.”
“People usually know these things,” he said dryly.
“I mean – they both died before I got a chance to meet them,” she said quickly. “Rachel died about thirty years before I was born.” She cleared her throat. “My mother was pregnant when she died.”
“I’m sorry, Ruth.”
“You?” she countered, refusing to acknowledge the lump in her throat.
“One older sister, a real terror. An older brother, quiet, a good engineer. I’m a second son. Two younger brothers, two younger sisters – and Ama’s pregnant again, with twins.” Ruth whistled. He grinned. “My mother's Indiian,“ he explained. “Married Indiians don’t believe in birth control.”
“Doesn’t sound like it,” she agreed. “That’s about eight more than sounds reasonable to me.”
He gave a short, delighted laugh. “I wouldn’t be too concerned about reproducing, zilama, at least not for a few years.”
“It’s not one of my major priorities.” She returned his grin and he kissed her. Then,
“I’m sorry about your family.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t know them.”
“I meant your parents.”
“Yeah, well…” she faltered.
"Now mine,” he went on quickly, “or at least my father, honorable son-of-a…” He took a deep breath. “Sometimes he can be a real piece. He has this enormous blind spot where I’m concerned. He uses one set of standards for the galaxy and another just for me. I can’t be what he is and he’ll never forgive me for it.”
She gently stroked his hair. “What is he?”
“Perfect.”
She laughed. “No, really.”
“Really?” He sighed, then thought in silence for a moment. “Overprotective. I guess that sums it up. He’s got this thing about inner selves – beasts. He thinks one has to watch over them day and night lest they run amok and destroy everything. He thinks I’m too much my inner beast. Actually, I think he thinks I’m too much his inner beast.”
“Your father’s Human, right?” Ruth mused.
“Yeah. So?”
“Maybe he doesn’t understand how you think, how you feel, because you’re Indiian. You’re not like him. Maybe he just forgets that sometimes.”
Terry scowled. “You’re defending him, you know.”
She shrugged, flushing. “I like fathers. I liked my father, anyway. Paternity’s a good idea.”
Terry laughed. “A ‘good idea’, huh? You mean you can get around it?”
She stared at him in innocently teasing wonder. “Can’t everyone?”
“Not me.”
“Sorry. Wish I could help.”
“You could explain,” he pointed out. “My other half’s Indiian.”
“I was joking, Terry.” He stared at her silently. She blushed. “Oh, all right. Antares is very matriarchal. There’s very little pair-bonding. Fathers aren’t considered necessary.”
“You still didn’t tell me how you get around it. Or are you parthenogenic?”
“Upon occasion.”
“Aema save me from that occasion!” Terry said reverently.
“Who?” Ruth asked.
“Aema.”
“I repeat: who?”
“Indi’s goddess. Not omniscient or omnipresent, but She’ll do.”
“Sort of like a near-sighted Zehara?”
“Who?”
“Never mind. She hasn’t been talking to me for the last couple of years.”
“Come on, I answered your ‘who?’!”
“All right!” Ruth snapped vehemently. “The bitch who runs Antares!”
Terry blinked, his teasing grin fading. “What did she do to you, zilama?” he asked softly.
“Nothing. I just decided to convert to a Terran religion.”
“Ruth, don’t pull back like that,” Terry murmured. “If you don’t want to tell me, all right; but let me help the pain anyway.”
It wasn’t easy but she ignored the honesty.
“You’ve told me about your father,” she said. “What’s your mother like?”
“She really is perfect. And you’re not going to sidetrack me.”
“You’re too nosy,” Ruth told him. “Kind, but way too nosy.”
“I care about your answers, Ruth.”
“And I’m not used to...”
“I care about you.”
She stared into his dark eyes for what seemed like forever. He waited patiently. At last, she began nervously. “I – I think I – care…” He silenced her with one of his seemingly endless supply of kisses.
“Words are clumsy, and they don’t always say what they mean,” he whispered. “Empathy, now, that’s the thing.” He stroked her temples, looking deeply into her eyes. “Feel it,” was a murmured caress. “Feel it like I do.”
It hadn’t happened for a very long time. She wasn’t sure that the ability even remained. She had lived with the unacknowledged fear – and hope – that it was gone from her. Suddenly, it was easy. Terry made it easy. The shields disappeared without any conscious effort. She wanted, and abruptly was – sharing, absorbing, giving, being all that Terry felt, all that she felt – and separate identity began to fade. As if he felt it too, he whispered her name, reassuring and sensually teasing to take the momentary terror of it away. She pulled back slowly, lingeringly, shivering at the feel of his smile through her. They explored, waited, urged and accepted settling inside themselves and each other until they were touching still but no longer merging.
“The feel of you makes me incredibly horny,” he said.
“Likewise,” she replied in a murmur. She shivered/felt him shiver with hunger.
“Right here,” he suggested, “right now, in front of Zehara and everybody.”
The rebuke for her bitterness was so gentle, so wrapped in grinning delight that she couldn’t mind. She kissed him, sending passionate agreement. They made love in the blue sky and golden sunlight and the pool’s rippling reflection.
They walked back up to the house, despite Terry’s earlier insistence on an air car. After a chess game, some music, and several hours of making love on the sundeck, he cooked dinner. They watched the sunset lying stretched out naked on the mattress he dragged outside.
She hadn’t meant to, but she fell asleep in his arms.
There was some kind of animal outside. It was hungry, and it wanted to get in. It kept going away and coming back, day after day. She was almost used to the fear it brought with it. It was the only thing that kept her from going insane with loneliness, even though she was the food it wanted. And goddess, she was lonely. And cold. Only her keheil abilities kept her alive. She stared wildly around the shuttle as she again heard the animal’s claws begin to scratch on the hull. She screamed, choking on the cold, and watched the sound turn to a miniature snowfall before her eyes. The snow turned into an avalanche, a very tiny one that nonetheless buried her. She lay under a blanket of snow, her exposed skin sticking to the icy deck plates. The cold burned as the hatch began to cave in under the weight of a furry paw that turned into a charred and blistered stump, reaching for her. The burning wasn’t cold now, but hot and growing hotter. Cinders turned to embers to flames and she was surrounded by fire and her father screamed, “Ramy!” and her mother’s voice was a horrible screeching rasp and she felt Benjamin dying in her mother’s womb and she screamed and screamed as the stump caught fire and continued to paw at her...
“Ruth, goddess, zilama wake up!”
She woke to panting, painful choking and sweat-covered trembling, and Terry’s arms coming around her, pulling her close to his naked skin. Her cries echoed back at her from the night as she sobbed in mindless hysteria. Her tears burned her face and Terry’s chest and she hated herself and him and the weeping she couldn’t stop. He held her tightly, stroking her hair, rocking her as if she were a child. His warm flesh and soft voice wrapped her in a cocoon of intense caring.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I know, it hurts. It’s lonely and cold, fear and fire and death… Ruth, I know, I know.” His tone was fierce comfort. “But it’s past, and I’m here and you lived…” He kissed the top of her head, his lips moving lovingly through her hair. “It’s all right now. It still hurts, but it’s all right.”
Ruth clutched at him until the fire faded from her mind. She felt him relax as she shuddered with the release, feeling him feel her emotions. In sudden, furious agony, she pushed him away.
“Damn you, leave me alone!” she shrieked. His astonished, wounded anger seared her, but she kept glaring at him until his own eyes glared back at her.
“That’s why you sleep alone,” he stated coldly.
“Give the boy a gold star,” she sneered. “Or maybe in your case it should be silver.”
“Why?”
She turned from him. “It’s none of your business. It’s none of anyone’s business but mine!”
“All I want to do is help…”
“Well, you can’t!” She tossed the blanket aside and stormed up off the bed. He rose to follow her.
“I can be here, I can hold you…”
“And where were you last month? Where will you be next? I’ll survive, I always survive…”
“What does any of that matter? I’m here now, I’m offering now…”
She whirled to face him, staring at him in incredulous, scathing contempt.
“You live for the moment, don’t you?” he demanded. “At the moment, I’m here.”
She felt the tears again and bit them back. “How can I rely on – if I can’t depend on – ” She couldn’t find the words, her mind was racing, her empathy raw and aching.
Terry stepped forward, grasping her arms, pulling her to him. One hand went to her face, tilting it up, forcing her to look at him. “You don’t have to,” he said softly. “Just accept what’s here, now. It doesn’t matter if you’re alone tomorrow, if you were yesterday. You weren’t alone tonight, Ruth, so you can’t believe that you’re always alone. You’re afraid to need, I know. You’re afraid that if you give in to it now, next time there won’t be anyone there. But next time isn’t now. Zilama, you need now. And I’m here. What’s wrong with that? I’m willing to give. Can’t you be willing to take? There’s no price tag. It’s a gift. I want to help. Won’t you let me? And if you need sometime when I’m not here, you’ll have it to feel, to remember, to know. Please, zilama. Let me help.”
She didn’t know how, she couldn’t understand it, but he had seen into her without piercing. He saw her fear and let her have it, without trying to take it from her. He knew her pain – he echoed it back to her – and didn’t demand confession. He wanted – but he asked, he didn’t demand. Her own thoughts spun in his dark, almond eyes. Sometimes accidents happen and somebody tells you the truth. But sometimes… sometimes it’s magic…
He doesn’t lie. He’s capable of infinite pretense, but never a lie.
You really believe that?
Yes, I think I do.
Why? Because you’ll believe him no matter what he tells you?
Because he simply doesn’t. Sometimes it's magic…
It’s a gift. How do I take it?
She watched as a smile came slowly to his lips, the dark eyes softening, gently retreating. “Will you sleep with me, next to me, and let me hold you through the nightmares?” he asked.
The tears came again, and she let them, once again burying her face in his chest, whispering her answer to him.
They didn’t leave the house much – or at least, the vicinity of the house. They swam, then lay naked on the beach for hours. They took long walks through the hills. They made love everywhere. Three days and three nights were spent in each other. Ruth talked when Terry coaxed her. Terry talked to get her to talk. He kept trying to get her to drink coffee, she kept refusing, and it became a loving game. He watched every sunset, but he didn’t like to watch the dawn. There was something in that, Ruth knew, but she wouldn’t ask – her gift to him. He never stayed in the silently melancholy mood for long. And her nightmares were less frightening when his arms were around her. So she stayed, and so did he.
The com shrieked loudly and Ruth threw Terry’s coffee cup at it, then turned and buried herself beneath the blankets.
“Hey, there was coffee in that,” Terry mumbled.
“It was cold,” she mumbled back.
The com sounded again. Terry pulled the covers down. “Hey!” Ruth protested.
“Well, it won’t be for me,” Terry said, “and it hurts my ears.” Ruth smiled wickedly and lightly traced up the delicate point. He shivered. “Not fair,” he murmured, and retaliated by stroking her temple.
“You’re not fair,” she retorted breathlessly.
Another loud tone burst from the com.
“All right, I’m coming!” Ruth grumbled, and got up, crossing the room.
“Not yet,” Terry leered, and Ruth retrieved his cup, throwing it at him. He laughed, getting up from the bed and headed for the coffeepot.
“Shalom,” she said as she completed the comlink.
“Ruth, you’re home!” The voice sounded mockingly flabbergasted and she scowled at the face of Jim Alexander.
“I am not home, I’m at Berkeley. You must learn to be specific, James,” she replied in her best imitation of a Vulcan. She heard Terry stifle a snort of laughter, but didn’t take the time to wonder at it. “I assume you have some reason for intruding on my privacy?”
“Yeah. Drag your ass out of bed and bring it to work.”
“I have better things to do.”
“Don’t we all,” Jim rejoined. “But you also have an obligation to Alterra University. And to me. I’m beginning to feel lonely and overworked.”
She sighed. “I left tapes.”
“Your presence would be more helpful.”
“Yes, Jimmy, of course, Jimmy, you’re right, Jimmy. We’ll be right over.”
“We?”
“We?” Terry echoed from behind her.
“It’s my class, I can bring a guest.” She switched off the com and turned. “I hope you won’t be too bored by a music history class.”
“I’m not sure if this is a good idea, zilama.” He looked uncomfortable and Ruth decided not to notice.
“Don’t you like music?” she asked, batting her eyelashes innocently.
She saw the recognition of the ploy in his eyes, but he smiled wryly. “I like music.” He put his arms around her, kissing her. “Shall we go as we are or get dressed first?”
She tossed her hair. “Could you keep your hands off me if we went as we are?”
He shook his head. “Not a chance.” She laughed and kissed him. Then kissed him again.
She was late, but they did manage to get dressed. She was in no mood to lecture. All she wanted was to get it done with and get back to the house. At the moment, she didn’t give a damn about the influence on popular music of someone who had died three hundred years before. Nor did she particularly care about their influence on other people who had died three hundred years ago. She cared nothing for the similarities between that music and a style that had originated on Terra three hundred years before that. She cared only for the sound. Words couldn’t describe music, and lyrics were poetry that could only be understood with the emotions.
Which is what she told the sixteen people who were her students – rather briefly and caustically – before she sat down in front of them with her guitar and began playing.
To her surprise, Terry borrowed a violin from a flustered but charmed student. Jim Alexander stared as the Indiian began to play, then quickly switched on the recorder. The music was sweet and skillful, adding richness to her own melody patterns.
He knew the song! Ruth watched him, becoming aware that he also watched her. The sounds blended, conspiring to make a time out of time that enveloped only them. She knew the students were caught up in the beauty, knew, too, that this was better help than Jimmy had hoped for. Then, very softly, with a voice that was low and as rich as his laughter, Terry began to sing.
She’d looked for words to this melody, knowing they existed but unable to turn up more than fragments. The lyrics touched her disjointedly, as though she heard it in spurts…
Though it’s getting harder to face every day
Don’t let it show…
Though it’s getting harder to take what they say
Just let it go...Even if it’s taking the easy way out
Keep it inside of you
Don’t give in
Don’t tell them anything
Don’t let it show...And if it hurts when they mention my name, say you don’t know me
And if it helps when they say I’m to blame, say you don’t own me…
Even though you know it’s the wrong thing to say
Say you don’t care…
Even if you want to believe there’s a way
I won’t be there…Even though you feel you’ve got nothing to hide
Keep it inside of you
Don’t give in
Don’t tell them anything
Don’t let it
Don’t let it show…
His eyes were stormy wells of entreaty and sadness and atonement. The sorrow surrounded her, a desperate sense of guilt and hopeless loneliness. She fearfully pushed the despair away, but the sudden, wordless meaning stayed with her even as she ignored it.
The class applauded wildly, and Terry smiled, the storm dispelled with the sunshine as though it had never been.
“Okay,” she told her students. “Now you do it.”
They left during the practice to avoid Jim’s fawning excitement and went up to the Clave.
“You wanted to race Katana,” Terry said.
“That was days ago,” Ruth reminded.
“Did Spike rust?” Terry taunted.
“She can beat your fancy Japanese weapon.”
“But can you?”
“Any day of the week,” Ruth retorted. He leered.
“So, you want to get kinky, do you?”
She smiled lasciviously back at him. “Later, honey, I’ve got a race to win.”
“Do you? How much?”
“Friendly?”
“We are, aren’t we?”
“You don’t have any money, remember?”
“That’s okay. I’m gonna win.”
“Five hundred, sucker!”
“Done, zilama.”
They both raced for their needles. David stood next to Spike.
“Mensch, I want to talk to you,” he began sternly.
“Later, Barak. I’ve got a race to win.” She laughed at the repetition and ignored David’s puzzled, angry glare.
“Do you want that five hundred in credit or trade?” Ruth asked.
Terry held out an empty palm. “Credit, if you don’t mind.”
She bared her teeth at him. “Barracuda.”
“Mensch, dear,” David called, sweetly irritable.
“Let’s get out of here,” Ruth suggested, taking Terry's arm and walking quickly toward the transporter.
Terry glanced over his shoulder. “Why? He’ll only follow us.”
Ruth’s eyes started gleaming. “Then let’s go someplace decadent.”
“Will that stop him?”
“No, but we can embarrass the hell out of him.”
He stared at her, frankly skeptical. “Dressed like that?” he snorted.
She glanced down at the green shorts and halter she was wearing. “What’s wrong with ‘that’?”
He shook his head. “Not at all suitable for decadence. Or dancing.”
“Who said we were going dancing?”
“I did. It’ll be fun. And embarrassing.” His eyes traveled appraisingly over her. “Let’s see… a wrap-around silk dress with the skirt slit up to your hip and a neckline just begging to fall off…”
“I didn’t know you were a fashion expert.”
“…rust-colored, I think, or copper, and some heels…”
“I hate shoes!”
“.. and you’ll be the sexiest thing on the planet.” He folded his arms. “Not that you aren’t already.”
“Who’s paying for all this?”
“Five hundred should cover it, zilama.”
“You really are a barracuda, aren’t you?” Ruth grumbled.
His smile widened to all teeth. “Just think of how it will annoy Barak.”
Ruth grinned. “Let’s go.”
He found the perfect dress at an exclusive shop in Paris, a clinging rust-colored creation that wrapped invitingly around her body. The neckline was deep and slightly off center, the silk rubbing against her nipples, making them that much more obvious beneath the material. The skirt fell open from the tie at her waist as she walked, revealing perfect, golden thighs. She liked the way it felt next to her skin and said so. Terry’s eyes devoured her as she paid the three hundred and fifty credits.
“You feel sexier already, don’t you?” he murmured in her ear as they strolled down an open street. "I know I do.” He kissed her temple. “You look good enough to eat.”
She flushed. “Stop it, you sound silly.”
“You don’t take compliments well, do you, zilama?”
She was about to retort when he suddenly stopped walking. “Those,” he said, and pointed to a window.
“What?” She looked and saw only a pair of high-heeled sandals.
“Those,” he repeated. “Right there. Those are your new shoes.”
“I can’t wear those!” she protested. “I’ll fall off!”
“You’ll see,” he said, and pulled her into the shop.
Ruth looked down at her feet. She had to admit her legs were shown to near-perfect advantage. The copper color of the sandals accented her skin tone. The high spike heels – she had giggled when Terry had told her that’s what they were called – brought her feet into an impossible but flattering arch. The strap that went up the back of her ankle and around it lent an air of bondage, and that made her shiver in wicked delight. She glanced up at Terry, who was smiling approvingly.
“Much sexier than bare feet,” he commented. His gaze traveled up her body. “As if you needed help.”
“Only one problem,” she conceded with a smile. “How am I supposed to move?”
“Maddeningly sensually,” he replied. “Feel what they do to the way your hips move.”
She tried an experimental step, then two, then three. It did feel sexy. The tilt made her pelvis push forward, forcing her shoulders back. She pivoted, nearly losing her balance. Terry caught her arm, twisting it seductively around her, turning her to face him and a deep kiss. His eyes sparkled at her, matching the shimmer of his skin.
“Let’s go dancing,” he said.
“Like that?” she teased. He looked down at himself.
“Touché, zilama,” he grinned.
Ruth decided on his clothing, skin-tight, low-slung black leather pants, a tank-style shirt of of a steel gray topped with a deep sky-blue, wide-sleeved jacket, trimmed in the same grey as the tank. She told him that it went nicely with his dylithium earring. He added a pair of elegant, dark gray suede boots and she commented on what the relatively high heels did for the way his hips moved. That got her a smile and a quick bump-and-grind and she was more than ready to forget dancing and head straight back to Berkeley. They left the shop, and Terry abruptly kissed her, nuzzling her ear.
“David’s following us,” he whispered.
She ignored the slight shock of hearing Terry refer to her cousin by name. “Do you suppose he’d follow us back to the house?” she said, intending to make it a suggestion.
“He’s your cousin, zilama.”
She stared at him. “How did you …?”
“How do you feel about London for dancing?” he broke in quickly. “Or Berlin? Or maybe Madrid?”
Biting her tongue, she said nonchalantly, “David hates London.”
“London it is then,” Terry returned with a suggestive grin.
So, whatever your problem is has something to do with the Maxwells, she thought. Or how else do you explain the fact that you know my cousin’s first name and that he is my cousin – and that he’s all paranoid about you?
So since it’s something financial, should I be concerned?
Hell no!
The music was bright and sensual, a sound of passion and romance and welcoming souls. When David appeared at the bar, staring challengingly at them, they went onto the dance floor by silent, mutual consent. Terry locked his gaze onto hers, his hands on her hips. She placed hers on his shoulders. Slowly, in sync with the driving beat, they began to move. There was no need for following or leading. The link of sensitive and empath formed around them and kept them perfectly in tune with each other. In turn, they clasped and caressed each other’s bodies, stepping smoothly around each other and the dance floor. Their skin gleamed with a film more of desire than sweat, their eyes fiery beacons in the dark illumination of the room. As the music went on, their actions became more blatant, more heavily erotic. They fondled each other more frequently, their mouths meeting in moist, deep kisses. Fingers traced more than teasingly over faces and hair, arms, sides, backs. Soon, they were aware of nothing else, yet their bodies continued to move and sway and grind in time with the percussion.
Terry grasped Ruth’s waist. He knelt, pulling her with him, bending her backwards over one knee. His hand moved along her body in a sensual caress. Her dress had fallen open from her waist, revealing hips and thighs. He slid his fingers between them, grasping at her smooth, glistening skin. His head bent forward, his lips touching hers, then his arms held onto her as he lowered his knee, and her with it. Her hands clasped behind his head and she arched to him. His left leg straightened out to his side, then bent again as he pulled it up and over her thighs, straddling her. Her fingertips stroked his ears and a bolt of need flashed between them. She let herself sink to the dance floor, pressing her lips to his and his body followed her down. Their thighs met and his hands moved to her hips, pulling her up to him…
The music faded, and for a moment, Ruth couldn’t breathe, nor did she need to. All that existed was Terry, and they were so much one being that it was impossible to tell when she ended and he began. One being, one need – they had moved in perfect union, feeling with each other, through each other and the music, building, blending… Passion, hunger, life – if it hadn’t been for their clothing they would have been coupled. Not moving, not making love, just being, feeling the intensity as one. Or maybe it wasn’t the clothing, and maybe they should be coupled, blended, one…
“Fucking bastard, get up!” David’s voice hissed somewhere above her.
Terry’s body was torn away from her and there was a split-second of sharp agony before they broke eye contact. Her body fell, abruptly drained, and David pulled her to her feet, pushing her back toward the tables. She was numb, not quite whole, not quite real, and the voices filtered through the music that was beginning again.
“..away from her, you hear me?”
“You’re not her father, Barak.”
“Listen, Terry…”
"…needs me, David, and I need…”
“I know what you…
“…don’t know me at all, bastard!”
“…screw her in a fucking needle…”
“It’s none of your goddamned…”
“She’s my…”
“I love her, is that good enough for…”
“Terry?” Ruth called out breathlessly. A silver glow came quickly into her line of vision.
“Come on, baby,” he growled, “let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Katana, if you – ” David’s voice rasped fiercely.
“Fuck you, Barak!”
Ruth felt dizzy as Terry pulled her from the club. She didn’t regain her senses until they were back at the house, completing the frantic hunger that burned between them.
She woke to an empty bed and the pain nearly blinded her until Terry’s voice said, “Here, Ruth.” He stood at the window, cup, of course, in hand, staring at the crescent moon. The faint light shone off his skin, making him seem bathed in stardust – or transporter shimmer. She blinked, but the ethereal beauty that seemed to isolate him didn’t go away. He was beyond her, parsecs beyond her, and she knew with sudden surety that he would leave in the morning. As always, he began speaking very quietly.
“I have to go. I don’t want to. Aema, I’d give anything… everything…” He turned to face her. “But I can’t ask you to give everything. I can’t ask you for anything. Ruth – ” He paused, then swallowed. “Someday you’ll know, and you’ll know that I left because I love you.”
She stared up at him, the pain returning as a steady aching that tore at her being. Yet she knew he couldn’t explain, knew that, if he tried, it would only break his resolve. And she knew that his resolve was, as he had said, a matter of life and death. She wanted to ask, to cry, to beg him to stay, to tell him whatever it was wouldn’t, couldn’t matter… and knew she couldn’t. He came to her, kissing her, his body tense with a sorrow she couldn’t touch and yet shared. Words formed in her mind and she knew they came from him – the words he’d put to the sad melody they had shared in her music class:
Even if you want to believe there’s a way, I won’t be there…
She let the tears come, meeting his eyes, allowing her thoughts, her grief, her own resolve to flow gently into his mind. And she said something she hadn’t in years, not since the day she’d screamed it at her dying family – aloud, and softly within him:
“I love you.”
“Terry,” she said. He turned from a final check of Katana’s engines. His face was impassive, his eyes hooded.
“Yes?”
“Will I ever see you again?”
He smiled, just as he had the first time she’d seen him, night and sunshine.
“Zilama,” he said, “ I guarantee it.” He kissed her lightly, then climbed up into the cockpit.
In the control center, watching the needle race toward Sol, Ruth felt David coming up behind her.
“You okay?” he asked.
She turned, smiling, all teeth. “Sure, cousin, dear. Why?”
He stared at the scanners. “Just checking.”
He left, you bastard, she thought. Isn’t that what you really wanted to know? “Do you like coffee?” she asked out loud. David frowned in puzzlement.
“Yeah, why?”
“I’ve got a – ” there was a flash from the scanner and the blip that was Katana was gone.
Don’t let it show.
“Never mind,” Ruth finished. “I think I’ll keep it.”
To hear the song, click on the name
** lyrics from Don't Let It Show as recorded by Alan Parsons Project
The Time Of My Life as recorded by Bill Medley and Jennifer Warren
See "Duet" in the Poetry Section
Return to Part One
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