Children of God

BY THE TIME SANDOZ GOT TO THE BRIDGE, EVERYONE WAS CROWDED around the entry as Frans put through the co

"What language is she speaking?" Emilio asked.

"English, mostly," Frans reported and got ponderously out of the way, ceding the console to Sandoz. "Some Ruanja."

"Sandoz?" he heard as he sat. The sound of her voice jolted through him: lower and grainier than he remembered, but beautiful.

"Mendes!" he cried.

"Sandoz!" she said again, her voice breaking on his name. "I thought— I never—"

Dammed emotion crashed through barriers they had both believed insuperable until that moment, but the sobbing was soon leavened with laughter and chagrined apologies and finally with what was clearly joy, and they began to argue, as though no time had gone by, over who had started crying first. "Anyway," Emilio said, deciding to let her win, "what the hell are you doing alive! I said Kaddish for you!"

"Well, I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid you wasted a prayer for the dead—"

"It didn’t count anyway," he said dismissively. "No minyan."

"Minyan—don’t tell me you speak Aramaic now, too! What’s the count?"

"I’m up to seventeen, I think. I’ve picked up some Euskara, and I’ve learned how to be rude to Afrikaners." There was some static, but not much. Not too much for him to feel as though they were somehow, madly, just two old friends, talking on the phone. "But no Aramaic, I’m afraid. I just memorized the prayer."

"Cheater!" she said, with the familiar husky laugh now free of tears. He closed his eyes and tried not to thank God that her laugh had not changed. "So, Quixote," she was saying, "have you come to rescue me?"

"Of course not," he replied indignantly, astounded at how well she sounded. How elated…. "I just stopped by for a coffee. Why? Do you need rescuing?"

"No, I most certainly do not. But I could really use some coffee," she admitted. "It’s been a long time between buzzes."

"Well, we brought plenty, but I’m afraid it’s decaf." There was an appalled silence. "Sorry," he said unhappily. "Nobody cleared the cargo manifest with me." The silence was now broken by little horrified noises. "It was a clerical error," he told her with earnest distress. "I’m really sorry. I’ll have everyone involved executed. We’ll put their heads on pointy sticks—"

She started to laugh. "Oh, Sandoz, I think I’ve always loved you."

"No, you didn’t," he said huffily. "You hated me on sight."

"Did I? Well, I must have been a fool. That was a joke about the decaf, wasn’t it?" she asked warily.

"Would I joke about a thing like that?"

"Only if you thought I’d fall for it." There was a small space, and when she spoke again, it was with the kind of calm dignity that he had always admired in her. "I am glad I’ve lived to speak to you again. Everything is different. The Runa are free now. You were right, Sandoz. You were right all along. God meant for us to come here."

Behind him, there were the sounds of the others reacting to what she had said, and he felt John grip his shoulders and whisper fiercely, "Did you hear that, you shithead? Did you hear it?" But his own vision seemed to lose focus, and he found that he couldn’t breathe well, and lost the thread of what she was saying until he heard his name again. "And Isaac?" he asked.

The silence was so abrupt and went so long, he twisted in the seat to look at Frans. "Co

"Sofia?" he said. "The last we heard, Isaac was very young. I didn’t mean to—"

"He left me a long time ago. Isaac was—. He went off on his own years ago. Ha’anala followed him and we had hoped—. But neither of them ever came back. We tried and tried to find them, but the war went on so long—"

"War?" Da

"No one expected it to go on so long! Ha’anala was—. Oh, Sandoz, it’s too complicated. When can you come down? I’ll explain everything when you get to Galatna—"

It felt like a blow to the stomach. "Galatna?" he asked almost inaudibly.

"Sandoz, are you there? Oh, my God," she said, realizing. "I–I know what happened to you here. But everything is different! Hlavin Kitheri is dead. They’ve both—. Kitheri’s been dead for… years," she said, voice trailing away. But then she spoke firmly. "The palace is a museum now. I live here, too—just another piece of history!"

She stopped, and he tried to think, but nothing would come. "Sandoz?" he heard her say. "Don’t be afraid. There are no djanada south of the Garnu mountains. We-and-you-also are safe here. Truly. Sandoz, are you there?"

"Yes," he said, getting a grip. "I’m here."

"How soon can you come down? How many of you are there?"

Brows up, he turned to Carlo and asked, "A week perhaps?" Carlo nodded. "A week, Sofia." He cleared his throat, tried to put more strength behind his voice. "We are eight here, but the ship’s pilot will stay on board. There’ll be four Jesuits and two… businessmen. And me."

She missed the implication. "You’ll have to land southeast of Inbrokar City to get beyond the gardens. Have you seen them? We call them robichauxs! There are competitions for the most beautiful and productive designs, but there are no prizes, so no one gets porai. I’ll send an escort for you. It’s safe, but I don’t get around too well anymore and finding your way through the garden mazes is impossible unless you’re a Runao—. Listen to me! I’ve lived with the Runa too long! Sipaj, Meelo! Did someone always chatter like this?" she asked, laughing. She paused, took a breath, slowed down. "Emilio, don’t expect who I was. I’m an old woman now. I’m a ruin—"

"Aren’t we all?" he said, getting his bearings. "And if you are a ruin," he said softly, "you will be a splendid one—Mendes, you will be the Parthenon! All that matters is that you are alive and safe and well."

He found that he meant it. At that moment, it was truly all that mattered.

36

Rakhat

October 2078, Earth-Relative

THERE WAS MORE: TALK OF TRADE GOODS WITH THE SMOOTH ITALIAN voice, discussion of coordinates and flight paths with the pilot. Tentative plans were made for landfall near the Pon river, as were agreements to check in daily, to question and confirm, to reconsider and adjust. An awkward good-bye to Sandoz, and then… she was back on Rakhat, by herself again, in a quiet room, hidden away with her memories, apart from the bustle and talk.

There were no mirrors now in Galatna Palace. Without any reminder of the reality Sandoz would see, Sofia Mendes could, for a time, believe herself thirty-five: straight-backed and strong-minded, clear-eyed and full of hope. The hope at least had remained—. No, had been fulfilled. There are wars worth fighting, she thought. Deaths redeemed. It was all for a reason…. Oh, Sandoz, she thought. You came back. I knew all along that you’d come back—

(Come back.)

Isaac, she thought, going still. Ha’anala.

She sat for a long time, summoning everything she had in her soul. Was it courage, she wondered, or stupidity, to expose her heart to chill air, and wait once more through silent days for hope to wither?

How can I not try? she asked herself. And so, she did.

"READ THIS," ISAAC SAID.

It was waiting for him, as other pleas had waited over the years. He always checked his mother’s file first thing in the morning because checking was what he did, but he never responded. He had nothing to say.

Another man, in somewhat similar circumstances, might have spared his sister the heartache of these messages begging beloved children to come home, or simply to reassure their mother that they were both alive. Isaac didn’t understand heartache. Or regret or longing or divided loyalties. Or anger or shattered trust or betrayal. Such things had no clarity. They involved expectations of another’s behavior, and Isaac had no such expectations.