Beowulf's Children

He followed her into the living room and took the Tree position, "attention" in military parlance.

In five minutes he was gasping. She made him slow down, stop to breathe when he needed to. He studied her stance and tried to correct her.

"Hold that pushup pose. Your ass comes up more, your spine exactly level. Now go down with your elbows back along your ribs."

"You can't do that."

"Hell no. But I can stand on my head," he said.

"Without a wall?"

His teaching amused her at first. Then she began to understand that he actually knew more than she did. Edgar was a fast learner.

He'd learned some self-control. When she'd first started coming here, he'd have leaped at her within seconds of getting her into a room with a bed. Now—He was antsy at first, but then, she hadn't been around for a week. She felt curiosity and anticipation. Edgar remained eager to please, and it was flattering to think she was probably the only human in the universe who could get Edgar's undivided attention even for a few minutes.

He was smirking at her upside down.

Edgar had a father. Trish could nearly imagine bonding to one human being, or two; never needing to guess the thoughts of a townful of people, each of them in control of a child's life. One human being, all-knowing at first, later his teacher, later nearly his equal. Now his father was dead, stripped to the bone, murderer unknown.

Had he loved Linda too? More likely worshipped her.

The First knew of his betrayal, and many would not forgive; and Edgar lived and worked among the First in Camelot.

Trish had wondered if he would survive at all.

Edgar's breath became uneven. He came out of the headstand slowly, one leg horizontal; toes touched the floor; he knelt.

Trish rolled out of her headstand. "That must have been two minutes.

Soft One, I'm impressed."

"Don't come down so fast. One leg straight out, then the other, then touch down. We done? Want some coffee?" Edgar asked.

"You've got coffee?"

He smiled.

"Later." She rolled to her feet and had her shoulder in his midsection before he could quite decide to evade. She stood up with Edgar over her shoulder. He was laughing. She rolled him, still laughing, onto the bed. "Now I'll show you why it's a good idea to warm up first. Get your heart pumping, your blood flowing. Soft One, do you really want to get on top?" She rolled them both. "Just one wish. Just one at a time."

Later she followed him into the electronics room and watched as he ground fresh coffee beans. "Smells different," she said.

"Darker roast," Edgar said. "Different beans, too, these are from higher up the mountain."

"Interesting. Who got them for you?" Under the omni-oven was a small terminal. The screen caught the corner of her eye.

Edgar's grin faded as he said, "Couple of Carolyn's kids. You know, the First were treating me like dog meat for a while. But Cassandra isn't nearly as, as agile without me plugged in, and they're starting to realize it. It wasn't me that whacked Carolyn—"

"It was me." RUTHFIX, said the top of the screen. Trish couldn't read the smaller print below, but there wasn't much.

"Ah? Anyway, with Dad gone they've got some interest in keeping me happy. Even if they don't trust me." Edgar poured boiling water into a glass cylinder, pushed a metallic filter grill steadily down from the top to strain out the grounds, and poured two cups of coffee.

She smiled faintly as, both naked, they sat down at the breakfast table. His cleaning project hadn't got this far. There wasn't a square centimeter of horizontal surface showing. Trish perched her cup on a stack of printout. "They'll have to trust you now, what with this expedition. For that matter so will we."

"We?"

"The expedition. Aaron."

"Oh. Of course you'll be going. Aayeee!"

"I'll be back once in a while. Or you could come with us—"

"No, that doesn't work," Edgar said. "Even with getting in better shape I wouldn't be much use camping out. Better I stay here and watch out for you."

"We'll have a base. Let us get set up, then come over." She gri

"Who all's going?"

She kept her eyes fixed on his as she shook her head. "Not entirely sure. Aaron, of course. He'll be in charge. Me."

"Why you?"

"It's where the action will be," Trish said.

"Action. You mean power games."

She shrugged.

"War specs," Edgar said suddenly. "You won't have anything to hide from the First this trip—right?"

"I'd say so," Trish said cautiously. "Aaron might have something. So?"

"So you can give up binoculars and go back to using war specs. Get me over there and I'll maintain the links with Cassandra."

"There you go." Trish said. She stretched elaborately, as she did before she made love, and made sure Edgar saw her doing it. Now she was sure she had his full attention. She moved closer to him. "What's your interest in Ruth Moskowitz?"

Blindsided, it took him a moment to remember the terminal. He said, "Something Linda... no, never mind that. Have you noticed what Aaron's doing to Ruth?"

"Somewhat. He thinks we need her—"

"Nah. He wants her involved. Implicated. Because she's Zack Senior's daughter. He's going to hurt her. I wondered if there was a way to fix it."

"Why?"

"Linda once told me I... never get to know anyone. I guess I'm getting to know you, Trish, but you, you're bulletproof. It's hard to see you needing help. If Ruth keeps rubbing up against Aaron Tragon, she's damn well going to need something."

That was crazy. Edgar could barely help himself... Trish dismissed it. "You know Aaron better than I do, I bet. What was he like when he was a kid?"

Chapter 20

SCRIBEVELDT AND EDEN HILL

All nature is but art, unknown to thee;

all chance, direction, which thou canst not see;

all discord, harmony not understood;

all partial evil, universal good.

ALEXANDER POPE

THREE MONTHS LATER

Little Chaka watched, as his father took another careful step toward the winged creatures they called birdles. Cane first, then left foot, then right—all slow and smooth and deliberate.

Three birdles clustered about a low bush whose persimmon-sized fruit had turned from blue to red within the last two days. Only then did they begin to attract the flying crustacea. With the deepening of summer, bushes and leaves, plants and grasses all through the forests were changing color, ripening, exploding into a thousand hues of gold and red, and deep, fertile green. Horsemane trees infested with a hundred varieties of parasite and symbiote blossomed as if offering welcome to a hundred more.

The largest birdie-a big purple flying wing with spiffy little white wing tips-swiveled an independent eye toward Big Chaka, now only a dozen meters away. Big Chaka was a small man, barely cresting five feet in his tallest years. Time had crowded, shrunken, grayed him, spotted his dark face. His close-cropped, tightly coiled hair receded from his temples, and he needed corrective lenses to read and a cane to walk. A small, unwieldy pot belly swelled the front of his shirts, and his hands trembled when he wrote in the journals he had kept for nearly a hundred and fifty years.