and a half. He was tall.”
“How is the mother?”
“Devastated!” A look of incredulity; a quick glance around the room. “What do you think?”
“I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to tell her I cared.”
English’s voice turned cold. “How long had you cared?”
“Since I found him! I never knew him alive. I told the policeman everything, don’t you have … ?” And Tuuro waved at English’s holographic screen.
At this, English made the holo-screen disappear. He sat for a moment, considering Tuuro, the sides of his cheeks moving as if he were chewing at their insides. “Let me ask you this straight out: Are you a homosexual?”
“Oh no,” Tuuro smiled. “Never.”
“Why are you smiling?”
Tuuro straightened his face. “It’s ridiculous. It’s something I never considered.”
“You speak well. How far did you go in school?”
“I finished my first year at Sinclair.” The local community college.
“Why didn’t you go on?”
Tuuro shrugged helplessly. “Money.”
“Reasonable. Are you political?”
“Political?” Tuuro laughed awkwardly. “I’ve never voted. I know it’s a duty, but …”
“You didn’t know about the boy’s connection to Nenonene?”
“How could I know? I come across this, this”—Tuuro saw again the boy’s tucked head—“tragedy, this small boy dead in my church, and I picked him up and …” “My” church, he’d said: not something he would say in front of the pastor.
“I’m your lawyer,” English interrupted. “Don’t tell me things I shouldn’t know.” He leaned into the table. “Now,” he said, “it would be absurd to think you hurt this boy to send a message to Nenonene, am I correct?”
Tuuro stared.
“Or to his son. You might be sending a message to his son. But it would be absurd to think that. It was a simple crime of passion, right?”
“A crime? I never hurt this boy. I came upon him, I saw the …”
“You didn’t do it.”
“He was a boy! A little child.”
“No conspiracy. Absolutely no political motive.”
“I went home to get him a blanket, I took a hat for him.”
A light had appeared in English’s eye; he sat up a straighter. “This wasn’t a molest-y thing.”
“It was like he was me!”
“You didn’t do it,” English repeated, wonderment in his voice. “Well, the genetics will take care of that.”
“It’s terrible to find the body of a child,” Tuuro said. “I have a child.”
“Okay, okay, I believe you.” English sighed. His shoulders sank, the spark that had seized him suddenly extinguished. “But damn, you managed to do right by the wrong body.”
lila wakes up (1)
SEYMOUR, LILA’S ASSISTANT, appeared in her office. “There’s a Federal wants to talk to you.”
“You mean State.” The State people were pests. The loss of Cleveland had thrown them into a tizzy. By June 2047, the cavernous lakefront edifice that had been built as the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame was a tracking station receiving information from Canada and Alliance ships in the Atlantic. The BP tower was a pile of rubble called Strike One, the Federal Building was the Centro de Gobierno (the Alliance had let the South American forces name this one), and the former Terminal Tower was a military headquarters, with General Nenonene’s quarters taking up the basement of what used to be the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. It was all confusing. Many people had left Cleveland, but many more people hadn’t. Why couldn’t they? Their houses. Their businesses. The schools for their children. Their elderly relatives who didn’t understand. All of it made sense, and yet it didn’t make sense. With the Grid already knocking out a good third of the state and Cleveland occupied, there wasn’t much State of Ohio left. The people in the state capital in Columbus reminded Lila of befuddled bees circling a destroyed hive.
“No, darling. I mean Federal.”
“Federal?” Lila sighed. Federal people rarely bothered her, but when they did it was never pleasant. What environmental edict were they obsessing about now? “Okay.” She turned to face her screen. “Put ’em on.”
“I mean they’re here,” Seymour said. “A youngie-girl.”
“In person?” Lila swiveled in her chair. She tried to remember the last time anyone had made a call on her in person. What made Federal think she had the time for in person? More ominously, what did Federal need that they sent a real person?
Seymour brought in the Federal, a tall woman—good Lord, did they take them straight out of college these days?—with an eager, open face and an athlete’s stride. The youngie sat.
“What a surprise!” said Lila. “You’re really a Federal? Who do you represent, exactly?”
“I’m from Agriculture,” the youngie said, dipping her head. The Department of Agriculture had planned and now controlled the Grid. Since the Gridding, Agriculture had become a shameful part of the government. People had been known to pretend they worked in other parts of the government. It took, Lila suspected, an act of will and faith to half-stand and extend her hand across Lila’s desk. “Michelle Everly.”
“Michelle,” Lila said. “Lila de Becqueville.” A lovely face, Lila realized, sculpted and high-cheekboned. The lashes at the corners of Michelle’s eyes tangled in a wanton way. A slight scent of lemon to her, probably perfume.
“I’ve heard about you,” Michelle said, settling herself back in the chair. “I’ve heard you have an excellent system. Best treatment system of any city your size. Superior flood protection, aquifer maintenance, nice leach fields, reliable sewage …”
“Thank you.” Everything she’d said was true. The Water Queen, Lila called herself. Not that she told anyone this.
“My mother remembers you coming to her school,” Michelle said, reddening slightly. Michelle’s mother! Lila was shocked at how this dated her, and she made it into a curse: tu madre. “You used to give talks on the history of water in Ohio.”
Michelle’s face was eager and imploring. Inside herself, Lila felt something shifting. “Your mother remembers me?” she said. It was true: early in Lila’s career, twenty, twenty-five years before, she had given talks. This was during New Dawn Dayton, the halcyon period before the Short Times when all sorts of industry—including Prestige Polymer, Armitage
