June, 1984 — Surrey, Engnd

  Rosalind stepped onto the train station ptform in Guildford, thirty hours after boarding a Qantas 707 in Port Moresby. Her face was slightly gray, her eyes stung, her sinuses felt like they were on strike, and she had an urgent need to brush her teeth. Her clothes clung to her, and she avoided anything that might give her an idea of how rumpled she looked. She was never one to follow fashion trends. The ensemble she currently wore had been perfectly fine for international travel when she’d selected it six—or was it seven?—years earlier. Anyone inclined to criticize her clothes would be told—in a clipped, upper-middle-css southern English accent, delivered with an educated, precise, fast, tidy rhythm—to mind their own business.

  She adjusted her shoulder bag, which contained two items that bore her name and two that did not.

  British Airways Passenger Ticket and Baggage Check (Paper Booklet)

  Ticket No.: 125 4609823112

  Issued by: British Airways Travel Centre – Newcastle

  Date of Issue: 08 June 1984

  Form of Payment: Cash

  Fare Paid: 72.00

  Endorsements: Non-refundable; Change fee applies

  Flight Details – Coupon 1:

  Flight: BA1327

  From: Newcastle (NCL)

  To: London Heathrow (LHR)

  Date: 11 June 1984

  Css: Y (Economy)

  Status: OK

  Seat: 14F (Window)

  Departure: 07:15 AM

  Arrival: 08:20 AM

  Baggage Allowance: 20kg

  Meal: None

  British Rail – Standard Css Open Return

  Ticket No.: BR 409847C

  From: London Waterloo

  To: Guildford

  Css: Standard

  Type: Open Return

  Date of Issue: 11 June 1984

  Valid Until: 14 June 1984

  Price: 5.10

  Seat Reservation: None

  Printed At: Waterloo Station – 09:15 AM

  Her old navy blue British passport was safe in the leather case where she kept the other item bearing her name tucked safe and sound.

  My dear Roz,

  You are off on another adventure, and I didn’t want to let you go without saying something, but I wasn’t brave enough to do it in person.

  It’s a cliche, I know, that British men don’t express their emotions (cricket being the rare exception). Our generation was raised to admire a stiff upper lip, and endure a stiff right back hand. Your grandfather was not one for smacking his children around, but he was a model of taciturn comportment. If he ever in his life told me that he loved me I do not remember it. After your Uncle Henry died my father refused to say his name aloud for six months, and forbade us from saying it. We were all isnds of grief, when coming together would have softened the agony.

  So I want to state pinly—I love you, my little girl. From the top of your head to the tips of your toes. From the inside out. Warts and all (I know, you don’t have warts, it’s a figure of speech, you linguistic wizard). I should have told you that ten times a day. I can hide behind my British exterior, but the truth is I was afraid. Afraid you wouldn’t say it back to me. Can you imagine a grown man worried that his ten year old daughter wouldn’t say I love you back? You don’t have to imagine it. I just told you.

  You’ll soon be halfway ’round the world, but you’ll still be right here, in this pce in my heart that I’ve carved out for you, that I will always have waiting for you. It will still be here, and you’ll be in it, as they y me in the ground.

  I love you, my little chick,

  Dad.

  She’d read the letter so often that the folded creases in it had begun to wear through, cutting some of the words in half. That didn’t matter. She could recite the entire note from beloved memory. She’d read it every night the first year, and at least once a week the year after.

  She fgged down a porter to help with her bags: an old battered suitcase, a slightly newer duffle, and a field satchel filled with notes, journals, a portable tape recorder, two scarves from two different continents—and a surprising amount of sand. It was a short walk to the taxi stand and, compared to the journey she’d almost completed, an equally short drive from Guildford train station to the University of Surrey. An undergraduate (judging by his youth) helped her carry her bags to Dr. Martell’s Office as she phrased it. The boy was at a loss until she mentioned that the man in question taught physics, but then got his bearings quickly and even waited while the receptionist gave them further directions to Schuster Laboratory. She handed him all her loose coins, certain he’d spend them at a pub he was almost—but not quite—old enough to enter. The building was quiet, and Roz couldn’t decide whether it was warmer or colder inside than out. The walk had made her quite warm, and it didn’t help that she was wearing a wool skirt that stopped at her knees. Her button-up blouse had been ironed when she tucked it into her skirt, but was now wrinkled, and slightly sweat stained.

  She walked the length of the hallway before catching a glimpse of motion on the left.

  Carol and Alex were alone in the b, frowning over the manual for a new digital signal processor. They looked up as the woman—dressed like a librarian from the st decade—appeared.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for Dr. Martell,” she said to the man and woman who were studying something.

  Somebody has overdue books, Carol thought as her eyes fell upon the woman’s scuffed, dull leather shoes. This must be the library’s enforcer.

  “He’s not here at the moment,” Alex said politely, his accent—juxtaposed with the woman’s—drawing a smile from Carol’s up until then stern face.

  Roz was jet-gged, travel-worn, slightly sweaty, hungry, and parched; and both researchers watched as the woman seemed to defte before their eyes.

  She needed a moment before she spoke again. “Would you tell him that Roz stopped by?”

  “Roz?” Carol asked.

  “It’s short for Rosalind.”

  “Rosalind,” Alex repeated.

  “Rosalind Martell,” she said finally.

  Aric thought he had the b all to himself. He’d left Ed in the head of the department’s office, and there was no one to greet him in the b. A rge cardboard box and a collection of packing material sat next to an open three ring binder and a brand new, light blue painted, piece of equipment. But no sign of anyone else.

  It was rare being alone in Surrey. With barely two weeks left until the end of term, Aric was still spending hours in packed cssrooms. Schuster Lab was not nearly as crowded, but usually occupied at this time of day. Now it was just him, and he took the opportunity to rex. It was like kicking off his shoes, or unfastening a stiff colred shirt. That’s how he thought of it at least as he allowed himself the luxury of dropping his mental barriers and just existing.

  He realized his mistake immediately.

  He wasn’t alone.

  He’d let himself completely open. Defenseless.

  And someone had gotten in.

  He didn’t recognize the source. It wasn’t anyone he knew. But whoever it was spoke over a dozen nguages—and they all came at him at once, like water from a firehose, hammering his nguage centers. His mind filed. His hands gripped his head. The muscles in his legs gave out and he colpsed to the floor. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t react fast enough to stop the torrent.

  Only when his instinct for self-preservation kicked in did he manage to sm the telepathic door shut.

  Rosalind Martell’s frenetic dream came to a sudden end, as if someone had flipped a switch. She hadn’t had a dream like that since grad school, when she’d spent too many te night hours studying for a test—the entire dream a mass of roiling nguages and symbols. She woke with a slight yip to find herself still curled up in the overstuffed armchair beside her father’s desk. Nothing in the room seemed out of pce. Blinking, she rested her head on the padded armrest and drifted back into sleep.

  If Ed Martell had only gnced out of Jeff Weatherby’s office, he would have seen his daughter for the first time in over two years.

  As it was, he returned to the b oblivious to her presence—at least until he virtually tripped over her bags, left blocking the door. He recognized the suitcase immediately, and his heart surged with joy as he took long strides down the hallway.

  He found Aric sitting on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, head resting atop them.

  “Is she here?” Ed asked.

  Aric’s head was still buzzing. He fought the waves of nausea that only moments earlier had nearly overwhelmed him. Ed’s voice barely registered.

  “Are you alright?” Ed repeated.

  Aric’s voice came muffled through his arms. “Just a little dizzy. I need a minute.”

  Ed looked around the b. No one else.

  “Is my daughter here?”

  “Your daughter?” Aric echoed.

  “My daughter Roz. Her bags are in the hallway.”

  His daughter.

  “I don’t—I thought I was—but there was—” was all Aric managed.

  “You’re sure you’re alright?”

  Aric wanted to nod but feared that if he moved a muscle, he’d vomit.

  “I will be,” he said simply.

  “Fine,” Ed muttered, already turning back to the hall. There weren’t many doors to try. His office was the first.

  He stood over her, watching her sleep—her face serene, though her hair was a bit of a mess. She looked so much like her mother.

  She was beautiful.

  Perfect.

  She was his daughter.

  Ed and Roz were gone. Aric had recovered enough to get off the floor, with some help from Alex and Carol, who’d returned before everyone else. Edith and Delphine found them in one of the small study rooms. His recounting of events, added to Carol’s and Alex’s, painted enough of the picture for the rest of the team.

  “I didn’t really get to talk to her. Ed stuck his head in briefly to make sure I was still alive, and then took her—and her bags, I guess—home.”

  “I thought there was a resembnce,” Alex said. “Especially now that he’s so much younger looking.”

  “Christ, what must she think of that?” Carol asked as she did some mental math. “How old is she?”

  “Forty. A bit less, actually,” Edith said. “She’s ten years older than I am.”

  “And he looks twenty years younger than he is,” Hank said.

  “He doesn’t look twenty years younger,” Delphine pointed out, “he is twenty years younger.”

  “Jesus, it’s already been what, six months since it happened? And he keeps getting younger?”

  “It’s slowing down,” Edith pointed out. “That first month was the biggest change. We hardly notice it now.”

  “We’re used to it,” Carlos added. “But she’s not. It must have been a shock.”

  Everyone looked at Aric. He didn’t think they were accusing him of anything, even though they had a complete right to.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Was she shocked?” Carlos repeated.

  “I have no idea. I was still seeing double when they left.”

  “It was that bad?” Delphine asked gently. She knew that Edith was just as worried.

  He nodded, which caused the room to spin slightly. “It hit me pretty hard. My own fault. I haven’t been that open in years.”

  They could all hear it in his voice. He was still shaky. Edith and Delphine recognized it immediately. The vulnerability that brought the two of them to his room, and his bed, in Cornwall. But they also sensed that he was rebuilding his defenses, and soon he’d be behind impenetrable walls.

  More’s the pity, each of them thought.

  Alex turned without a word and walked out of the room. Edith looked to Carol for an expnation—they’d spent the entire day together, and had found Aric curled up on the floor—but the woman from Boston shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Is he alright?” Delphine asked. “Should we check on him?”

  None of them knew Alex well. In many ways they knew Aric better. They were both loners. More accurately, they were both used to being alone, which was not the same thing. It was human nature to seek connections, a pce to belong, and a group to belong to. Carol felt that they had that here in the b. Six men and women—seven including Dr. Martell, who none of them felt comfortable calling Ed even after all this time, who had bonded over their work. But Alex had always seemed to be the odd man out. She thought it had been that detail that Aric had recognized, that shared apartness that had drawn the men together, like two north poles from separate magnets mysteriously attracting each other against the ws of physics. They’d all seen the change, Alex coming out of his shell. But only part way.

  “I’ll go,” she said before following in Alex’s wake.

  She found him outside, standing next to George. She wasn’t surprised. The tree that had started its life—its second life—as their Christmas tree was a favorite destination of theirs. Carol didn’t know if it was just her imagination that caused her to feel the air hum when she stood next to it. She’d talk to it occasionally, usually after she and Carlos had an argument about something. “Why are men so fucking stupid sometimes?” was the st thing she’d said to George. He hadn’t answered, but she hadn’t expected him to. There didn’t seem to be a creature in the universe that could answer that question.

  “Hey,” she asked as she approached from behind, “everything alright?”

  He didn’t answer right away and when she got a look at his face she could see why. He’d been crying.

  “Hey,” She said again, lowering her voice as she pced her hand on his arm, “what’s wrong?”

  He shook his head and wiped his face.

  “All my life I thought that there was something wrong with me. That something inside me was broken. That I was alone because of that. I was sixteen when I finally told my mum. She raised me by herself. It was just the two of us. We never had anything except for each other. We didn’t starve, but we couldn’t afford anything nice.”

  “Jeez, pal, I’m so sorry.”

  “Growing up that didn’t matter. We were happy. Or at least I was. She worked hard, and if she couldn’t afford to buy herself something, she found a way to afford new clothes for me. She did the best she could, but when I told her that I was broken it shattered her, and I felt terrible. She had enough to deal with, she didn’t need my teenage angst as well.”

  He was quiet for a moment before continuing.

  “But then she sat me down and told me something. She said, ‘Everyone in the world is broken. Some in big ways, others in small ones. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying to you or, even worse, lying to themselves.’”

  Carol nodded in agreement. “She’s not wrong.”

  “It helped me get some perspective. But I still felt like being broken was my fault. A weakness. But then…”

  The tears began to flow down his face again, but his voice stayed steady.

  “But then we walked back in the b and found Aric curled up on the floor. Like a little kid scared of the dark. I’d always thought that he was the exception. That if anyone wasn’t broken inside it was him. And then to see him like that…”

  He stopped for long enough that Carol completed his sentence for him.

  “You realized that he’s just as broken as anyone. Maybe more so.”

  He nodded. “And if he’s broken, with everything he can do, and with the way people are drawn to him like pnets orbiting the sun, then my mum was right. Everybody is broken. It’s not a fw. It’s not weakness. It’s human nature. That’s why I had to walk out of the room. It was like standing in some cosmic docket, listening to a gactic judge bang an enormous gavel and announce my verdict: Not Guilty.”

  She finally understood. Who Alex was. What drove him. Two years as colleagues, and she never really knew him.

  “Buddy, I am so sorry I wasn’t there to help you deal with this. I didn’t know. None of us did.”

  He smiled as he wiped the tears from his face.

  “I’ve gotten pretty good at hiding.”

  Carol thought it was another thing he and Aric had in common. And the rest of them.

  “That’s also human nature.”