Viking (15 page)

The youth and attractiveness of the face in the mirror was overshadowed by grim
rebellion. But there was no use looking back, no need to remake plans. Hadn’t she
expected to become a single woman when yesterday began?

Actually, Julie admitted with a queer mixture of relief and irritation, this was
probably the easiest resolution in the long run. Rafa had died before she removed the
band of gold on her finger. Though she was stricken with the outcome, it forever
trumped the angst and guilt coloring all her perspective on the divorce. Eventually,
widowhood might make room for peace where a voluntary turning of the back would leave
lingering doubts and unhappiness.

Then words from Rafa’s final letter came rushing to her mind.
You and the girls
will be better off if I die while we’re still married
. She’d assumed Rafa was
talking about financial and insurance considerations, but now she wondered. Had he seen
an early death as a way to spare her the ambivalence of the divorce? Part of her
rebelled at the thought. It was none of his business anymore.
She
was divorcing
him
, and with the best of reasons—the last thing she needed was a patronizing,
hypocritical machismo concern for her feelings.

But as she stared at the youthful red eyes in the mirror, the feeling faded.

It was time to be honest.

Silently her lips formed syllables too painful to utter aloud. She watched herself
speak, unable to stop or turn away.
Rafa wasn’t guilty, Julie. You know he
wasn’t.

And she nodded tremulously as a fresh flood of tears filled her eyes. She did know.
It was undeniable; the knowledge of Rafa’s death would not have been so devastating if
her heart wasn’t screaming in protest. He’d been foolish, perhaps. Maybe even
untruthful about some things. But not duplicitous. Not evil.

She’d walked away when the going got rough. And Rafa’s words stung because they were
the plain, caring truth, not a self-serving prediction from beyond the grave: he’d
bought a one-way ticket to his death so she could live with herself when he was
gone.

For a frozen moment she stood apart from her feelings, numbed by the fierceness of
her reaction. She felt her heart swelling with recrimination. How could she have been
so quick to doubt? How could she have forced such a wrenching decision from a man she
loved? And how could she spoil his sacrifice now, by falling into a spiraling quagmire
of depression and self-directed anger? The emotions swelled and raged, tearing
ruthlessly at her heart strings all the more because she refused to protect them.

Suddenly she looked away from the mirror, braced open palms on the gleaming counter,
and began to cry quietly. In her mind’s eye she was on the beach again, feeling the
grittiness of wet sand and the sighing wavelets dampening her rolled-up cuffs, holding
Rafa’s hand as he went down on one knee with the brilliant moon hanging full and yellow
over his shoulder. She remembered his smile as he looked up at her with those clear
brown eyes—eyes that communicated so much more than his lips ever managed.
Let me
love you, Estrellita
. It was all he’d said to propose. No long speech, no
explanation. But she knew what he meant.

And somehow, the torrent of bitterness could not abide that simple sentence.
Let
me love you, Estrellita
. It faded to a whisper, then only a memory that gave way to
a warm, unspeakably tender peace. Hadn’t she said yes? Wouldn’t he still want that
answer?

Julie padded barefoot over damp linoleum and across the cool strips of oak on her
bedroom floor, feeling closer to her husband than she had in months. She was still
conscious of regret and sorrow—in fact, she was keenly saddened by her own decisions
and how they’d deepened the hurt—but like a breath of fresh air, Rafa’s words dispelled
internal accusation and made self-forgiveness possible.

“Thank you, Rafa,” she whispered softly.

* * *

Though her heart was lighter, it still brimmed with emotion, and Julie’s mind and
body felt no need for sleep. She lay on the bed for ten minutes, wet hair pressed
against her neck by the doubled-up pillow, without even yawning.

Too much to think about.

As the old grandfather clock downstairs struck half past, her stomach growled. It
had been almost twenty hours since her attempt at breakfast, and another ten before
that since she’d really eaten.

Julie pulled on some slippers and cat-footed down to the kitchen, suddenly glad to
put aside complex considerations for a moment. In her own home, the fridge had never
been much fun; Julie was an adequate but unenthusiastic cook, and Rafa seemed to eat
leftovers no matter how unappetizing. But her mother’s icebox was always well stocked
with delectable tidbits—stray slices of pumpkin pie, fresh strawberries and cream,
hard-boiled eggs. Pulling open the door to make a surreptitious inventory recalled a
host of memories from her younger years and brought a faint smile to her lips.

She placed a square of lasagna in the microwave and settled down at the table. While
it heated, she cut a slab of bread and popped it in the toaster. Despite her efforts to
remain quiet, the old black lab stirred by the back door and walked stiffly into the
kitchen, her nails clicking softly on the ceramic tile.

“Go back to bed, Dolly,” Julie whispered affectionately.

The dog eyed her for a moment, then shook her graying muzzle in an almost human
gesture of tolerance, and vanished back down the hallway. Julie spread butter on the
toast, hesitated, then grabbed a sticky bottle off the lazy susan and dribbled a
generous dollop of honey on top.

As she worked her fork through the now-steaming layers of pasta and sauce, Julie
felt the buzz of the phone in her jeans. She must have pocketed it out of habit. She
dug it out and thumbed through the menus. Yes, there was still something waiting for
her. What had the guy’s name been? Sander or Slatter or something?

An unfamiliar face filled the screen, and Julie hurriedly lowered the volume as he
began to speak.

“Mrs. Orosco, my name is Dr. Mike Satler. I’m a scientist at MEEGO in Houston. I was
working with your husband. The database listed a number in L.A. for you, but my phone
says I’ve been forwarded somewhere else. So I hope I’ve got the right person.” He
paused, clearing his throat uncertainly. “I waited to call because I didn’t want to be
the bearer of bad news. I imagine by now you’re aware that Rafael is missing and
presumed dead.”

Again he paused, and Julie wondered fleetingly why he looked so uncomfortable.
Surely if he was in the viking business he’d made the dreaded calls to relatives plenty
of times before. He wasn’t very good at it.

“Anyway, I feel like you should know that I am not satisfied with MEEGO’s handling
of the situation. I have reason to believe that your husband may have survived the
stampede.”

Julie’s fork froze. The man was gesturing dismissively. “I think it would be a
mistake to be overly optimistic at this point. But there is definitely something odd
about the way the company reacted. Give me a call so we can discuss it.”

The message ended, leaving Julie staring out the dark farmhouse window, lost in
thought. Could Rafa have survived? He’d been so close to the rock when the signal cut
out... But why would MEEGO have lost his transmission, if he was still
broadcasting?

Glancing back at the phone, she saw a second message from Satler. This one was
only a couple hours old. She hit play, eager for more information.

“Mrs. Orosco, Mike Satler again. I don’t intend to be a bother. Sometimes the next
of kin to a viking actually has no interest in these sorts of details. But Rafa’s file
showed that he was still married...” He trailed off awkwardly, as if uncertain whether
he should continue.

“Well, in any case, I’ve been snooping a bit, and the upshot is that I’m convinced
the company is up to something. I quit a few hours ago. Uneasy conscience. I’ve found
some more evidence that Rafael is alive. Call me whenever you get this message. If
you’re interested.” The screen went blank, but his name and number remained behind for
a few seconds.

Hesitantly, Julie put down her fork and thumbed the reply button.

The setting sun, striking his eyelids through rustling grass, eventually woke Rafa
up. For a moment he lay there, not remembering anything, puzzled by the bloody dirt on
his lips and the cramp in his neck. He blinked and became aware of dryness in his
throat and an ache that began at his shoulders and radiated all the way to his
toes.

As he rolled into a crouch, a searing pain shot through his right forearm. He gasped
and fell back on his left elbow to take weight off the arm. Gently he probed the ulna,
stifling the urge to cry out at the throb the touch provoked. There was a definite
break just in the middle of the bone. Skin was intact, but not by much. He felt
light-headed and sluggish.

Using his good arm as a brace against the stone at his back, Rafa staggered to his
feet. A handful of hexapod carcasses were scattered across the trampled veldt, covered
by winged scavengers. The details of the stampede came surging back. He’d been fleeing
the thundering, plunging river of animals. He remembered approaching the boulder just
as he was engulfed by the herd, being rammed from behind and hurtling like a rag doll
into the lee of the rock. Then nothing.

Where were the others? Judging by the approaching sunset, the mad dash must have
happened hours ago. Why hadn’t anyone picked him out of the aftermath? Surely his
implants would have reported him alive and relatively undamaged, would have easily
pinpointed his location for searchers. Maybe Heward had figured out a way to leave him
behind on purpose.

He surveyed the grassland carefully, using his good hand to shield eyes from the
bright horizon, hoping for any signs of a skimmer or vikings on foot. He saw
nothing—just crushed vegetation, muddy tracks around the small stream that bisected the
area, and the lifeless bulk of hexapods who couldn’t keep up with their neighbors.

A profound sense of loneliness descended, bringing a lump to his throat. This was
not the aesthetic solitude of the poet—it was a brutal, chilling thunderclap of
desolation, a naked aloneness that was all too aware of acres of unbroken wilderness in
every direction, vast stretches of continent and ocean untouched by a human footstep,
and an eternity of empty blackness between here and home.

He shouted at the top of his lungs, heard the primal appeal dissipate into azure
without so much as an echo, and slumped to his knees, ears ringing in the resurgent
silence. The breezes of cooling twilight played with his hair, gusting and subsiding
fitfully.

Rafa remained motionless.

Gradually, almost unconsciously, he began to pray to dispel the awful isolation.
Father in Heaven
, he mouthed silently. Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes, and
he wiped them away angrily with his good arm.
Help me! ¡Ayúdame!
A dozen other
sentences flitted through his thoughts. He discarded each in turn; this because it was
angry, that because it seemed so pitifully inadequate. He was adrift in a whirlpool of
overwhelming emotion, too dizzy and disoriented to voice a more articulate cry for
help.

One emotional current was bitter resentment.
Ah, what a redoubtable god!
Hadn’t he done everything he could to deserve a little divine intervention in the
shambles that was left of his life? Hadn’t he begged for mercy, for safety, for a way
out of the hell that had begun with his arrest an eternity ago? That this should be his
reward—abandonment and a lonely death—was almost beyond belief.

Swirling under and through the bile was a powerful tide of dread. This was it—the
final horseman of the apocalypse, come to claim his cringing prize. Rafa could conceive
of no way he might survive any length of time without food, without water, without a
weapon.

What drove the flow of feelings into spiraling confusion was the faith inculcated in
Rafa by a believing mother long ago. He’d questioned it as a youth, but ultimately
adopted belief in his own right, and welded it deep in his heart. He clung to faith
now, instinctively, fiercely. It was his lifeline—the glimmer that refused to let
darkness triumph. But by its stubborn persistence it generated a maddening paradox that
could only be resolved by killing God or killing his anger. Nietzsche had chosen one
road, Job the other. Either way, it made all the difference. And he lacked the resolve
to step in either direction.

For nearly five minutes Rafa knelt, his face flushed, his lips trembling with
potential utterance that remained suppressed, his soul convulsed. He heard no answer,
but at last there came into his heart a stillness. It wasn’t weary resignation or rigid
resolve—just a quiet, unspectacular catharsis that allowed his mind to clear.

Since he hadn’t been found, Rafa concluded grimly that nobody was looking. If he
wanted to emerge from the wilderness alive and rejoin the crew, it was up to him. With
a gloomy detachment he observed the struggle for the choicest bits of carrion on the
nearest carcass. The ecological equivalent of vultures were screeching and hopping
aggressively, posturing with leathery wings and occasionally raising razor-lined jaws
to gulp especially large chunks of flesh.

Definitely red in tooth and claw.

He wondered why they’d left him alone. Maybe they’d nibbled the virtually
indestructible biosuit while he lay unconscious, then moved off in favor of more edible
morsels. Or possibly he smelled bad. Maybe predators would avoid him.

It was a nice thought.

But it raised a rather nasty question. A feast this big would attract a lot more
than vultures back on earth. Where were the jackals, the hyenas, and the lions of this
ecosystem? Not here.

Not yet, anyway.

Perhaps they were nocturnal.