"With kassies," Hart said.

"Yes." She stood. "With friends."

He came in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders.

"You'll be all right there? You're sure?"

She nodded and put her head on his shoulder, and after a moment Hart stroked her hair.

By evening she was gone.

"I don't understand," Ozchan said. "Things were going so well for us, and suddenly she just disappears. Heads off to visit friends, gone for a week.

What in hell goes on here, anyway?"

Tabor shrugged. "I don't know. I've been thinking about it for seventeen years, and I can't figure it out. They're like that, all of them.

Jason says that they're all solitary people; Hoku says they're just dense.

They see everyone through layers of themselves."

"Everyone does that." Ozchan stretched his feet toward the fire. "You seem to put up with it well enough," he said.

"Being Quilla's bedmate? It has its rewards."

"That's cynical enough."

"Nothing cynical about it. I'd rather be around her than otherwise. I'd rather be around the children. It's not a bad life."

"Wonderful. What about love?"

Tabor smiled. "You think it's not there? We live in different worlds, she and I. We speak different languages, and sometimes translation's difficult. She loves me, but she can't talk about it. I think she's afraid of it. She loves the children. I love her. Not everything has to be a grand passion."

"Is that what I have to look forward to? A life of translation?"

"I don't think so. Meya's different. She's more intense, in outward ways. More open. I think she's just very disturbed about something, and she's taken time out to clear her head. But if she's in love with you, I'd imagine there will be lots of grand passion. Enough for the entire family."

"Clear her head about what? Me?"

"Possibly." Tabor looked worried and glanced around the barn. The firepot by their feet cast a small light; beyond that, the barn was dark and quiet. Save, of course, for the perpetual sound of rain. "I think it's more than just you, though -- something having to do with Hart."

"What?"

"I don't know. I wish I did. The entire thing makes me feel prickly."

"Prickly. That's a good word." Ozchan leaned forward. "What did Hart do, Tabor? Seven years ago, what did he do to make everyone hate him this way?"

"Something. There was a crazy old man, Hart lived with him. An old biologist, or was before he came to Aerie. They were up to something pretty grim, from the sound of it, but no one will talk about it. I think Hoku knows, and Quilla, Jason, Mish. I think some of the kasirene may know, but I'm not sure. Anyway, one day, all of a sudden, Hart and Gren -- that was the old man -- were gone, and no one said a word about anything."

"And the old woman? Laur?"

"Bad heart. She doted on Hart, you'd have thought he was her own child.

Whatever it was that he did, it must have been quite a shock to her, and then he seemed to blame her for it. Her heart gave out."

"That doesn't sound like his fault."

"Not directly, no. He's very good at making things not seem his fault."

"He's trying to help Jason," Ozchan said.

Tabor shook his head. "It was Jason's choice, and we had to go along with it. But I don't trust Hart. I wouldn't trust him if he were frozen in stasis. Whatever is bothering Meya, I'm willing to bet it has something to do with Hart. I can't prove it, but I'm sure."

"Tenuous grounds, Tabor."

"Perhaps. But the only ones I've got."

Ozchan sighed and stared into the firepot again. Outside, the rain continued to fall.

The man in the vat was beautiful, the body firm and clean of line, like an artist's conception of the perfect man. Skin dark and glowing, face serene, unlined. His chest rose and fell as the respirator hummed. The level of the fluid in the vat ebbed and Quilla reached for Tabor's hand.

The room was silent. Mim stood at the foot of the vat, her clenched hands making a small bump under the fabric of her apron. Ozchan beside her, face intent, and Hoku beside him. Hart, moving from vat to controls and back, face set. Tabor. They had sent for Meya. The kasirene said she had gone to a village farther down the island. They sent a messenger, but she had not arrived in time. The children were in Haven, staying with friends. Mish and Jes were not due for another three weeks.

The vat was empty. Hart and Ozchan lifted away the sides and put them on the floor, then Hart suctioned liquid from Jason's nose and mouth and unhooked the respirator. Jason breathed alone, and the sound mingled with the breathing in the room. Quilla's shoulders relaxed. Jason's legs twitched.

"It will take a while," Hart said. "He'll have to get used to his body, regain control of it. Reestablish things. Don't expect him to jump up and start running around."

"The body seems to be fine," Hoku said. "What about the mind?"

"Untouched," Hart said. "Give him time."

He bent over his father and touched Jason's cheek with his fingertips.

"Jason," he said, "wake up."

Jason's body moved sleepily.

Quilla dropped Tabor's hand and leaned over her father. "Jason," she said, "time to wake up. Come on, it's morning. Jason."

The eyelids fluttered and opened, and Jason's deep blue eyes stared at her face. Past her face. It's all right, she told herself. He's coming out of it. Needs time.

"Jason," she said again, and touched his cheek.

Jason's eyes stared past her. And there was nothing behind them at all.

Hart pushed her aside and grabbed for the electroencephalograph. He pasted the electrodes to Jason's head, his fingers almost trembling, turned, flicked the power switch.

The screen lit. The machine registered enough brain activity to keep the body alive, and not a thing more.

Quilla stared, her mind a total blank. Hart put his forehead against the machine.

"That's how long," he whispered. "Sweet Mother! That's how long."

Quilla grabbed him and threw him aside, screaming that he'd killed her father. The words made no sense. She shouted them again and hit him. Tabor grabbed her, and she tried to hit Tabor.

"Not true," Hart said. "I didn't. Not true."

"Bullshit!" Hoku said angrily. "That thing isn't Jason. What are you trying to hide, Hart? First Laur dead, now Jason. I'll bet Gren's dead, too.

Am I next? Or Quilla? How about your mother, Hart, are you planning to kill her, too?"

"I didn't kill -- "

"He's not there!" Quilla screamed. "There's nothing in there! 'You killed him!'"

"I didn't! Drake -- "And the words froze within him. Drake. Meya, the only one who believed him. Who trusted him.

"That's right, blame it on someone who isn't here," Tabor said. "That's your usual excuse, isn't it?"

If he told them about Drake, he'd have to tell them about Meya. He stared at their contorted faces, the hatred, the anger. Tell them, tell them and Drake gets all the blame. Tell them and escape. And they'll know about Meya, and they'll never be able to hide that knowledge. And Meya will go into stasis. Meya will die for seventy years and never be allowed back home. Tell them and go free.

"No!" he shouted, turned, ran from the room. One second, two -- he reached the head of the stairs and they rushed after him, still shouting. He almost fell down the stairs, recovered, ran from the house. Mud sucked at his shoes. He slid down the hillside, running toward the port, toward the fortnightly shuttle. The world was full of screams.

It became dream-like. Shuttle in the rain, drawing its hatch closed.

Leaping for the rim, scrambling up, diving inside just as the hatch snapped shut. Leaning against bulkhead, wet, panting, crying, while the crew stared at him in bewilderment.

"What the suckin' hell is this?" the shuttle's captain said.

"Leaving with you," Hart said. "I'll pay."

"Strap him down," the captain said. "Fuck, we're off schedule already."

The engines howled. Someone pushed Hart into a seat and cinched the webbing around him, someone yelled about clearing the pad, something like a soft cushion pushed him into the seat.

Meya had put her head against his shoulder, had given him her arm.

Trusted him. Of all of them, only Meya. Black villain to the rest, but he could protect her, at least. Make some payment for her faith.

The same crew that he'd spoken to two weeks before. Same shuttle that serviced Aerie the day of Drake's death. It would be easy to find their stored passenger lists, to add the name of Tev Drake to it, start-port Aerie, stop-port ... where? Someplace, there would be no trouble picking someplace.

A life for a life.

When they reached the ship, the captain took him aside.

"Money, no luggage, dripping wet. Looks like someone was chasing you."

Hart remained silent.

"No business of mine," the captain said. She pushed her cap back on her head. "Where're you headed?"

"What's your last stop-port?"

"Gregory system. South Wing."

"Fine," Hart said, "that'll do fine."

They gave him a cabin, and one of the crew members sold him some clothes. He put the clothes in the locker, threw his own down the chute, and climbed into the bunk. For a long time he lay stiff, staring at the smooth, curved bulkhead walls. For a long time after that he wept.

*Quilla*

"IT'S NOT TRUE," MEYA KEPT SAYING. "You've got to listen to me. It's not true."

But we were too upset, too busy, too murderous to listen to her. She'd arrived just a few hours after Hart's escape, and had to put the story together from our shouts and threats. She grabbed up the big ceramic bowl on the table, the one Quilla kept filled with flowers, and flung it against the floor. It shattered, spraying water and blossoms around the room, and shut everybody up long enough to let her start talking, and after that we had to listen.

Much as some of us didn't want to. How eager we were to think the absolute worst, and think it truth and justice.

She shouted until we'd heard her story. She showed us the place they'd hidden Drake's things: his clothes, his pretties, his brandy bottle. She took us to Drake's grave and went away while Tabor, Ozchan, and I dug up the man's rotting body. Ozchan performed an on-the-spot autopsy, and we buried him again.

When we came back to the Tor, wet and muddy, Meya sat beside Jason, holding his hand. The scar on her forehead, the scar we'd thought had come from falling in the workroom, seemed terrible and bright. We stood at the door of the room, looking at her, and she raised her head and stared at us.

"Perhaps you'd better call the Federation," she said. "But first you'd better call Hart. And apologize."

The first was unthinkable. The second shamed us, but we tried, anyway.

We couldn't find him. He wasn't at Kroeber, had never returned. The shuttle captain said that Hart had gone to the end of the line, a main grab from which ships spilled out to a number of systems, and we could not trace him from there. We did discover one thing, however: Tev Drake was listed as a passenger on the shuttle, leaving Aerie on the date of his own death -- destination, Kaipha's Beard. Hart had taken that same shuttle two weeks later. Meya had the grace not to say anything. I felt like a pile of lizard shit.

The problem of Jason remained. He lay in the bed, breathing, heart beating, the perfect semblance of a perfect man. Mindless. Hoku and Ozchan had checked him over and over. Ozchan had sent to Solon for their library on brain death and spent weeks scratching through the chips for anything likely to help us. The results were frustrating. Had a recording been made prior to the accident, Jason could have been flown to Solon and reprogrammed. Had the brain tracks been cleared but not killed, Jason would be alive -- not Jason, nothing more than a full-grown baby, but alive and capable of learning. But Hart had ensured that Jason's brain would not be affected by the treatment, had not wanted to do anything that might disturb his father's mind.

Meya tended to our father, washing him, changing his position, rolling him over, reading to him, speaking to him as though he would hear her and understand, would open his eyes and smile at her. Ozchan said it was nothing to worry about, that Meya was not sliding into a world of fantasy. After watching her for a while, I believed him. When, in frustration, Hoku suggested that Jason's body be stopped, Meya protested with such fury that the subject was dropped. Besides, if it was to be anyone's decision, it would have to be that of Mish.

She hadn't been told, by Jason's express wish. He wanted her to return to find him whole and growing, in the process of complete recovery. Wanted to give her the gift of his new body. So she hadn't been told, either of the treatment or of the accident. Communications between Aerie and Althing Green were expensive, and the messages that went between us scarce. It was no problem to smooth the matter over, to give an appearance of normality. "No change in Jason," I would transmit; she would not know in what ways it was true. And she was in the last few weeks of the license hearings, hearings which could very well determine all our futures. If she left before they were completed, we would not be granted further hearings for another five years standard, at the least. Or so we told ourselves, assured ourselves, and kept our doubts quiet.

Ozchan could have left. There was no longer anything he could do for Jason, yet he stayed. Meya announced that she was pregnant, and Hoku confirmed this. Three days later she married Ozchan; she said Jason wanted it that way.

Well, why not? Tabor and I talked about it that night, about Meya and Jason and Ozchan, Hoku's practice, Haven's growth, Aerie-Kennerin's expansion, the twins and their schooling, household matters. Books he had read or I remembered. Music. Farming. Philosophy. The talk didn't seem strange to me, breaking all my years of effective silence around him. We made love. I listened for the sound of his flute as I worked, listened for the tapping of his cane in the house. Thought one night of what life would be like if he were no longer with me, if he, not Jason, lay mindless in that bed. The images frightened me, filled me with pity for my mother and what she would find on her return, terror for myself.

We didn't speak of marriage. It seemed beside the point. What bound us together was far stronger than any ceremony could create, far more important than words spoken or certificates bandied about. Jason had talked about the certainty of things, and at last I knew what he had meant.

Hoku and Ozchan set up practice together. No one in Haven trusted him, at first. Hoku said it was to be expected; he said that she'd so terrified everyone that only her opinion was considered valid, only her treatments effective. She agreed.