CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Reclaimed
Mihran, father of the Alpha Complex branch of the Pandora family, stood in a grove of dwarf peach trees in the center of the family wing. A padded bench waited there, inviting him to sit. Around him swirled the sounds of voices, chattering water, and rustling leaves. The scent of the ripe fruit hanging in the trees overlaid a hundred other perfumes—spices, honeysuckle, hot oil, and limes. Sunlight, diffuse and white, streamed through the pillow dome and lit the place that had been his home from the moment he was born. This place had nurtured him, and he had nurtured it. Every so often, no matter how busy he became, he had always managed to stop and just stand for a moment, drinking in the sheer comfort of his home, whether or not Aleph was actually speaking to him.
But now he had a whispered report from Hagin. Now, during the greatest crisis the family had faced since the destruction of the Delta Complex, he was afraid his home, his cradle, was going insane.
The blade-shaped leaves of the trees brushed against a monitor glass that was Father Mihran’s own height. He steeled himself. His Conscience sent him soothing odors of lemons and roses. He had to do this. For the good of the family. This was no one’s job but his.
“Aleph?”
“Mihran.” Aleph manifested in the glass—a young woman with straight black hair that fell to her feet and dark almond eyes in her round face. Her hands were strong, capable, and her voice was low.
Mihran blinked at her. This was his city. She was supposed to care for him. He had known that all his life. It was a central fact of the existence of every single member of his family. This was never supposed to happen. “I’m worried about you.”
Aleph lowered her eyes, turning slightly away. “Many people seem to be. The tenders are very busy right now.” She lifted one hand, and a square of the glass above her palm filled with the image of the Synapese, with the tenders swarming through it like bees in a hive.
“What is wrong, Aleph?”
“Nothing is wrong. As you can see”—she cocked her head toward the subimage—“I am very well cared for.”
She believes she is being persecuted. Memory of Hagin’s words cut a cold trail through Mihran’s mind. She is accusing Dionte of making unauthorized changes to her neurochemistry. I believe she is coming to think I’m a part of some sort of conspiracy. We are trying to find the center of the disturbance, but I don’t know when we will succeed.
He did not say or whether we will succeed, but Mihran had the feeling he wanted to. “Is that…” he said to Aleph, but he had to look away. He could not meet his city’s eyes. He had to look at the red-gold spheres of the peaches sheltered by the emerald leaves instead. “Is it possible for you to lie to me?”
“If it is possible for you to lie to me, then why should the reverse not also be possible?” replied Aleph in a dull, calm tone that Mihran had never heard before.
He swung around to face her, his hand out as if he thought he could reach through the glass and touch her. “Who has lied to you, Aleph?”
“No one.” But the denial was full of that same dull calm.
Mihran felt the world shift under him. Even his Conscience was stunned into stillness. This was wrong. The city would not, could not, be withholding something from him. “Aleph, what has happened?”
Aleph was silent for a moment. “I want to tell you, but I am…” Another pause. Her image moved its hands aimlessly, clasping and un-clasping them, fiddling with the folds of her black and white diamond-patterned robe. “I am afraid, Mihran.”
“Of what?” Mihran took a step forward. His Conscience produced the faint scent of burning, needlessly. He was already sufficiently worried.
Aleph smoothed her robe down. She was not looking at him. Of course, she really was. As long as they were speaking, Aleph would be watching him, but his focus for her would not look at him, and even the illusion of that reluctance cut straight through Mihran. “I’m afraid of not being believed, I think,” said Aleph. “Of being wrong.”
Despite the sadness in them, the words gave Mihran a splinter of hope. Perhaps this was only a mistake. City-minds could, and had, made mistakes in the past. This one was just compounded by Hagin’s overreaction. These were hard times. It was easy to believe the worst.
“I’ve seen your accusations against Dionte,” said Mihran, his voice becoming steady again. “Hagin showed me.”
“Because you asked for them.” Aleph stood in profile now, looking toward some horizon that did not exist. “Not because he wanted to. I heard. He tried to tell you I have gone insane.”