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Book: Search & Recovery: A Retrieval Artist Universe Novel by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
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Authors: Kristine Kathryn Rusch
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Moon.
It had taken Pippa months to see the image that the ancients believed resembled a face. The Moon she knew looked nothing like that. She could see the domes, glinting in the reflected sunlight, looking like pockmarks on the Moon’s whitish grayness. She sometimes imagined that she could see all of the activity around the Moon from Earth, even when she couldn’t.
But she tried not to think of the Moon or anywhere else outside of Earth. Hell, outside of Iowa, or even Davenport. She had taken a teaching position at a local high school decades ago, and she continued it even now, nurturing the young minds, preparing them for a long life in a complicated universe.
Davenport was exactly the right size for her. She had disliked the small farm communities—they had been too small, and everyone had known everyone else’s business—but she liked this medium-sized city, with its humid, continental climate. She loved a climate, period. She had grown up on starbases at the far end of the Alliance, something she never talked about, and had lived in a controlled environment until she was twenty-six years old.
Varied weather—from the deep cold of the plains winter to the hot humid summer—had come as a surprise to her, and had taken her years to adjust to. Now she loved it.
Even on this night, she loved it. The smell of freshly cut grass, the faint scent of roses, the muddy wet odor of the Mississippi herself, gave the park a fragrance all its own. She’d recognized that fragrance as Davenport summer evening, and it comforted her.
Just being outside comforted her. The air was warm and humid, the sounds of the river lapping against its banks soft and gentle. There were no ships on the river that she could see—they were probably docked or anchored for the evening.
And the lights were off, even here, which she had not expected. Nor had she expected the crowd, all looking up, all silent. No one spoke. No one greeted her—unusual in this community, even if no one knew her.
It was as if everyone wanted to be alone and yet together with this inexplicable disaster.
They could have watched it unfold on the nets. They probably were. She knew her second oldest son Tenkou would have had several windows open in his vision even as he stared at the Moon itself. He had always processed more information at one time than anyone else she had ever met.
She hated that practice of his. She had received a hard-fought lesson when she was his age that silence and focus saved more lives than any information ever could. She had learned that her intuition was as important as the facts she had gleaned over time.
Her intuition had brought her here.
Pippa found a spot near a young elm tree. She was certain this area was empty because the others probably believed the small copse of trees would interfere with their view.
She was tiny. Other people would interfere with her view as much as any tree would.
For a moment she was tempted to climb it, but signs appeared in her vision as she looked at it, warning her that the elm had been specially grown from an ancient, nearly extinct stock, and was an experiment, and would she please allow it to live undisturbed?
Any other place would tell her not to climb the damn thing, rather than plead for its continued peaceful coexistence.
She loved that sideways attitude she found in the Midwest. It tried—politely—to convince her that its rules were her ideas.
And it worked. Instead of climbing the tree, she stood as close to it as she could before she looked up.
The Moon seemed larger than usual, or maybe that was just because she was focused on it. The Moon was larger in all of the Earth’s imagination at the moment, or maybe in all of the Alliance’s. Everyone was thinking about the Moon.
She looked at it unfiltered at first, and saw small black spots she knew she had never seen before. It looked different, darker and grimmer. She wasn’t certain if that was because she knew about all the bombs
It had taken Pippa months to see the image that the ancients believed resembled a face. The Moon she knew looked nothing like that. She could see the domes, glinting in the reflected sunlight, looking like pockmarks on the Moon’s whitish grayness. She sometimes imagined that she could see all of the activity around the Moon from Earth, even when she couldn’t.
But she tried not to think of the Moon or anywhere else outside of Earth. Hell, outside of Iowa, or even Davenport. She had taken a teaching position at a local high school decades ago, and she continued it even now, nurturing the young minds, preparing them for a long life in a complicated universe.
Davenport was exactly the right size for her. She had disliked the small farm communities—they had been too small, and everyone had known everyone else’s business—but she liked this medium-sized city, with its humid, continental climate. She loved a climate, period. She had grown up on starbases at the far end of the Alliance, something she never talked about, and had lived in a controlled environment until she was twenty-six years old.
Varied weather—from the deep cold of the plains winter to the hot humid summer—had come as a surprise to her, and had taken her years to adjust to. Now she loved it.
Even on this night, she loved it. The smell of freshly cut grass, the faint scent of roses, the muddy wet odor of the Mississippi herself, gave the park a fragrance all its own. She’d recognized that fragrance as Davenport summer evening, and it comforted her.
Just being outside comforted her. The air was warm and humid, the sounds of the river lapping against its banks soft and gentle. There were no ships on the river that she could see—they were probably docked or anchored for the evening.
And the lights were off, even here, which she had not expected. Nor had she expected the crowd, all looking up, all silent. No one spoke. No one greeted her—unusual in this community, even if no one knew her.
It was as if everyone wanted to be alone and yet together with this inexplicable disaster.
They could have watched it unfold on the nets. They probably were. She knew her second oldest son Tenkou would have had several windows open in his vision even as he stared at the Moon itself. He had always processed more information at one time than anyone else she had ever met.
She hated that practice of his. She had received a hard-fought lesson when she was his age that silence and focus saved more lives than any information ever could. She had learned that her intuition was as important as the facts she had gleaned over time.
Her intuition had brought her here.
Pippa found a spot near a young elm tree. She was certain this area was empty because the others probably believed the small copse of trees would interfere with their view.
She was tiny. Other people would interfere with her view as much as any tree would.
For a moment she was tempted to climb it, but signs appeared in her vision as she looked at it, warning her that the elm had been specially grown from an ancient, nearly extinct stock, and was an experiment, and would she please allow it to live undisturbed?
Any other place would tell her not to climb the damn thing, rather than plead for its continued peaceful coexistence.
She loved that sideways attitude she found in the Midwest. It tried—politely—to convince her that its rules were her ideas.
And it worked. Instead of climbing the tree, she stood as close to it as she could before she looked up.
The Moon seemed larger than usual, or maybe that was just because she was focused on it. The Moon was larger in all of the Earth’s imagination at the moment, or maybe in all of the Alliance’s. Everyone was thinking about the Moon.
She looked at it unfiltered at first, and saw small black spots she knew she had never seen before. It looked different, darker and grimmer. She wasn’t certain if that was because she knew about all the bombs
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