Read Online Xenopath by Eric Brown - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eric Brown
Tags: Bengal Station
Ads: Link
image of her own. The
library appeared identical, as did the selection of holo-cubes on
display.
A big timber
desk sat beside the viewscreen.
Hermione Kormier
stood at the door, as if reluctant to trespass on the territory of
her murdered husband. She indicated the desk. "In the top drawer
on the right. It's unlocked. I'll be in my study."
He watched her
withdraw, then crossed to the desk and sat down in an old-fashioned
timber chair, pulling open the drawer and lifting out a thick,
old-fashioned ledger.
It was marked
with the year's date. He turned the pages, admiring the dead man's
meticulous script. He scanned a few entries from earlier in the year,
before Kormier's posting to Mallory.
It was not what
he was expecting, abstruse musings from a world-leading
xeno-zoologist, but the endearing day-to-day observations and
jottings of a man very much in love with his wife. Indeed, Kormier
himself was less the subject of his entries than was Hermione.
17th January.
Dined with Hermione after writing. Discussed the parallax theory I've
been working on. H is so damned astute. It's been twenty years, and
Christ I love the woman more and more every day...
Vaughan stopped
reading, his throat constricted.
He flipped a
sheaf of pages, arriving at more recent entries.
They were mere
one-liners, and often cryptic. A week before his death: Considering autumn, vague thoughts of home.
Two days after
that: Sunsets on Mallory... will I ever see them again?
He turned back
to the dates that Kormier was on Mallory. There were entries for the
first couple of weeks, then nothing for weeks. He read all the
entries on Mallory, mainly technical reports he had no hope of
understanding, with no hint of anything untoward.
The very last
entry made on the colony world read: Begin field trip tomorrow
with Travers. Looking into his pachyderm hypothesis. Should be
fascinating.
Then nothing
until two months later, two weeks ago, and his abstract jottings
about Mallory and sunsets. There were three more entries made over
the last fortnight. The first, ten days ago, reported: Travers
called yesterday. See him today.
Three days
later: T— meet him tonight.
Vaughan sat
back. Travers. He had to find Travers. Could it be that Travers was
the man he had arranged to meet at the amusement park?
There was no
entry for the day after his meetings with Travers, however.
He closed the
diary and examined the desk. Amid papers and com-pins, he noticed a
metallic pass-card. He picked it up, smiling. The card showed a pix
of Kormier, beneath the legend: Scheering-Lassiter Authorised Staff.
He slipped it
into his pocket. Kapinsky would ball him out when he produced this
little ace.
He lodged the
diary under his arm and left the study, pausing on the gallery
outside Hermione's room.
He hesitated,
tempted to spare himself the torture of scanning the woman.
Before he could
give in, he tapped in the access code and braced himself. He reached
out for the wall, held on, as the full force of her emotions assailed
him.
It was as if she
were consumed by an interior whirlwind of grief, a vast swirling
twister of guilt and regret and the raw emotion of knowing that her
husband was dead, that she would never again share her life with him.
And caught in
the typhoon, like debris sucked up and swirled, were fleeting
verbalised thoughts: > >Miss him! The bastard! I love him...
(His last seconds... Pain? Suffering... I should have been with him!)
On another
level, in the calm dead centre of the storm, Vaughan caught
references to himself.
>>When
will the ingratiating bastard leave me alone? Police fascist! Happy
with his little Thai slut. (Anger, jealousy...)
Deeper, he
probed rooted memories of her life with Robert Kormier, was hit by
images of them in bed, ecstatic in sexual abandon, and then arguing
fiercely, hurling abuse.
He quickly
killed his implant. What she had told him had been the truth. He had
no desire to pry further.
He stepped into
her study,
library appeared identical, as did the selection of holo-cubes on
display.
A big timber
desk sat beside the viewscreen.
Hermione Kormier
stood at the door, as if reluctant to trespass on the territory of
her murdered husband. She indicated the desk. "In the top drawer
on the right. It's unlocked. I'll be in my study."
He watched her
withdraw, then crossed to the desk and sat down in an old-fashioned
timber chair, pulling open the drawer and lifting out a thick,
old-fashioned ledger.
It was marked
with the year's date. He turned the pages, admiring the dead man's
meticulous script. He scanned a few entries from earlier in the year,
before Kormier's posting to Mallory.
It was not what
he was expecting, abstruse musings from a world-leading
xeno-zoologist, but the endearing day-to-day observations and
jottings of a man very much in love with his wife. Indeed, Kormier
himself was less the subject of his entries than was Hermione.
17th January.
Dined with Hermione after writing. Discussed the parallax theory I've
been working on. H is so damned astute. It's been twenty years, and
Christ I love the woman more and more every day...
Vaughan stopped
reading, his throat constricted.
He flipped a
sheaf of pages, arriving at more recent entries.
They were mere
one-liners, and often cryptic. A week before his death: Considering autumn, vague thoughts of home.
Two days after
that: Sunsets on Mallory... will I ever see them again?
He turned back
to the dates that Kormier was on Mallory. There were entries for the
first couple of weeks, then nothing for weeks. He read all the
entries on Mallory, mainly technical reports he had no hope of
understanding, with no hint of anything untoward.
The very last
entry made on the colony world read: Begin field trip tomorrow
with Travers. Looking into his pachyderm hypothesis. Should be
fascinating.
Then nothing
until two months later, two weeks ago, and his abstract jottings
about Mallory and sunsets. There were three more entries made over
the last fortnight. The first, ten days ago, reported: Travers
called yesterday. See him today.
Three days
later: T— meet him tonight.
Vaughan sat
back. Travers. He had to find Travers. Could it be that Travers was
the man he had arranged to meet at the amusement park?
There was no
entry for the day after his meetings with Travers, however.
He closed the
diary and examined the desk. Amid papers and com-pins, he noticed a
metallic pass-card. He picked it up, smiling. The card showed a pix
of Kormier, beneath the legend: Scheering-Lassiter Authorised Staff.
He slipped it
into his pocket. Kapinsky would ball him out when he produced this
little ace.
He lodged the
diary under his arm and left the study, pausing on the gallery
outside Hermione's room.
He hesitated,
tempted to spare himself the torture of scanning the woman.
Before he could
give in, he tapped in the access code and braced himself. He reached
out for the wall, held on, as the full force of her emotions assailed
him.
It was as if she
were consumed by an interior whirlwind of grief, a vast swirling
twister of guilt and regret and the raw emotion of knowing that her
husband was dead, that she would never again share her life with him.
And caught in
the typhoon, like debris sucked up and swirled, were fleeting
verbalised thoughts: > >Miss him! The bastard! I love him...
(His last seconds... Pain? Suffering... I should have been with him!)
On another
level, in the calm dead centre of the storm, Vaughan caught
references to himself.
>>When
will the ingratiating bastard leave me alone? Police fascist! Happy
with his little Thai slut. (Anger, jealousy...)
Deeper, he
probed rooted memories of her life with Robert Kormier, was hit by
images of them in bed, ecstatic in sexual abandon, and then arguing
fiercely, hurling abuse.
He quickly
killed his implant. What she had told him had been the truth. He had
no desire to pry further.
He stepped into
her study,
Similar Books
