37 I drift into my pod on the train, surrounded as always by ghosts, here today, gone tomorrow, but always going. After my moment in the pod I am exiting into Arthur Chin and drifting toward the main shuttle entrance, relaxed and cool, and ready for security—the full body scans washing over me, probing and prodding like a dream, organs moving and popping, memories and senses lifted and twisted, my mother and her vanilla smell, Al B, performing at Berlin and my dad being marched away, smiling. Is that defiance, or bemusement, what, and why is he smiling like that? I never quite registered it like that before, but he’s not bothered, never was, no drama and no fear about what is to come. It’s odd and something is off about the whole thing, and I would think more about it if I wasn’t trying to get through security and I wasn’t focused on calm. This time I have none of the anxiety that accompanied me before . I can do this; I may not want to do it, but I will, fearlessly and awesomely and with confidence. No confusion or dread, just goodness and the desire to make it through this, get home and fix everything I would just as soon have destroyed hours earlier. The police with their fierce grid faces are here again, gripping me and dragging me as I regain my senses and balance. But I remain good and all powerful, focused, and move forward despite my heavy brain, the smell of vanilla everywhere clouding my thinking. I am brought into a spare, institutional room and dropped into a chair. The E.C.s retreat and there is a mo- B E N TA N Z E R 133 ment of silence and peace, which is soon interrupted by movement from somewhere behind me. A body shoots past me, heavy steps, and in a rush, eager, hungry, for something, for me, for information and planets to consume , soaking up all the energy in the room, and excess air. It’s okay though, I know what’s coming, I am good, and I am present, bring it. “Hello, Norrin, welcome back,” Morg and his smooth baby face say to me from across the table. He thrusts his hand forward to shake, but I hold back. “That’s fine,” Morg says smiling and then leaning back into his chair, “this won’t take long anyway.” I remain silent, but lean forward planting my elbows on the table—bring it, I again think to myself, all of it, the worst of it, I’m on a mission. “You can imagine how sorry we are to send you back out to Mars so quickly,” Morg says, “but as my dad always said, sometimes it’s better to suck at your job, and you Norrin do not suck, which I guess sucks for you, yes?” A stab at humor and then what, the hammer? I don’t respond. “Look, its cool, that was a rhetorical question,” Morg says. “Here’s my actual question, Are you still with us buddy, you got your shit together? Because if you don’t we have a problem, and I hate dealing with problems.” I lean back in my chair, all cool all the time. “All good,” I say, “focused on doing my job and getting home.” “Yeah, you sure?” Morg says squinting, trying to assess if there’s anything he might be missing. “Completely,” I say. “Okay then, great, get out of here,” Morg says. “I would prefer not to,” I say, “but…” [3.85.63.190] Project MUSE (2024-03-19 10:30 GMT) O R P H A N S 134 “You would prefer not to what?” Morg says, jumping in and cutting me off. “Let me finish Morg, Steven,” I say raising my hands, tortured by the feelings I want to keep at bay, and by what I’m about to say, “I would prefer not to go, not to do any of this, but I will, and I will hate it. I will also get back home though, I will make things right and I will be good.” I say this with conviction and I try to believe it. I have to believe it, for now anyway. Morg looks at me for a moment , trying to read me and glean something, anything that helps. “Okay then, good, get out of here,” Morg says. “That’s it?” I...