“The Affinities can do that?”

“Well, no. Not every Affinity. There was a reason Klein entrusted his data to Taus.”

“What,” Amanda said, “we’re so special?”

“Apparently,” Navarro said, “we are.”

*   *   *

We’re special. It was something we may have suspected but never said aloud. It sounded arrogant and narcissistic.

But did we feel it? Of course we did.

I had felt it when I first walked through the doors of Lisa and Loretta’s house in Toronto. I had felt it when I realized I was in a community of people who loved me, whom I could love freely and confidently in return, and who loved me despite my imperfections as I loved them despite theirs. I had recognized in that house the presence of what was so conspicuously absent in the house where I had grown up: the possibility of being both truly known and genuinely loved.

Which of course made us special. Special to ourselves; special because we were inside the charmed circle, and others were not. But Navarro was suggesting something different. He was suggesting that we might be special to the world at large … that something in the Tau community might help shepherd everyone into a better future.

“The bad news,” Navarro said, “is that the second half of this century could be a very unpleasant time and place for the human species. In the worst case, we could be facing the collapse of infrastructure, political chaos, widespread starvation, perhaps even the beginning of a massive human die-off. But Klein is not universally pessimistic. His models suggest that there is a way through that terribly narrow passage. It’s possible that we can create a better world—more just, equitable, and humane. In fact that may be the only alternative to destruction. And as Taus we are in a unique position to help.” Navarro paused and looked at Damian. “But only if the Tau Affinity is willing to assume that responsibility.”

Damian stood up as Navarro sank back into his chair. “Okay, I think that gets the gist across.” He surveyed the handful of us. I was aware of the rain clamoring at the window, as if God had decided to wash us all into the sea. I was aware that what we said in this shell of warm light on the edge of the cold Pacific might have consequences far beyond our own lives, if Klein’s mathematics were reliable; that a word spoken or unspoken could cascade into history. “Obviously,” Damian said, “this isn’t something we can keep secret, either from the rest of the Tau Affinity or from the world at large. But we do have choices. That’s why I wanted to have this discussion here, away from the city and away from hostile influences. So we’re going to talk about this, and fair warning, we might still be talking about it when the sun comes up tomorrow morning.”

“If it comes up,” Amanda said, nodding at the window and the roaring rain.

Damian smiled. “If it does. Because there is one choice we can’t share and we can’t delegate. According to Klein’s data, the Tau Affinity can help move the world in a better direction. But if we attempt to do that, we also make ourselves vulnerable. The world may not want to be moved, and the world can hurt us. Klein’s models don’t guarantee that we’ll come through this unharmed. They do guarantee that we’ll make enemies. The risk is real.”

“The risk is also real,” Amanda said, “for someone who runs into a burning building to rescue a child. But we do it anyway, don’t we? It’s the better part of being human.”

“But we’re not just assuming personal risks. We’re putting other people at risk as well—other Taus, not to mention people outside our Affinity. If we go ahead with the project of making Affinity testing cheap and universal, it’s going to force new responsibilities on us and it will inevitably put us in harm’s way.”

I said, “What’s the alternative?”

“The alternative is not to do it at all. Lay low and let events take their course.”

“And what does Klein’s model say about that?”

Navarro spoke up: “It says that, if we keep our heads down, the chance of the Tau Affinity surviving as a coherent group is to some degree enhanced. But the likelihood that our current civil society will survive is proportionally decreased. In neither scenario is any particular outcome guaranteed. We’re talking about probabilities here.”

“So that’s the question we need to answer,” Damian said. “If Klein is right, a kind of war is coming. Do we enlist, and maybe do some good? Or do we sit it out and try to survive?”

Amanda said, “We could take it to T-Net.”

“Sooner or later we will. I’ll be talking to all the major sodality reps. But we need to have a plan to show them. There’s no way to dodge the responsibility. Klein chose us for a reason.”

No one spoke. For a long moment there was only the sound of the rain playing cadences on the drumhead of the house.

*   *   *

It rained until after midnight. Come one o’clock, Navarro pled fatigue and most of us went to bed—all of us except the security guys on the night shift. And me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I went to sit on the back deck of the house.

The cedar deck was still dripping and the patio furniture was sodden, but I didn’t care. I threw a bath towel over an Adirondack chair and settled in. The sky had begun to clear. A crescent moon rode over the forest, and the air was cool and smelled of the pine woods and the sea.

I was thinking about Damian when the door creaked and he stepped out to join me.

“Sleep,” he said. “Highly overrated.” He looked into the distance, and the moon cast his shadow, pale as smoke, across the deck. “I keep thinking about home. You know what I mean?”

Lisa and Loretta and their big welcoming house. Yes. “We could use their advice.”

Like most of us in the tranche, I had sought their advice more than once. I was thinking of the time (four years ago now) when Damian and Amanda had first gotten together. The dynamics of jealousy were different in a Tau community, but I was as capable of jealousy as any other human being. I had been avoiding both Amanda and Damian for days—I had even thought about leaving the tranche—and it was Lisa who had called me on it. She had summoned me into the kitchen to sample her tiramisu (“I used Madeira instead of Marsala”), but that was just bait. She sat me down at the kitchen table and gave me a big-eyed stare. “Adam,” she said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were sulking.”

“I don’t know what you mean. The tiramisu is great.”

“And you lie so very badly. But I guess it isn’t easy, knowing Amanda is with another man?”

“I’m dealing with it.”

“But not very well. You know she loves you, yes?”

“She says so.”

“And she means it. You know she means it?”

“I guess so.” That was disingenuous and childish. Of course she loved me. We were Taus. I recognized her love in the worried glances she had lately been giving me. I heard it in her voice when she tried to explain the relationship that had developed between her and Damian. And I resented her for it. It denied me the comfort of an uncomplicated anger.

“Then you need to stop behaving the way you’re behaving. Your relationship to Amanda has a certain nature. You two have always conducted yourself according to that knowledge. Her need for autonomy was built into her love for you. What’s the use of wanting her to be what she is not?”

“No use. I know that. I’m just…”

“Hurt,” Lisa supplied.

Yes, painful as it was to admit it. Hurt, yes. Childishly hurt. Hurt like a five-year-old whose ice cream cone just plopped onto the sidewalk. Hurt by this awareness of myself as a petulant infant. “I’m not sure I want to talk about it.”

“Of course you don’t want to talk about it.” Lisa reached across the table and put her hand on mine. Her hand was parchment-skinned, all bones and veins. It felt wonderful. “Who would? But here we are. You know, of course, that Damian is also concerned about you.”