“Nandi.” Bindanda brought him a small envelope—no question it was human, no question it was Mospheiran, at first sight. It had a little residue of dirt. From the plants, it seemed.

A letter from Sandra Johnson. With photos of Sandra and smiling near-teens. Good God, he thought. Who are these kids?

Dear Bren, I was repotting today and thought of you. I checked and these plant slips aren’t contraband where you are.

The picture? This is my oldest, Brent, and this is Jay.

Was she married? Had she told him she was married?

I’m working in Brentano now, for a law firm, well, you probably know, Meacham, Brown & Wilson. John and I are happy here. But when I thought about you up there in all that plain plastic, I couldn’t just toss the cuttings. I hope they’re no trouble and if they are, throw them out. I told Brent and Jay I once visited the aiji in Shejidan and that I know you, and I’m not sure they believe me, but I don’t forget those days. I think of you fondly and thank you for all you’ve done up there.

Sincerely,

Sandra Johnson

John who, for God’s sake?

But she was certainly due a letter, and he opened the computer that had magically arrived in his room, and wrote an answer.

Dear Sandra, absolutely I’ll treasure them. Growing things are pretty scarce aboard.

I’m so glad for you. Fine-looking kids. Congratulations.

Bren.

Due two letters, in fact:

Dear Brent and Jay, believe your mother. She saved the whole world, once, and the aiji himself still owes her a personal favor.

Sincerely,

Bren Cameron

Paidhi-aiji

Just occasionally there were entirely delicious satisfactions to the job. And he did treasure… what were the plants’ names? Hell, he couldn’t remember. Seymor and Fredricka, he decided—granted they lived.

Tough specimens. Survivors. Coming home to the realm of their ancestors.

That letter, however, had led him to think about his mail queue, and he connected.

A letter from the tax authority on Mospheira. He needed to file a paper, the same paper he filed every year. No, they couldn’t possibly accept his secretary’s signature. It regarded the immense amount of pay he’d accumulated and not spent, and which he used to pay his mother’s bills and buy birthday presents for Toby’s kids.

A letter from a charity wanted an endorsement, Society for Beachside Preservation, something of the sort. He wasn’t sure how thathad gotten through Mogari-nai and C1. He wasn’t out of sympathy for the cause. It sounded like something Toby might favor. But he doubted Toby had sent it.

The letter from the State Department turned out to regard his personal identification card, which had expired. He could bring the requisite cash and his expired card to any courthouse he could reach.

Well, thatwas a fair hike.

And a letter—God, a short note from Barb.

He hadn’t heard from Barb at all for two years, not since her divorce. She’d said then she was getting her life together—adjusting to life as it was—life, as, dammit, she’d chosen it to be. She’d said she didn’t expect an answer, and gratefully enough he hadn’t sent one—

But he heard aboutBarb often enough. Barb and his mother got along, consoled each other—they had a frightening lot in common and every time he thought of it, he told himself his instincts had been right. Run like hell. The Bren Cameron that Barb and his mother both hoped would exist didn’t exist, couldn’t exist, not since he’d taken on the job—and thank God he hadn’t run back after Barb’s accident, hadn’t gotten involved in her life again. He’d only have provided the chance to let Barb lock on and mess up the rest of her life.

Last he’d heard, she was all right. She’d come out of the accident alive and whole. A rough few years, one hell of a mistake, but she was doing all right these days.

Being on a space station without a convenient way down seemed a safe distance.

Bren,

Your mother’s not doing well. The new medications aren’t what we hoped. I hope you’ll find time to come down as soon as you can.

The bottom dropped out of his stomach… not hard, just a little twinge of guilt. His mother’s health hadn’t been good, but the majority of the crises had involved some scheme to get him to visit. What was the date on the letter?

The day he’d left for the planet, dammit.

And if he had visited—if he had, every damned time his mother would revert to the ordinary list of complaints and the tally of his failures to care enough, visit enough, do enough… no, no, no, he didn’tfeel guilty.

But he went for the message-bowl, then, opened the messages, and found, dammit, one from his brother, not with the usual header that would have tipped off the staff as to its origin and sent it straight to him no matter where he was: no, this one was from Community General, from the hospital nearest their mother’s neighborhood. Toby hadn’t known there was a reason to put an official stamp on it. Toby couldn’t have known he was actually on the planet and in reach, if he’d only put an official stamp on, to alert his staff.

Dammit.

Bren, Toby said,

Mother’s in hospital, her blood pressure again. The apartment manager found her on the stairs and called the ambulance. The doctors aren’t certain…

It went on. Toby’d gone to the capital immediately. There was a second letter with the same origin. Their mother was in the hospital. The medications had taken a toll of her other organs. The doctors were working on the problem.

Toby had dropped everything, ignored all his advice, left Jill to go to the capital to be available.

Well, when hadn’t he felt guilty… for leaving his mother on the island, for leaving Toby to deal with her, when what she wanted was him, the one of her two sons who didn’t come running?

When hadn’t he felt like a scoundrel, ducking possible visits?

Yes, his coming onto the island was a danger to his mother and to Toby and Toby’s family; but they just weren’t damned pleasant visits, either, and if he was honest, that was the real reason… and the source of enough guilt to turn his stomach. Toby, granted, had at least had the good sense early on to go live up on the coast, out of range—but when things had shifted and Toby had turned out to be the only one of them who could be there, Toby would come back—at the worst moments Toby would get on a plane at whatever hour, leave his promises to his wife and his kids hanging while he ran down there to deal with the fact some lunatic had phoned their mother’s apartment and set off her heart condition. They were real troubles, always real troubles, but they had a knack for happening on birthdays and holidays and other times brother Bren couldn’t show up to visit, and the coincidence was more than suspicious.

Did other sons board a plane every time a parent had a medical incident? No. But did they? Toby did, because Bren couldn’t. He toldToby not to go… but Toby went; and once Toby got there, Toby got all the complaints—no thanks for his being there, just the complaints. Where was Bren? When would Bren come? Why couldn’t Bren come? Tell your brother this, tell your brother that…

And ask why. Ask whyToby ran off to try to be a better son to their mother than he could be, and oh, there was a dark spot in that answer. He and Toby weren’t rivals, never had wanted to be, but their mother could look right past Toby without a blip on her radar, and say her sons never cared for her—meaning him, Bren, the one of the two their mother couldn’t possibly have with her.

Was that what was going on again?

Or was this finally the real thing, a real life-and-death crisis?

And even if they’d discussed it, he and Toby, and unmasked what was going on and shone light on the cold facts… the reality of that tactic hurt so much Toby went and did it again, trying for some better outcome, some moment when their mother would just once look at him and say to his face, “Thank you. You’re a good son.”