On Air, Closed: Ella

[Glen Runciter]

Of course, Runciter had his own room in the moratorium. He was by no means a snob, but if there was ever one thing he insisted upon, it was that he and his wife had their privacy. One of the perks of being a man of his means was that he could afford it. Glen would not suffer the public lounge, with roomful of strangers as quietly desperate as he, struggling to hear Ella's voice above a muddle of other people's conversations. The director, von Vogelsang knew how Runciter liked things, and everything was already arranged for him by the time he arrived: Ella's container was already wheeled inside the director's own office, aforementioned director keeping vigil outside.

He nodded to the director, brief but sufficiently polite, as he strode in, shutting the doors behind him. The first thing he did was heave a heavy sigh, and in all of five seconds he felt as old as he looked. But the seconds flew, and he straightened himself. He combed his hair back with his hand, a strange habit he couldn't shake whenever he had an audience with his wife. As if she could see him from the other side of the glass pane of her container. Runciter was through pondering such things, wallowing in depression, and instead took a small comfort in wanting to look nice for Ella until now.

He pulled up the nearest seat, a lean wooden chair with velvet upholstery opposite von Vogelsang's table. Clearing his throat, Runciter switched on the microphone attached to the container. The red light flashes on. He has to be careful. Already he knows how he'll modulate his voice, slow and deliberate, when he tells her. Their words are all that's left between them, and they were precious.

"Ella?"

[Ella Runciter]

It was oddly quiet. For a while, there was nothing, despite the red light signaling a clear line of communication. Minutes passed. It was getting harder and harder every time, especially now that her half-life was running out. She was still trying to think of a way to tell him. Knowing Glen, he wouldn't take it well.

Eventually, the speaker crackled to life, echoing with Ella Runciter's muffled and faraway voice. Communing via cold-pac was not unlike talking over the phone. Ella supposed, for the living, it even held a feeling of nostalgia. But then, she could only assume as much.

In her mind's eye, she could see the blinking red light clearly, throbbing and beckoning to her. Leading her to something new. She had been in half-life too long. She remembered something like that in a book she read once, the one Glen gave her on those last few months. Buddhism, was it? Some other philosophy that could offer her insight on death to comfort her? Ella gave some thought to telling Glen, but decided not to, knowing it would only worry him.

"Glen." The voice was faint, but it was there. Ella sounded tired. "You've come to see me again." His visits were becoming less and less frequent; Glen always insisted against bothering her unless it was important. "Is something wrong?"

[Glen Runciter]

What could he say that wouldn't set her to worry? Runciter imagined life behind the cold-pac. Perhaps lying there, immobile, with this microphone as one's only voice, your hearing became that much sharper. He wondered sometimes. As it was the terrible pause, the white noise in between the red light and Ella's response was enough to make Runciter panic. This wasn't the first time it had happened. He spoke about it to the director on more than one occasion, sterly too, as if Von Vogelsang could do anything about it. The fact of the matter was that his Ella was slipping from him and Runcter knew it. But he'd be damned if he ever admitted it. Not out loud, in any case.

"Nothing." Too slow. the words came out in a hesitant drawl, and surely she would notice. Why say anything at all if one's voice, the intonation and tremor seeping into the words, betrayed you? Quickly, Runciter added, "It's just that... Melipone's back again. You remember him, don't you dear? The money psi, you called him? He hurt Jill."

He told her about Jill, didn't he? His memory was failing him, a sign of old age he wasn't keen on admitting either. Of course Ella never lived to meet her, but Runciter talked about her enough that the two of them might as well have. All good things. Only good things. His hands clasped together tightly, Runciter heaved another sigh. Runciter bit his lip before he could elaborate on the other inertials that recently fell prey to Melipone since his dreaded return. "I... I'm not sure what course of action to take at this point. Joe's gone, not that he was much help with this kind of thing. Perhaps I should recruit again."

[Ella Runciter]

Jill. Jill.Yes, she remembered a Jill. Glen spoke very fondly of her, almost like she was the daughter he never had. The daughter they never had. Ella wondered briefly what she was like; Glen always described her as pretty, but then she knew him to be a man generous with his praise.

She already knew that Melipone was on the prowl. Ella felt a twinge of guilt, for she was the one who suggested that Glen double up on the inertials to reinforce Runciter Associates and tail the money psi. It was during the last time Glen was here -- she didn't know how long ago, time ebbed and flowed differently in half -life. She wasn't entirely sure how, as there was obviously no point of comparison. Whole years could have passed since Melipone was loose. How many inertials had he murdered since then?

the white noise flickered softly behind her pause. "I'm sorry. If I hadn't..."

[Glen Runciter]

"Don't even think it, Ella," said Runciter sternly. "You made the right call. It was smart. If you hadn't thought of it, I would have. In any case I wasn't about to be lax on security with the greatest Psi wreaking havoc out there." And as for Jill... he told himself that Jill knew the hazards of her job, she knew the dangers and up until now avoided them with clever precision.

Now he realized that it had been a bad idea to bring this up with Ella. What was he thinking, disturbing her with this? It was selfish of him. He should have been able to handle it on his own instead of subjecting his dead wife to more worry. Or worse, guilt. At this rate he was eating up all the half-life she had left.

Besides, he decided, Melipone wasn't the problem. He was only a symptom of a much bigger disease, the root of which was that blasted Raymond Hollis. Why blame the blade instead of the hand that wields it? Runciter realized that he was going to have to take drastic measures, and Hollis was already a step ahead of him. Why did it take him so long to realize that this wasn't simply business, it was war.

Or maybe a little of both.

"I need to go, Ella," he said apologetically, rising slowly from his seat. "Don't worry about this, I'll take care of it. You just rest." There he was again, acting like she was still sick. But sick was a more favorable alternative to dead, wasn't it? "I'll visit you again soon, I promise." Could she hear him standing to leave, he wondered? Could this conversation something that could be switched on and off at will, like putting down a vidphone. If so, it felt like he was hanging up on her.