were strikingly large, dark and limpid. The boy was cute and had the same eyes, but his blazed with an extraordinarily intense and challenging light, as if everything, even posing for a photo, was a source of great puzzlement and irritation to him. He was, she guessed, three, four years old. Maybe the photographer had caught him on a bad day.
"Your wife and son?" she asked.
Landesman nodded. "Arianna. Alexander."
Something about the way he said it prompted her next question. "Are they...?"
Her implication was clear. Were they dead? Had they been killed by Olympians? If so, it would explain a lot.
Landesman certainly understood what she was getting at. He shook his head.
"Arianna," he said, following a long intake of breath, "died shortly after that picture was taken, long before the Olympians were around. Natural causes. An unusually aggressive form of lymphatic cancer, and all the money in the world couldn't save her - it could only make her descent a little slower and her landing a little softer than it might otherwise have been. As for Xander, he's still with us, though not with me . By which I mean, he and I aren't in touch any more. We were always combative during his childhood, and had a terrible falling-out when he was in his early twenties. I'd tried my best to raise him on my own, using as little hired help as possible, but it wasn't easy. I was a busy man, not often home. He needed a stability in his life that I couldn't give him, so it was inevitable, I suppose, that we should come to a parting of the ways. I wish it hadn't been quite so terminal, though. I don't think he could forgive me for not having been a good enough father."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you, but I'm reconciled to it. Some mistakes cannot be rectified. They can only be lived with, or erased."
"As in forgotten."
"Perhaps," said Landesman.
As Sam turned to go, Landesman said, "Our pasts shape us, Sam. None of us is the person he or she used to be, it's true, but what we are still contains a great proportion of what we once were. Nothing, not even suffering the worst kind of tragedy, alters us completely. At core, we are set in stone."
For some time afterward Sam debated whether he'd been referring to Chisholm, to her, or to himself. It very possibly could have been all three.
14. CALLSIGNS
T he training continued. The Titans familiarised themselves with all the weapons on offer, not just the conventional ones - the guns, the grenades, the rocket launchers - but the more unusual items such as the knuckledusters that packed a stunning million-volt punch and the semiautomatic pistol with hinged barrel and videocamera sight that could shoot round corners.
They practised manoeuvres as well, learning from Ramsay and Barrington about flanking crossfire, cover formation, shooting lines and the like. For those among them with no military background it was a crash course in the basics of armed combat, courtesy of two drill sergeants with very different teaching styles. Surprisingly it was the Australian who was the more even-tempered of the two, the one who would dismiss errors with a shrug and a "never mind, try again" attitude. The Chicagoan was less forgiving, quicker to scold. He might pepper his instruction with wisecracks, but he took the role of tutor very seriously. "This shit," he said, "if you don't get it right, you could get yourself killed. Worse, you could get the guy next to you killed." And if Ramsay was harsh with all of his pupils, there was none he was harsher with than Sam. His feeling seemed to be that, as leader, she could least afford to get things wrong - although in Sam's view there was more than a little bit of petty revenge going on. He was still smarting from her Piss off and leave me alone remark a while back. Not a man who took rejection well, obviously.
And then, come early March, they were ready.
They knew it, without having to be told. They were now moving in synch with one another, each instinctively understanding
"Your wife and son?" she asked.
Landesman nodded. "Arianna. Alexander."
Something about the way he said it prompted her next question. "Are they...?"
Her implication was clear. Were they dead? Had they been killed by Olympians? If so, it would explain a lot.
Landesman certainly understood what she was getting at. He shook his head.
"Arianna," he said, following a long intake of breath, "died shortly after that picture was taken, long before the Olympians were around. Natural causes. An unusually aggressive form of lymphatic cancer, and all the money in the world couldn't save her - it could only make her descent a little slower and her landing a little softer than it might otherwise have been. As for Xander, he's still with us, though not with me . By which I mean, he and I aren't in touch any more. We were always combative during his childhood, and had a terrible falling-out when he was in his early twenties. I'd tried my best to raise him on my own, using as little hired help as possible, but it wasn't easy. I was a busy man, not often home. He needed a stability in his life that I couldn't give him, so it was inevitable, I suppose, that we should come to a parting of the ways. I wish it hadn't been quite so terminal, though. I don't think he could forgive me for not having been a good enough father."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you, but I'm reconciled to it. Some mistakes cannot be rectified. They can only be lived with, or erased."
"As in forgotten."
"Perhaps," said Landesman.
As Sam turned to go, Landesman said, "Our pasts shape us, Sam. None of us is the person he or she used to be, it's true, but what we are still contains a great proportion of what we once were. Nothing, not even suffering the worst kind of tragedy, alters us completely. At core, we are set in stone."
For some time afterward Sam debated whether he'd been referring to Chisholm, to her, or to himself. It very possibly could have been all three.
14. CALLSIGNS
T he training continued. The Titans familiarised themselves with all the weapons on offer, not just the conventional ones - the guns, the grenades, the rocket launchers - but the more unusual items such as the knuckledusters that packed a stunning million-volt punch and the semiautomatic pistol with hinged barrel and videocamera sight that could shoot round corners.
They practised manoeuvres as well, learning from Ramsay and Barrington about flanking crossfire, cover formation, shooting lines and the like. For those among them with no military background it was a crash course in the basics of armed combat, courtesy of two drill sergeants with very different teaching styles. Surprisingly it was the Australian who was the more even-tempered of the two, the one who would dismiss errors with a shrug and a "never mind, try again" attitude. The Chicagoan was less forgiving, quicker to scold. He might pepper his instruction with wisecracks, but he took the role of tutor very seriously. "This shit," he said, "if you don't get it right, you could get yourself killed. Worse, you could get the guy next to you killed." And if Ramsay was harsh with all of his pupils, there was none he was harsher with than Sam. His feeling seemed to be that, as leader, she could least afford to get things wrong - although in Sam's view there was more than a little bit of petty revenge going on. He was still smarting from her Piss off and leave me alone remark a while back. Not a man who took rejection well, obviously.
And then, come early March, they were ready.
They knew it, without having to be told. They were now moving in synch with one another, each instinctively understanding
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