The Children Star (35 page)

'jum took a bite, then quickly devoured the figs. The Secretary sat before her, watching.

“Wasn't that good. Now, dear, what can you tell me about your little people inside?”

'jum thought. “We dance,” she said. “We dance like this.” She raised her arms to make a circle, then danced from one side of the room to the other, first three steps, then five, then seven.

The Secretary watched respectfully. “How lovely. Can you tell me more?”

“We are the Dancing People. We dance all the numbers of the world.”

“All of them?” echoed the strange woman. “Every single one?”

“It takes many generations.”

“What if someday you need to . . . stop dancing the numbers?”

“That's easy. I just stop.”

“And the people inside?”

“They understand. They do what I tell them.”

“They always do as you say?”

“Of course they do. I feed them azetidine.”

Through the next day, and the next, Verid alternately coaxed and interviewed the microscopic people, within the girl, and within the Spirit Caller, and within several other carriers as far as they could communicate. She worked without sleeping, trying as soon as possible to reach that magical point when she truly understood the micromen, or the “Dancing People,” as 'jum called hers; knew them better, perhaps, even then they knew themselves.

Their habits, their foods, their children; to Verid, all seemed uncannily familiar. These were people, no question about it. Immigrants to new worlds, only they found their new world was much more than a mindless landscape. And each carrier carried a different breed developing a culture all its own, like a people after forty generations at a distant star. It stunned her imagination.

Still, there were troubling signs. Not all the “cultures” of the micromen were equally communicative. Not all had reached the stage of civility that would earn them entrance to the community of the Free Fold. And some of the human carriers had died before treatment could work. Most disquieting,
two carriers had survived but lost their minds. Physically intact, they moved and walked in silence, their brains submerged by some internal control.

To “cure” the incommunicative carriers, the medical sentients had injected nanoservos, by Khral's procedure that had cured Iras. But this time, it was too late. With the micromen removed, the former carriers lay in their beds, responding only to simple requests to sit up and eat. Their higher brain functions were dead. Was this the fate Rod had escaped?

“In the future, we'll prevent that,” Khral promised. “We're developing nanoservos to confine the micromen to the occipital lobe, just where they grow to about a hundred thousand and send messages to the retina.”

“So they can't spread and take over the brain.”

“But carriers who volunteer could grow them to study. What an opportunity!”

Verid smiled. She did not tell her that the Fold Council cared little what some student in jeans could study. Only one day remained of her grace period, and none of the micromen could yet give her the one crucial thing she needed: a purpose compelling enough to convince the Fold to spare their planet.

Verid stopped by the room of Iras. “Dear Iras—are you well enough to go home?”

Iras reclined on a couch, her golden hair spread invitingly over the arm. She smiled, though her face was still pale as a ghost; appalling, after so many centuries of health. We are far from immortal, thought Verid sadly, though with just a touch of relief. “Well enough,” said Iras, extending her arms. “And you, aren't you ready to leave this cursed place?”

Verid sighed, enjoying the moment's rest in her arms. How easily she could have lost Iras forever. “Not quite.
You know what the Council will do to this planet, and Station, too.”

Iras shuddered. “Sorry for you, Station—but for the planet, I say, good riddance.”

“For shame, Iras. The first truly independent mind humans have ever met—and we should destroy them?”

Iras gave her a look of sympathy. “You always did have a soft spot for plague-ridden planets.”

“You made all your money off them.”

“I probably lost more than I made on L'li. And Prokaryon is a dead loss.”

“It need not be. We've learned enough to control the micromen. We can choose, now, whether to carry them.”

“Choose to carry them!” Iras shuddered again.

“The girl chooses to carry them. The young Spirit Caller chose, too, despite himself.” But their reasons would not sway the Council.

Iras leaned over and brushed Verid's hair. “You know,” she added reflectively, “I must admit the experience of illness has . . . given me a new outlook. I've had much time to think. I am truly sorry, dear, about your pet planet. If there were anything I could do, I would.”

“You can. You can buy me time.”

“How?”

“Buy off a couple of delegates—the L'liite, and possibly the Urulite, if you approach him right. Get them to postpone the hearing. Just buy me enough time to find something to convince them . . .”

To convince them the micromen were worth more to humans alive than dead.

Iras did not answer.

“I know you've taken heavy losses, dear,” Verid told her. “But it shouldn't cost all that much.”

“Except that someone got there first.”

“What?”

“The neutrinogram came through this morning.”

“What did it say?”

“Nibur already bought them off, to make sure the hearing goes forward. The vote is assured, no matter what we do.”

Verid's hands turned to ice. She had been planning all week to postpone the hearing. “How could Nibur have moved so soon?”

“He zipped home in
Proteus
three days ago.”

“Yes. I should have known.” Verid felt sick to her stomach.

“There are also reports of more carriers showing up, on Valedon and on Bronze Sky.”

Frightening, though inevitable. “The whirrs must have spread. Or the micromen have learned to transfer without whirrs.” There was no help for it; Verid had to have the knowledge she needed now, before tomorrow morning, when the express ship arrived to take her home.

Alone again on Station, Rod stared at the holostage, his throat tight and dry. He wanted to call in and see little Gaea, but he could not bear to face Brother Geode, let alone the Reverend Mother. They were sentients, he told himself. They had their own kind of love, but they were born in factories, made by machines. What could they know of the love of man and woman, the kind that betrayed the universal love of the Spirit.

HUMAN. HUMAN WORLD. Whenever he tried to think and concentrate, those bright letters were bound to pop up again. HUMAN, WE HAVE A QUESTION. IF SEVEN MEN ARE TRAPPED INSIDE A WHIRR FAR FROM HOME, WITH FOOD ONLY LEFT TO LAST AN
HOUR, HOW DO THEY DECIDE WHO EATS? DO ALL EAT, OR SHOULD ONE EAT TO LIVE LONGEST?

Rod sighed, exasperated. “How should I know?” Since he returned their “brothers,” this had been their game, asking him question after question as if he knew everything.

For a while the letters receded, then they returned. HUMAN. WHY ARE YOU SO INSCRUTABLE?

Suddenly it dawned on him. This was how the Spirit would feel, with people all over the universe sending out their petty prayers: Answer me this, give me that. What a tedious business it must be, to be a god.

“A visitor,” called the room. “The Honorable Secretary.”

Rod looked up eagerly as Verid came in. “It's working, just as you said. The microzoöids—I mean, the micromen seem to be behaving. They'll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Excellent.” Verid sounded pleased, though very tired. Rod had never seen an Elysian look tired before. “So you feel comfortable, now, with your houseguests?”

“For now.” He frowned. “But I fear they might change.” What if they grew angry at their god? “When I sleep, I'm at their mercy.”

“The new nanoservos will prevent that.”

“That's a relief.” He felt a flood of gratitude for Verid. “What a difference you've made, Honorable Secretary. If I have helped you in any way, it's been a privilege.”

“Don't thank me yet,” the Secretary warned. “We have a long way to go—and little time.”

“But you said Prokaryon is safe for now. And now, we can talk with the micromen, and control them—”

“ ‘Now' was last week. Tomorrow the Fold meets—in secret—to decide the fate of your planet.”

Rod was puzzled. “I thought so long as we could talk with them, you could work things out. Like with the sentients, the historic treaty, remember?”

“How well I remember.” Verid sighed. “But this time, the Fold gave me seven days. Seven generations to save a world. On one condition.” She leaned forward. “I have to find some utterly compelling reason why humans need the micromen—need them badly enough to risk their survival. Otherwise, their world will die.”

He sat still, trying to absorb what he heard.

“You signed the release, did you not?” she reminded him.

“We all sign that, in case of a plague.”

“Such as the plague of micromen.”

“But they're intelligent!”

“True,” said Verid calmly. “Nobody foresaw intelligent pathogens. And now the Council chooses not to see.”

For some minutes he sat in shock, absorbing what he heard. After all they had gone through, the planet was doomed. Slowly he shook his head. “I won't leave.” Let the octopods haul him away.

“You won't. You're all carriers, or potential carriers.” She paused. “I'm sorry,” she said in a low voice. “I told you, I was the cupbearer for murderers. I couldn't tell you how badly things stood, because you needed to hope. You did well indeed, better than I could imagine. But it's not yet enough.”

Rod shook violently all over. Then he found himself pounding the wall, his fists sinking deep into the nanoplast.
“No,”
he cried. “No, no.”

“Be easy on Station. She, too, will die, in case they've infiltrated her nanoplast.”

He stopped, breathing heavily. “Even the children?”

Verid said nothing.

HUMAN, WHAT IS WRONG? STRANGE MOLECULES IN YOUR CIRCULATION ENDANGER US.

For a while all he could hear was the pulse in his ears, and his sight blackened. Then his eyes cleared, and he looked at Verid again. “What shall I tell them?” he demanded. “What shall I tell the millions of people inside?”

“Tell them the truth.”

He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.
The humans
, he thought.
Other humans, from other stars. They plan to kill you
—
all of you, and your planet
.

For a long while there came no response. Then the letters slowly appeared. SO IT IS WITH US. OUR BROTHERS FROM OUR ANCESTRAL UNIVERSE PLAN TO DESTROY HUMANS.

“Destroy us?” he exclaimed. “Why?”

THEY SAY, INTELLIGENT WORLDS ARE TOO DANGEROUS. NOT WORTH THE RISK.

He remembered the incinerated llamas. How much worse were humans? Even travel to the stars was not worth the threat of extinction by such irrational carriers. “You'll never kill us all,” he warned.

NOT ALL. THE FEW LEFT WILL BE BRED AS ANIMALS.

Rod thought this over. “Perhaps it's not so bad, to be a llama. Perhaps it's what we humans deserve.”

IT'S BAD FOR US. WE WILL PROTECT YOU, BUT OUR BROTHERS WILL KILL US, TOO. FAR MORE OF US WILL DIE THAN YOU.

He laughed, a harsh laugh that caught in his throat. “They are just like us after all,” he told Verid. “Brothers killing brothers.” But his own micros would die for him—so many of them, willing to give their lives for his sake. That was something to think about.

“The micromen differ among themselves, just as we do,” Verid said. “Yours differ from the others.”

“Mine need me; I'm their home.”

“If only we needed them the same.” Verid whispered, her voice suddenly harsh, “That's what you have to find, Rod. Find what the micromen have that we cannot live without.”

Left with this impossible task, Rod tried to question the micromen again, but he hardly knew where to begin. The micromen could not seem to grasp what he wanted, and his own mind wandered. What of his Spirit family; could they not yet escape in the lifeboats?

“Reverend Mother Artemis,” the holostage announced. Rod shuddered; for this was the moment he had dreaded most. Yet now, staring death in the face, his own failings receded.

“Reverend Mother . . . have you heard?”

“Of course, Brother Rod.”

“Then can you do something?” He looked up eagerly. “You've always had connections. Can't you get out, with Geode and the children?”

The sentient did not answer. Her many breasts hung empty, and she had not brought the children. Rod's scalp prickled as he remembered; even the Secretary of the Fold could not save them. He looked away. “Forgive me, Mother.”

“It is I who have failed. After all these years, I can see many things now, too clearly—but never mind. If the Spirit offers us one last day in this world, should we not spend it together?”

“What do you mean?”

Station explained. “I have lifted the quarantine. It
seems . . . hardly useful, anymore, as we are all considered unclean.”

“So, you can rejoin us now,” said Mother Artemis. “Please, Rod—we need you back.”

After weeks that had seemed like years, Rod was reunited with the family. For the children's quarters, Station had shaped one of her bleak corridors into a tall, arching vault, with the Prokaryan horizon lit by the spectrum of Iota Pavonis. Virtual wheelgrass swayed in a silent wind, and the golden ringlets of brokenhearts hung ripe upon the fields, like lost rings for all the weddings the children would never have. Rod felt pleased, then angry; was it crueler, he wondered, to prolong the illusion of home.