The Children Star (37 page)

The Secretary stiffened in every muscle. This was the final indignity—to return with the status of contamination. “I have been tested by every means possible. I have not the least sign of . . .”

Station concurred. “The person of the Secretary has been subjected to every possible test of microbial contamination, including nanoservo inspection, molecular scanning, and—”

“Excuse me, Station; just a minute.” Her head was spinning. It had come to her at last, the one thing she had to try. “Station, there were those two confirmation tests—remember? You never did perform them.”

Iras frowned. “You can't be—Verid, you didn't tell me.”

“Station,” Verid insisted quietly. “You did not complete the tests.”

Station said, “As you say, Secretary. I regret the omission.”

The ship replied, “An extremely serious error, Station. You were to have the Secretary ready by oh-seven hours this morning.”

“Indeed. I shall report myself to the authorities. I deeply regret the inconvenience, but the Secretary will be delayed . . . some hours.”

“Twenty-four hours,” put in Verid.

“This is
most
regrettable. The Council will not be pleased.” The ship signed off.

Iras caught her arms. “Oh, Verid—what are you doing? You've been through every test.”

“Only rats leave a sinking ship.”

“What good will another day do? You'll be impeached.”

“So, I'll retire, and you'll see more of me.”

“Be serious! What's come over you?”

“I've never liked working through interpreters,” Verid observed, “even the best of them.” She held Iras close. “Iras, I can't explain now; but this is something I need to do. You will go home without me tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Don't worry, the Council will do nothing until I return. Meanwhile, do your best to buy back whoever Nibur got to. The Urulite, at least; he'll be the cheapest.”

“Verid—you can't. You've never been sick, yourself; you can't imagine.”

“And Station—if you value your life, activate your shield, and let no shuttle from that ship come to fetch me.”

In the clinic Verid met with Khral, as three medical sentients hovered nearby.

“We must inform you,” said the senior medic, “that after due consideration, all three of us strenuously object and advise against the procedure.”

“Of course you do,” muttered Verid. “I'll sign whatever form you need. Let's get on with it.”

“You must understand—we lack the knowledge to stabilize the Prokaryan pathogens within your Elysian physiology. Especially infections agents obtained
de novo
from the wild.”

Verid turned to Khral. The student pressed her hands to her forehead and tried to speak, but coughed instead. “It's just an idea,” Khral explained, her voice dull with fatigue. “I brought some whirrs back from the planet, where the micromen still know the full potential of their species. Within humans, I think the populations living their short lifetimes have forgotten a lot.”

“I understand.”

“I've put them together, temporarily, with a few volunteers from Rod, to teach them our language. Then one of the carriers may volunteer—”

“We have no more time for intermediaries. I will contact the micromen myself.”

Khral's face turned gray. The medics reared back indignantly,
as if washing their many limbs of it. Khral swallowed, and said, “Remember, the injected micromen will be a very small population. They will want to reproduce right away; for a while, the proportion of elders will be small, and they'll barely have their ‘children' under control. That is the dangerous period.”

“We'll get through it. They'll learn to communicate?”

“They seem to learn different ways, depending on their host. With 'jum, they use their own number code, which works well for her. Rod's micromen, I hope, will teach yours letters you can read in your—”

“Yes, I know.” Verid stretched out on the hospital bed, while Khral prepared the whirrs and the medics injected her with all kinds of protective nanoservos. She imagined the tiny machines coursing through her blood to check all her tissues and organs, preserving the proteins needed by every cell. What was harder to imagine was the microscopic living beings, setting down for the first time within a human world. For each of them, each with its own life, its memories and dreams—how would it feel?

The vial of whirrs pressed her skin. Like the virtual jellyfish that had touched her foot, when Nibur had laughed. But this time she did not flinch.

“It's done.” Khral's voice was barely audible as she put the whirrs away.

So I'm a carrier, thought Verid. For a moment she was gripped by terror; she felt as if she were falling down a deep well, unable to stop herself. But it passed. She was still herself, after all. “It's done,” she echoed. “What next?”

“You have to wait and see. We'll hope they make contact.”

A half hour passed, while Verid made the best of her time reviewing staff reports on the holostage. Then suddenly she felt hot all over, from her hands to her forehead.
“What is it?” She breathed rapidly, thinking, they're burning me up inside.

The medic told her, “You're running a slight fever. It generally happens as the infectious agent settles in.”

Fever. Verid had heard of fever, read about its sufferers, but never experienced it. “Are you sure it's all right? Even for an Elysian?”

“It's a low fever, so far. Even for an Elysian.”

She repressed the conviction that she was boiling to death and felt a bit ashamed. Living for centuries in their floating cities, Elysians knew so little of life.

The first spot of light flickered on her retina. Verid sat up straight.

“Rest yourself,” insisted the medic. “So far, your nanoservos report, the infection is highly localized within your brain. But if it spreads, you'll need all your strength.”

“Station, lights down,” she ordered. The light dimmed, except for the holostage outputting her vital signs. She closed her eyes. Something flickered again. “Khral? Are you there?”

“Of course, Secretary.”

“Fetch the other carriers here, too.” She would need all the help she could get. The seconds and minutes passed, seeming endless; yet how much longer they must seem for the micromen, who lived ten thousand times faster? How would humans keep up talking with creatures who took a week to reply to the simplest question, and went to sleep for a decade?

GREETINGS, HUMAN WORLD. The letters appeared in her eyes, unbidden. She tried to tell herself, it was just like one's nanoservos talking after all. But this was different. These internal creatures had minds of their own.

YOU ARE NOT LIKE THE OTHERS.

She took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. Nearby
stood the carriers, even 'jum in the corner with Rod. “How do I answer back?”

There was an awkward pause. Rod said, “It just happens, after a while.”

“Try reading letters in the holostage,” suggested the flight attendant. “That always worked for me.”

Khral agreed. “The first thing the colonists learn is to read your retina.”

“Indeed.” “Colonists”—a startling thought, but so they were. “Very well. Holostage, print these words: ‘Who are you?' ”

The letters appeared above the holostage, and Verid concentrated on them. Immediately came the reply: WE ARE THE PEOPLE. YOU ARE A WORLD TO BE MASTERED.

“That won't work. You will have to deal with us.” The words floated in air, and she stared at them until her eyes swam.

SO SAY THE MESSENGERS. WHAT CAN YOU DO FOR US?

Verid looked up. “What can I do for them?”

The flight attendant laughed. “Travel—that's what they want.”

“We can't.” Not yet—but someday.

'jum raised her hand. “Azetidine. Give them that—it's their favorite.”

The medic reared its caterpillar body. “Poison!”

“Azetidine is moderately toxic to your system,” said Station. “I am preparing a sample, with protective agents.” The wall nearby puckered to spit out an ampulla, which Khral fitted to an injector. The injector painlessly dissolved a microscopic well into her vein, then sealed the opening on its way out.

YOU ARE LIKE THE OTHERS. LIKE YET UNLIKE.

What “others?” Verid wondered.

YOU CAN GIVE US MANY THINGS FROM THE STARS, BUT YOUR BODY IS INCOMPATIBLE. IT WILL TAKE A GENERATION TO FIX YOU.

“That it would,” Verid said aloud. “It would take decades to lifeshape me for Prokaryon. We don't have that kind of time, but—”

“No it won't,” interrupted 'jum. “Lifeshaping doesn't take that long.”

“Hush, 'jum,” whispered Rod. “You're a child; adults take many years.” And even then they could not bear children.

The holostage announced, “Medical alert. Massive physiological changes occurring within patient, as microbes colonize circulatory system, liver, intestinal epithelium . . .”

“Station,” called the medic, “the patient is suffering massive physiological effects. I demand an immediate halt to this ill-advised experimental procedure, or else I—I will seek termination of your license.”

Station said, “The choice is yours, Secretary.”

“What's going on? What are they doing?”

“I wish I knew. But they cannot destroy you without destroying themselves.”

“That hasn't stopped humans,” Verid dryly observed. “Holostage, spell out: What are you doing to my body?”

WE FIX YOU TO LIVE HERE. LIKE THOSE WHO FELL FROM STARS, BUT YOU ARE DIFFERENT.

“ ‘Like those who fell from stars—' Who is that? And why am I different?” Verid was throughly confused, and the continued recitation from the holostage did not help.

Rod exclaimed, “The L'liites. You're like them, but you're Elysian. The L'liite ship crashed, but some survived, and the tumblerounds found them.”

“They could not have survived long.”

The medic said, “The presence of the microbes is altering the patient's biochemistry by the minute. If this madness does not stop, I withdraw from the case.”

“The L'liites did survive,” Rod insisted. “Diorite tracked them. But—”

Verid's jaw fell open. “ ‘A generation'—Holostage, print out:
‘How long will it take to fix me? Whose generation?' ”

OUR GENERATION. BUT WE ARE PATIENT. MEANWHILE, PLEASE FEED US AZETIDINE, HYPOGLYCIN, AND MIMOSIN.

A generation of micromen. A single day. Verid tried to stand up, but her head swam with fever.

“Please, Secretary,” cautioned Station. “Your body is reacting to massive changes in chemistry. Are you sure you will continue?”

“Yes, by Torr,” she exclaimed weakly. “Don't you see? They can lifeshape us in a single day—anyone. At no cost.” She raised her arm. “Find those L'liites.”

On Prokaryon, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. All around the planet towered hurricanes whose lightning struck any vessel from the sky. From space, the planet's disk was a mass of tumbling clouds. Never before had the world been seen thus, not since the days of the early explorers.

“Somehow they know,” Rod told Diorite, as he watched the holostage, clenching and unclenching his hands. “They know what the humans have in mind.” Not that it would help against the white hole.

“How could they know?” demanded the miner. “Did the Spirit tell them?”

“Chae and Haemum were carriers. Their micromen must have told the others.” He could imagine the lightcoded
messages leaping across the singing-trees where he and Khral used to collect their samples.

“By Torr—if
that's
it, can you imagine what's in store for Valedon once those critters multiply?” Diorite shook his head. “We're doomed, whether we save that cursed planet or not.”

“The Secretary doesn't think so. She thinks we can deal with them. And the L'liite survivors will convince the L'liite delegate to change his vote. That's why we have to find them.”

“Oh really? What if we find them turned into llamas?”

He tensed all over, then relaxed. Sketching a starsign, he said a prayer.

Station announced, “The shuttle is ready, shield fully activated. All members of search party assemble for boarding.”

The search party made a hair-raising descent, sustaining several strikes of lightning. When at last they landed, they struggled across the ground drenched by rain, stepping over carcasses of drowned four-eyes. Besides Rod and Diorite, six forensic sentients fanned across the hillside where, months ago, Diorite's crew had last seen tracks. They stumbled and dug each other out of mud laced with treacherous loopleaves, then climbed over singing-tree trunks felled by the storm. The roar of the wind hammered Rod incessantly. “Tell them to stop,” he urged his internal visitors. “Send whirrs to tell them—we mean to save their world, not destroy it.”

OUR WHIRRS CANNOT SURVIVE THE STORM. WE REMEMBER OUR BROTHERS, BUT HAVE NOT SEEN THEM FOR COUNTLESS GENERATIONS. WHERE WOULD WE FIND THEM?

Out of the corner of his eye a light flashed. The thunderclap deafened him for some minutes. Diorite caught him with his arm and shook him, trying to say something.

“The sentients have found something,” shouted Diorite. “A whiff of human flesh. But there's no sign of them.”

How could there be any sign, Rod thought; any footprint would have been washed away. Bracing himself against the wind, he surveyed the drowned landscape. Hills rose above the valley, one of the wilder corners of Spirilla even in fair weather. An outcropping of rock jutted, exposed to the elements. There was something vaguely familiar about the character of the rock. He wiped his eyes and squinted. Fog was rolling in across the rocks, but just for a minute the clouds parted and the rock shone clear.