by Jerry
Marchey was oblivious to being watched by them. Sweat sheened his forehead. A silver-capped stump turned toward his head momentarily and the sweat vanished. He shifted position slightly and continued to work, the silver plates dancing over the child’s head.
Ella shuddered and turned away; this was worse than knives and bone-saws and a rubber-gloved hand coming up wet and red. Dr. Chang whispered, “Dear God,” under her breath, her eyes shifting from Marchey to Ella. Ella was drawn to look at Marchey again, compelled by a will-defeating mixture of fascination and revulsion. She saw—but did not understand—the Marchey-thing laboring under the bright lights. What had he become? How? Why?
Dr. Chang continued to explain what was going on, but she no longer addressed Ella directly. She may have been speaking as much for her own benefit as the younger woman’s. She held Ella’s hand, her other hand on the cross hanging from her neck.
“Miracles . . . as if God had made them so that his work could be done through them, by them. He can wipe away a tumor or clot with a touch, can restore damaged or destroyed cells. He can coax an aneurysm out, smooth it away as if it were a bubble in clay, can thrust his hands into a living beating heart without breaking the skin or changing its beat. Bone, sinew, muscle, or organ, it is all as clay to him. The strongbox of the skull presents no more barrier than the surface of water to him; he can reach through it to touch what lies beyond and work inside as easily as you or I could turn over stones in the bottom of a fishbowl. No scars, no complications, no pain . . .”
Dr. Chang fell silent and faced Ella, turning her pale face toward her, overcoming the younger woman’s resistance. “I envy him, Ella—can you understand that? Soon all of my skills will be as obsolete as electroshock and leeches. Surgeons will be like him. They will be—” She paused, trying to find the proper word.
“—magicians, Ella. Shamen—miracle workers. Compared to what your Georgory has become, I am just a crude mechanic. He is a healer! He is not a monster or a cripple, girl; he is the man you said you loved.” She squeezed Ella’s hand harder. “The man you love.”
Ella’s face was ghastly, She looked like she had been bled to within a hands-breadth of death, her face like chalk.
“But how did he lose his hands? How?” Her voice was thin with bewilderment. She shoved her hands under her arms as if to protect them from the same fate Marchey’s had suffered. “How was he m-maimed?” He never told me about any a-accident—”
Dr. Chang answered, never stopping to think about what a terrible thing truth can sometimes be. “There was no accident. He took the Bergmann Tests and scored high enough to be considered. He took the preparatory training, and once it became clear that he had something of the innate ability needed, he gambled on success and had his hands amputated. God, I’d trade mine if—”
Ella stared at Dr. Chang in absolute horror, her mouth working soundlessly at the word amputated. She lurched back clumsily, her eyes searching out Marchey. She took one terror-filled, horrified look, then turned and fled. The door swung shut behind her, closing on a scream.
Dr. Chang stared at the door and made as if to follow, but did not. She turned toward the table slowly, only to see another twisted fragment of metal worked free by a spectral hand.
“Dear God,” she whispered, watching. She took a step closer, then another. She never voiced the name of whom she was praying for.
Oblivious and unmoved, Marchey worked on.
Marchey seemed embarrassed as he reattached his silver arms under Dr. Chang’s awestruck gaze. He did not ask where Ella had gone.
Some subconscious, then-volitionless part of his mind had registered all that had happened. Ella’s absense left a dark hollow space in his chest, a space that would soon fill with something worse than that gaping emptiness. Time would see to that.
He sighed. “I don’t think that there will be anything worse than a small memory loss—I was able to repair most of the damage. You know the tests to run.” His tone was as mechanical as his silver hands. He was unwilling to look up and meet Dr. Chang’s eyes.
She nodded soberly. “You saved her life. You healed her face, too.” Her voice throbbed with awe.
She had seen the bandages come away from Shei’s face by themselves, revealing the lacerated, hastily sutured flesh beneath. She had seen chipped bone replace itself and damaged veins snake together and reknit. She had seen a damaged eye become whole again, had seen subcutaneous tissues move like hot wax, flattening, filling, and sealing. She had seen lacerated—shredded, and burned skin reshape and return to its earlier state as water stills after a disturbing hand is withdrawn. At the end of it Shei’s face showed nothing of the gross insult it had suffered.
Dr. Chang had witnessed something that seemed to go beyond mere medicine into the realm of God’s miracles. She did not seem to be able to keep herself from maintaining a careful distance from Marchey. He sensed this, had been expecting it since he had seen the cross the woman wore, and did not press her. He had been there before, been there many times. It was just one source of his despair.
He shrugged uncomfortably, glancing at the peaceful, now-unblemished face of Shei Sinclair. A life for a love. May she live long.
“She’s very beautiful. Plastic surgery would have left her scarred and there was no reason to let her be disfigured.
She will probably be out for another hour, then wake up almost good as new—though I’d test her hearing. I’m—uh—glad I was here to help.” He looked away, his head hanging and eyes downcast, unwilling to try to meet his colleague’s eyes. Had he tried she would have flinched away.
Fear, revulsion, blind hatred, or—worst of all—a terrible theistic awe; it was always one of these or a mixture of them in the faces of the medical people he worked with. Always.
Somehow that was never mentioned in the medical journals. Neither was the relief of those same people when he moved on. There was never an invitation to stay. He had not yet become completely numbed to that.
And now Ella was gone. He hoped that he would be able to find a bottle big enough to crawl into until he dragged himself into a sleep that would be merciful only if it were dreamless.
Marchey shrugged again, pulling on his gloves. He would not be able to bear being stared at right now.
“I guess that’s about it.” He cast a last, longing glance at the child whose life he had saved, wishing he could stay until she came around. But it was better if he left. Bitter experience had taught him that and taught him well. Some memory of his invasions would remain inside her, and if she woke and saw him she would begin to scream and scream. Several patients had nearly been lost before that lesson was learned.
Dr. Chang took a step closer to him, moving as if he were some beast she feared. “Thank you . . . Doctor.” She almost met his eyes. “I-I’m sorry,” she blurted, her face filled with shame.
“So am I,” he answered heavily. “So am I.”
He left quietly, his steps slow and plodding, his broad shoulders slumped in one more triumph, one more defeat; one more life saved, one step further away from life.
The last shuttle back to the inbound supply ship left a week later. Marchey boarded silently, never looking back. There was no one to see him off.
Ella had made no attempt to contact him. Though he had been tempted to try to reach her that he might somehow heal the rift between them, he had not given in to the temptation. Some things were beyond his healing powers and would ever remain so.
Dr. Chang had sent two messages telling of Shei’s condition. Her only token of her brush with death was a lingering hearing impairment that was already fading, and nightmares of a handless monster looming over her. The messages were very formal and quietly apologetic. Just before leaving for the shuttle he had composed and sent a reply. It read:
DEAR DR. CHANG: I AM GLAD THAT THE CHILD IS WELL AND WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU ARE BLAMELESS. WHAT HAPPENED WAS PROBABLY INEVITABLE, AND AT LEAST A GOOD CAUSE WAS SERVED. BUT PLEASE BE CAREFUL OF WHAT YOU WOULD
GIVE UP OR ENVY. A DOCTOR MUST MINISTER TO PEOPLE AS WELL AS JUST THEIR BODIES, AND FOR ALL THAT I HAVE SEEMINGLY GAINED, I HAVE LOST EVEN MORE. I HAVE LOST THAT PRECIOUS CONNECTION WHICH MADE ME WHAT I WAS—AND MADE ME GOOD AT IT. I AM NOW FAR LESS A DOCTOR THAN I WAS BEFORE. I HEARD WHAT YOU SAID, AND YOU HAVE IT BACKWARDS. I AM THE MERE MECHANIC NOW.—MARCHEY.
He settled back into his seat, the red edges of a headache beginning to hammer at his temples. He was sorting through his beltpouch for one of the soporifics that he had become increasingly dependant upon when the shuttle’s steward approached him carrying a large, foil-wrapped package.
“Dr. Machey?” He nodded in acknowlegement.
“I was told to see that this package got to you.” The steward handed it over. The package was quite heavy.
“Thanks.” The steward mumbled a hasty “You’re welcome,” then sidled away. He had already heard the story of Ella Prime, Dr. Marchey, Dr. Chang, and the healing of Shei Sinclair. Nearly everyone on Ixion had. The romance had become something even more interesting.
Marchey put the package on the seat beside him, then picked it up again, unable to contain his curiousity. The foil came away under his silver fingers. He opened the box.
His breath caught in his throat and his eyes grew wide. It was a bisque-fired clay sculpture by Ella. The piece was exquisitely wrought and powerful; eloquent proof that her fame and wealth were more than well-deserved.
It portrayed two sculptors who had begun work on a single piece, two lovers embracing. But one sculptor stood helplessly by, staring up at the unfinished lovers, his face contorted by grief. He held the truncated stumps of his arms up toward the lovers as if in supplication. His arms lay lost at his feet.
The other sculptor, a woman, huddled on the ground near him, her tools scattered and forgotten, her averted face a torment of frustration and shame. Her face was turned away from fellow sculptor and work alike.
The two lovers were rough-hewn and unfinished, yet they were unmistakably Marchey and Ella. So were the sculptors.
Marchey stared at it for a very long time, tears streaming down his face. When the acceleration warning sounded, he belted the piece into the seat beside him, then turned away with something like sorrow and something like relief. She understood. Not that it could help, or change anything, but she understood.
One of his silver hands touched the pin he wore over his heart; silver on silver, metal on metal.
The final warning sounded. The mirror-bright silver hands fell to his lap in what might have been an attitude of prayer and the shuttle dropped back into the vast lonesome night, away from Ixion Station.
Brightflash silver, catching the light.
The silver metal pin shaped so; two hands, crossed at the wrists, arms ending just before the elbows, fingers spread wide.
Some say that the palms and fingers are turned inward to protect the heart they cover. Some say that they are turned outward to connect that same heart with the world. They may both be right.
Only those wearing the pin can tell the truth of it.
But no one asks. They turn their faces away, asking only to be healed.
ROADSIDE RESCUE
Pat Cadigan
Beware of generous little aliens with big cars and helpful chauffeurs
Barely fifteen minutes after he’d called Area Traffic Surveillance, Etan Carrera saw the big limousine transport coming toward him. He watched it with mild interest from his smaller and temporarily disabled vehicle. Some media celebrity or an alien—more likely an alien. All aliens seemed enamored with things like limos and private SSTs, even after all these years. In any case, Etan fully expected to see the transport pass without even slowing, the navigator (not driver—limos drove themselves) hardly glancing his way, leaving him alone again in the rolling, green, empty countryside.
But the transport did slow and then stopped, cramming itself into the breakdown lane across the road. The door slid up, and the navigator jumped out, smiling as he came over to Etan. Etan blinked at the dark, full-dress uniform. People who worked for aliens had to do some odd things, he thought, and for some reason put his hand on the window control as though he were going to roll it up.
“Afternoon, sir,” said the navigator, bending a little from the waist.
“Hi,” Etan said.
“Trouble with your vehicle?”
“Nothing too serious, I hope. I’ve called Surveillance, and they say they’ll be out to pick me up in two hours at most.”
“That’s a long time to wait.” The navigator’s smile widened. He was very attractive, holo-star kind of handsome. People who work for aliens, Etan thought. “Perhaps you’d care to wait in my employer’s transport. For that matter, I can probably repair your vehicle, which will save you time and money. Roadside rescue fees are exorbitant.”
“That’s very kind,” Etan said, “But I have called, and I don’t want to impose—”
“It was my employer’s idea to stop, sir. I agreed, of course. My employer is quite fond of people. In fact, my employer loves people. And I’m sure you would be rewarded in some way.”
“Hey, now, I’m not asking for anything—”
“My employer is a most generous entity,” said the navigator, looking down briefly. “I’ll get my tool kit.” He was on his way back across the road before Etan could object.
Ten minutes later the navigator closed the power plant housing of Etan’s vehicle and came around to the window again, still looking formal and unruffled. “Try it now, sir.”
Etan inserted his key card into the dash console and shifted the control near the steering module. The vehicle hummed to life. “Well, now,” he said. “You fixed it.”
That smile again. “Occasionally the connections to the motherboard are improperly fitted. Contaminants get in, throw off the fuel mixing, and the whole plant shuts down.”
“Oh,” Etan said, feeling stupid, incompetent, and worst of all, obligated.
“You won’t be needing rescue now, sir.”
“Well. I should call and tell them.” Etan reached reluctantly for the console phone.
“You could call from the limo, sir. And if you’d care for a little refreshment –” The navigator opened his door for him.
Etan gave up. “Oh, sure, sure. This is all very nice of you and your, uh, employer.” What the hell, he thought, getting out and following the navigator across the road. If it meant that much to the alien, he’d give the alien a thrill.
“We both appreciate this. My employer and I.”
Etan smiled, bracing himself as the door to the passenger compartment of the limo slid back. Whatever awkward greeting he might have made died in his throat. There was no one inside, no one and nothing.
“Just go ahead and get in, sir.”
“But, uh—”
“My employer is in there. Somewhere.” Smile. “You’ll find the phone by the refrigerator. Or shall I call Surveillance for you?”
“No, I’ll do it. Uh, thanks.” Etan climbed in and sat down on the silvery gray cushion. The door slid partially shut, and a moment later Etan heard the navigator moving around up front. Somewhere a blower went on, puffing cool, humid air at his face. He sat back tentatively. Luxury surroundings—refrigerator, bar, video, sound system. God knew what use the alien found for any of it. Hospitality. It probably wouldn’t help. He and the alien would no doubt end up staring at each other with nothing to say, feeling freakish.
He was on the verge of getting up and leaving when the navigator slipped through the door. It shut silently as he sat down across from Etan and unbuttoned his uniform tunic.
“Cold drink, sir?”
Etan shook his head.
“Hope you don’t mind if I do.” There was a different quality to the smile now. He took an amber bottle from the refrigerator and flipped the cap off, aiming it at a disposal in the door. Etan could smell alcohol and heavy spicing. “Possibly the best spiced ale in the world, if not the known universe,” the navigator said. “Sure yo
u won’t have any?”
“Yes, I—” Etan sat forward a little. “I really think I ought to say thank you and get on. I don’t want to hold you up –
“My employer chooses where he wants to be when he wants to be there.” The navigator took another drink from the bottle. “At least, I’m calling it a he. Hard to tell with a lot of these species.” He ran his fingers through his dark hair; one long strand fell and brushed his temple. Etan caught a glimpse of a shaved spot near his temple. Implant; so the navigator would be mentally attuned to his employer, making speech or translation unnecessary. “With some, gender’s irrelevant. Some have more than one gender. Some have more than two. Imagine taking that trip, if you can.” He tilted the bottle up again. “But my present employer, here, asking him what gender he is, it’s like asking you what flavor you are.”
Etan took a breath. One more minute; then he’d ask this goof to let him out. “Not much you can do, I guess, except to arbitrarily assign them sex and –”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Pardon?”
The navigator killed the bottle. “Didn’t say anything about sex.”
“Oh.” Etan paused, wondering exactly how crazy the navigator might be and how he’d managed to hide it well enough to be hired for an alien. “Sorry. I thought you said that some of them lacked sex—”
“Never said anything about sex. Gender, I said. Nothing about sex.”
“But the terms can be interchangeable.”
“Certainly not.” The navigator tossed the bottle into the disposal and took another from the refrigerator. “Maybe on this planet but not out there.”
Etan shrugged. “I assumed you’d need gender for sex, so if a species lacked gender, they’d uh . . .” he trailed off, making a firm resolution to shut up until he could escape. Suddenly he was very glad he hadn’t canceled his rescue after all.