by Eric Brown
Hovarth said to Maatje, “I just came to say that dinner is ready. Matt,” he continued, “I’ll do my best to explain the situation as we eat.”
They dined in a sunlit room overlooking the marassa vines and the valley where the town of Kallaniki nestled. The table was set for four, Hendrick noted, though there was no sign of the Zuterainian. He had little appetite, and nibbled at a salad and a tiropeta—a feta and spinach pastry he recalled sampling once on holiday in Greece with Maatje. She and Hovarth drank local white wine, but Hendrick downed a succession of beers.
After a round of uneasy smalltalk about the beauty of Tourmaline and the many sights on offer, Hendrick indicated the vacant place with his fork. “The alien isn’t blessing us with his presence?”
Hovarth said, “Vereen is resting, Matt—meditating. He needs to be balanced, as he says, before he begins the process.”
Hendrick took a long swallow of beer. “Which is?”
Hovarth set his wine glass down precisely on the table, adjusted it minimally, then said, “What do you know about the Zuterainians, Matt?”
“Nothing. Not a thing. When I found out about . . .” He waved. “I tried to access information about them on the Net. But for some reason . . .”
“They’re a very insular race. They don’t normally leave their homeworld. Since they were discovered, a little over a century ago, we and other races go to them.”
“Go to them? Why?”
“It was rumoured, decades ago, that the Zuterainians—or specific individuals amongst them—possessed spectacular healing powers. This began a trickle, at first, of terminally ill people travelling to their homeworld—and it wasn’t an easy journey. Zuterain does not have a Telemass station. The nearest is two light years away on a human colony world. Those seeking aid had to Telemass first to the colony and then take a slow ship to Zuterain, a process taking a year or more. Many individuals never made it. Lately, Zuterainian Effectuators, as they are known, have made their services available off-planet.”
“But why the information blackout on the Net?”
Hovarth hesitated, glanced at Maatje, then said, “I’ll admit that the Terran authorities have became . . . let’s say suspicious of some Zuterainian activity.”
Hendrick stared at the man. “Suspicious?”
“You know how the modern world doesn’t like to admit to anything that is beyond its understanding, Matt.”
“I know that science has no room for the claims of charlatans and shamans,” Hendrick countered. “Just what were these ‘suspicions’?”
“Merely that several individuals, all human, died while undergoing procedures at the hands of Zuterainian Effectuators. But as I’m tired of pointing out, sick patients are always liable to succumb to their illnesses, at any time.”
“Surely the authorities wouldn’t have imposed the blackout without good reason?”
“I have looked into each and every case, Matt, and in my opinion the network authorities acted in haste.”
Hendrick took up his beer and drank. “So these alien Effectuators can heal the sick, the terminally ill? There’s just one difference in Sam’s case, as I’m sure you’ve noticed? My daughter is dead.”
Hovarth shrugged again, and Hendrick was beginning to dislike the gesture. “The Zuterainians have various levels of Effectuator, Matt. Some deal with the terminally ill, and those on the cusp of death—and others, Vereen being one, specialise in bringing the dead back to life.”
Hendrick felt a flush of anger. “Listen to yourself, Hovarth! You’re a doctor, a man of science. ‘Bring the dead back to life . . . ’?”
“Matt, I’ve read the case studies. I’ve talked to people, credible witnesses, who’ve seen it take place. In certain special conditions, when the subject has just died, an Effectuator can in many cases achieve reanimation.”
“And what makes you think it can do this in Sam’s case?” Hendrick found himself asking.
Maatje leaned forward and said, “Vereen has examined Sam. He’s read her case history. He’s familiar with what killed her, and he is confident . . .”
Hendrick stared at his ex-wife, about to question her credulity, but stopped himself. A tear trickled from her right eye and followed the line of her cheek before she backhanded it away.
Hovarth said, “Zuterainian Effectuators who work with the newly dead are known, on their homeworld, as soul-doctors.”
“Just what do they do?”
“That’s hard to say. Human science has no real tools with which to understand the process. They achieve what they term lhamsa with their subject—a kind of mental empathy—and effect a physical change in the very cell structure, metamorphosing the damaged tissue, the affected cells. Then they . . . reanimate their subject, kick-starting the moribund neural pathways—”
“But just how are they able to do this?” Hendrick protested.
Hovarth shrugged. “I must admit that I don’t understand the precise details,” he said. “But the fact is that they are successful in almost eighty per cent of cases.”
Hendrick shook his head. “I still think it sounds like shamanism. I’m sorry.” He looked from Maatje to Hovarth. “And is there any danger to Sam? I mean, she doesn’t have to be . . . unsuspended, I take it? Because if so, then that . . .”
Hovarth raised a placatory hand. “Vereen has assured us that he can bring about the desired outcome while Sam is in her current state.”
“So, Matt,” Maatje said, smiling across at him, “we have nothing to risk, have we, and everything to gain?”
He stared at her. “I wish I could share the luxury of your blind faith in the ee-tee witch-doctor,” he said.
“Oh, just listen to you!” Maatje spat, slamming down her wine glass. “So smug, so arrogant in your anthropocentric certainty! You really should listen to yourself, Matt! Listen to how superior you sound—and how frightened that your insular worldview might be shattered. I’m doing this for our daughter, you bastard!”
He was saved from replying—if he could have summoned a cogent response—by a sound from behind him. He turned to see the silver, slatted blinds moving slowly across the vast picture window like the curtain of some futuristic stage.
Hovarth said, “We programmed the house to follow our diurnal rhythms. It’s approaching night-time for us, and the house is closing down.”
As the sunlight was shut out, spotlights embedded in the ceiling came on.
Maatje stood hurriedly. “I’m turning in. We have a full day ahead of us.” Without glancing at him, she said, “Goodnight, Matt.”
“You said, earlier, that I could see Samantha.”
Maatje glanced across at Hovarth, who nodded and said, “You go to bed, darling. I’ll take Matt to the auditorium.”
Hendrick watched Maatje stride from the room. Hovarth murmured, “If you’d care to come this way.”
Hovarth led him from the dining room and along a corridor hung with paintings depicting various scenes from across Tourmaline. As they went, Hendrick discreetly checked his wrist-com; there was still no signal.
They arrived at a pair of timber doors and Hovarth eased them open and gestured for Hendrick to enter. He stepped inside slowly, his eyes adjusting to the half-light. The room was bare but for a table at the far end of the chamber situated before a long window, blinds drawn.
He approached the table and paused before the suspension pod. He reached out, tracing its sleek lines. He recalled the terrible days after Samantha’s death, when he and Maatje would visit the hospital, de-opaque the pod and stare at the perfection of their daughter.
Now he touched the panel at the foot of the pod and the jade-green surface of the stubby torpedo became transparent.
At his side, surprising him with his sensitivity, Hovarth murmured, “I’ll be waiting outside.” He was only half aware of the man as he withdrew silently.
Hendrick saw her hands first, tiny and perfect and clasped above her stomach. His breath coming unevenly, he moved his gaze to her face, swallowed, a
nd braced his arms against he surface of the pod.
His daughter was a vision of perfection, from the dome of her forehead to the curve of her snub nose, to the sculpted bow shape of her lips. Her blonde hair, with its naively straight fringe, fitted her head like a cap. He was flooded with memories of Samantha alive, the sound of her voice, her laughter; the way she taunted him cheekily and watched him from the corner of her eye; her habit of biting her bottom lip while reading. He felt the weight of her as she threw herself into his arms, the scent of her hair, the smell of her skin at bath time . . .
That line of Maatje’s earlier, about the joy of having children being the anticipation of their future, was taken from something he had said to her again and again after their daughter’s death. “When you have children,” he recalled saying, “you live the future vicariously through their potential; you are forever anticipating how they might turn out, what they will become, and envisioning sharing not only their triumphs but their everyday lives . . . And then something like this happens, and part of the grief is having that anticipated future, that promise, ripped away from you.”
He wondered at the course of his life had Samantha lived; he would still be with Maatje, perhaps, still working as a cop in Amsterdam. He would have been happy, he told himself, instead of . . .
Instead of what?
For five years he had lived for the moment he would regain possession of his dead daughter, and here it was . . .
And he was stunned by indecision.
He sensed a presence at his side, and Hovarth touched his shoulder. “Matt.”
He turned and smiled at the doctor, grateful for his solicitous presence. He opaqued the pod, watched his daughter disappear from sight, then turned and followed Hovarth from the room.
He gathered himself as they made their way along the corridor. He indicated his wrist-com. “There’s no signal. Is it just this house, or . . .”
Hovarth shook his head. “The region. We’re pretty remote, down here. Reception is patchy at best.”
They paused at the foot of the stairs. Hendrick made to climb, but Hovarth restrained him with a hand on his elbow. “Matt, don’t worry. Everything will work out okay. And don’t take what Maatje says to heart; she’s stressed, and you know she always speaks her mind.”
Hendrick said goodnight and climbed the stairs.
The room was hot and stuffy, the blinds drawn. He moved to the window and opened it a fraction, admitting a slight breeze. He undressed and lay on the bed. As he unfastened his wrist-com and was about to place it on the bedside table, he tried to get through to Mercury one more time. Still a connection was unavailable. He considered what Hovarth had said about the patchy connection, then wondered where Mercury might be and what she had read so far.
He considered his daughter, wondering what to do next.
Minutes later he was asleep.
He dreamed of Samantha, running to him after falling and bruising her knees. The feel of her in his arms was so real that he woke instantly and sat upright, overjoyed at the fact of her reanimation—only to be pole-axed by reality. He lay down, breathing hard, and slept again.
This time he dreamed of a strong woman in black, stroking his brow and reassuring him that everything would be fine . . .
He opened his eyes. Someone sat on the bed beside him, saying his name.
“Matt. Matt . . .”
He blinked at her shape, silhouetted against the faint glow of the blinds. He struggled upright. “How did you get in?”
She indicated the window, where the blinds stirred in a gentle breeze. “Climbed up,” she whispered, “and sneaked in.”
“I tried to contact—”
“I know. The Net is down around here. I suspect the Zuterainian has deactivated the connection.”
“Where have you been?” He gripped her hand, her presence reassuring.
“Sneaking around like a stage villain,” she said. “I read Maatje in her room just now.”
“And?”
She traced the line of his cheek in the half-light. He made out her smile. “She truly believes that what they are doing is for the best.”
“And what do you think?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I couldn’t get within range of the alien, and until I do . . .” She shook her head. “But . . . what do you think we should do now?”
He looked at her. “You’re not reading me?”
“No, not at the moment. You want me to?”
He nodded. “And then you can see the dilemma I’m facing.”
She whispered, “Abracadabra . . .” and closed her eyes.
His first involuntary thought was that she would read his suspicion, and only then his relief that she was near.
She opened her eyes and smiled. “I told you,” she whispered. “I understand your suspicion. I’m here to prove that you’re wrong, okay?”
He squeezed her hand.
She went on, “And I understand your dilemma. I think it’s brave of you, Matt. And it shows me again what a good man you are. That you’d set aside your lifelong rationalism in the light of the remote possibility, the outside chance, that Maatje and Hovarth might be onto something. Your love for Sam is something beautiful.”
“But what do you think? Am I letting my desire to see Sam cured override my sense? Christ, I came here wanting nothing more than to take her back, and now . . .”
She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. “I think I need to read this ee-tee, Matt. Do you know where he is?”
“Hovarth mentioned something about the east wing—that’s where the room containing the pod is. I could show you. Hovarth and Maatje have turned in. We should be able to move around freely.”
“Let’s go.”
He swung out of bed and dressed quickly, and then crossed to the door and followed Mercury from the room.
He led the way down the stairs, convinced that at any second Maatje would appear and confront him. In the hallway he took Mercury’s arm and indicated the corridor that ran to the east wing of the building. She nodded and followed him.
He was about to ask if she was picking anything up when she grasped his forearm and whispered, “Yes. The ee-tee. Vereen. It’s awake.”
“And?” Hendrick felt his pulse quicken.
“Dammit. I . . .” In the half-light, her features twisted. “I can’t make out much. The ee-tee . . . its thoughts . . .” She touched her temple, grimacing. “The pain is . . . Its thoughts are making no sense to me. I’d need more time to . . . Shit!”
“What?”
“It’s moving, coming this way.”
He took her hand and moved to the double door of the chamber where Samantha lay in the suspension pod. He eased the doors open and they stepped inside. He looked around the twilit room, furnished only with the table bearing the pod.
“Over here,” Mercury hissed, dragging him across the room. “Vereen’s heading this way.”
She hauled him around the suspension pod to the window, pulled aside the blinds and slipped behind them. Hendrick followed, quickly, just as the door opened and the alien entered.
He slowed his breathing, his pulse sounding so loud in his ears that he was certain the alien would hear. He hoped the Zuterainian possessed no enhanced sense which would detect their presence, and hard on this thought Mercury touched his elbow and mouthed, “They don’t,” in his ear.
Reassured, he applied his face to a gap in the slatted blinds and peered out.
He had no idea what he expected to see—no idea what form the alien might take—but it was certainly not the stick-thin, insect-like being that he watched now as it crossed the chamber and paused before the pod.
He felt an immediate rush of revulsion. He had never liked the sight of things like locusts and praying mantises, or their extraterrestrial equivalents. The odd thing was that it was not the Zuterainian’s resemblance to a mantis that set his hackles rising now, but its similarity to a human being. Had it been wholly alien and insectoid, t
hen he might have been able to accept it easier than this strange hybrid, this grotesque insect-man thing.The alien stood upright on two legs and wore a dark suit; its flesh was pale pink—like an albino human’s—but it was the great hairless head, the jutting mandible and bulging eyes, that revolted Hendrick.
He glanced at Mercury; her eyes were closed, her face a mask of pained concentration.
He returned his attention to the Zuterainian and watched as it stepped forward, reached out and placed its pink claws on the surface of the suspension pod. It bowed so that its domed forehead touched the pod, and remained like that, immobile.
Minutes elapsed. Hendrick was sweating.
At last Mercury touched his arm, moved her lips close to his ear, and breathed, barely audible, “It’s no good. It’s going to take longer than I thought. I need to . . .” she broke off, her face twisting in agony. “Christ . . .”
She sagged, and Hendrick thought she was about to pass out.
He took her weight as she sagged against him, and it was all he could do to hold her upright and stop her from falling against the blinds.
He turned carefully, holding Mercury with one arm, and slid his right hand around the window catch. He applied gentle pressure and pushed, and the window eased open. He looked back through the blinds; the alien was still bowed over Samantha’s suspension pod, unmoving.
He lifted a leg, careful not to move the blinds, and stepped over the sill, supporting Mercury as she slumped. His leading foot touched the ground, and he took the woman in both arms and hauled her through the window. Once outside, sweating with relief, he carried Mercury along the side of the villa and lowered her to the ground.
Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at him. She tried to struggle to her feet. “I need to . . .”
He restrained her. “You’re okay. Take it easy.”
“I need to get back there, read the alien. There’s something . . .”
He stared at her, his heart thumping. “Mercury?”
She shook her head, frowning as if attempting to recall the contents of a fading dream. “I don’t know. I was getting somewhere, working out how to read his thoughts. I need to get back and . . . there was something about Hovarth, his dealings with Vereen. I sensed it’s important.”