by M. A. Foster
Fellirian laughed, deep down in her throat. “True, what you say . . . but I have a trick in mind, and for it to work, she will have to be self-propelled and ambulatory.”
Morlenden continued, to Krisshantem, “So, then. You who have instructed us in the way of restoring forgetties; are you sure we won’t get back any of the original Maellenkleth?”
Kris looked idly about himself, at the chipped and cracked facades, the blind windows, which were few enough, and those filmed over with dust and grime and the streaking added by the rain. He said, coldly, impersonally, “Completely sure. Nothing. Well, there may be fragments left, indeed, we can expect to see some, observing her over a few months, until the new persona digests and integrates them. Little odd pieces, flashes of partial mnemons, but the memory and the old persona? It’s all gone. I have heard that forgetties say odd things, hints of the old, but they themselves don’t know why they say them, and in time they stop.”
Fellirian reached to the boy as they walked, touching him with an affectionate gesture, half a mother’s reassurance, and half the consolation of one who has shared as co-equal. Krisshantem was a bit in both worlds. She said, “So this is doubly cruel, that she will most surely be a forgetty. You lose her, even as we are engaged in recovering her. What we will get back will be a stranger.”
Kris responded, “That is how it will be, how it must be.”
“I am sorry, sincerely sorry that we had to drag you into this. There were others, after all. . . .”
“It is no matter to regret, Fellirian Deren. I would not have it otherwise; it repays much of what she gave freely to me. Have no fears: I will do it right, lead you well. That sorrow has already been struck, and I do not moon over echoes.”
And now they had made their last left turn, and stopped, looking about uncertainly. At last they discovered a small, grimy sign affixed to the side of an inconspicuous building, which read, 8905. After further searching about for a few more moments, they located the small and insignificant entry, passed through it, not without some misgivings, and were inside. And what had Vance told them? In eight-nine-oh-five, do not sightsee or evidence any idle curiosity; ignore that which you see that is not specifically shown to you. Eight-nine-oh-five can be a house of lamentations for those who look too closely into it. Inside, all seemed innocuous. A preoccupied, diffident reception clerk at a disorderly desk piled high with forms and worksheets directed them to a small anteroom, where they waited, sitting in plastic chairs that someone had, some time in a remote past, mistakenly assumed would be form-fitting.
After a wait of unknown duration, for it seemed that time was curiously exempted inside this building, a single human appeared, dressed in a plain, very dark blue tunic and pants, unadorned except for an odd heraldic device affixed to the upper left chest. This one was very dark in complexion, imposing and dignified, reticent yet vital, all at the same time. His face was immobile, but of a certainty not vacant. Fellirian, as she saw him, made an involuntary gesture, nervously brushing back her fine brown hair at her right temple; a nervous gesture. Morlenden had seen her make that gesture only rarely, and only when she met someone of considerably more takh42 than herself. He became very alert. This was the one.
The man spoke. “I am Hando Errat. I have been assigned to assist you, expedite any forms that may have to be completed. You are the persons assigned to take custody of the girl?”
Fellirian answered, rising to her feet, “Yes. We hold such a commission from her family. We are the keepers of the census records, the nearest thing we have to a civil service.” Morlenden saw, as she stood to address Errat, how large the human really was: he topped Fellirian by almost two heads.
The immobile face did not change expression, but intoned solemnly, “There will be a small difficulty. She was apparently responsible for the destruction of some valuable instruments.”
“We were not aware of this,” she answered, carefully neutral.
“There will be no requirement for punishment. Compensation will be required for the value of the items. She has also received some custodial care in the interim since that time.”
Fellirian said, “We have brought no currency for such a contingency. But in any matter concerning fees, I am certain that any agreement I sign will be honored in full by our sponsors. My word as head of Braid.”
Morlenden asked, “What were the instruments?”
“Implements of no great account. A curious case; we have been unable to comprehend exactly why she did that. I believe the charges and surcharges will come to something near a thousand valuta,” said Errat, disappointment showing subtly in the set of his face, his posture, the tone of his deep voice. Fellirian read him, and saw, relaxing herself, that he had weighed them and found them innocent. Controller-Interrogator, she thought, finally deciphering the badge. He would obviously have been box-trained to read minutiae, derive volumes from the most careful evasions. And he paused, as if weighing imponderables, unseen quantities.
Then, “What will you do with the girl? She is now in a condition that I would term inoperable. I have been advised that it occurred under unknown causes.”
Fellirian answered, “It is one of our liabilities. We were aware of the possibility of such an occurrence. We intend to return her to the community of the people, where there are methods available to restore her . . . although not as before. She can never be as before; she has lost her entire memory.”
“Amnesia?”
“No, something more. It’s gone, that’s all. We will rebuild a new personality in her, enough for her to function.”
“You have such abilities?”
“She will relearn, after the manner of a newborn. All we do in accelerate the process somewhat. Personality and memory are timeless, dimensionless, a wave front. We will start another wave.”
“You will reprogram her?” Errat was dangerously perceptive.
“In a word.”
“We were not aware of this quality in the people.”
“It is neither short nor easy—not on her, not on they who will build the new one.”
“How is this done, may I ask?”
“By a process that has no analog in your people, and is useless to you; and of course, I would demean my honor by divulging what is in essence a highly religious ceremony.”
There was an uncanny silence while Errat digested the import of what Fellirian had said. He felt that the small, diminutive New Human female was telling the truth, or at least most of it. Now, reprogramming! That was news! But it was also a distraction, for they would not offer it so readily otherwise. And it was a tacit admission that whatever the girl had been, whatever she had known, it was gone, for them as well. They wanted her back for religious reasons! Culture! What rubbish! But in the heart of Errat’s certainty, he felt a tiny quiver of apprehension. There was perhaps a clever illusion here, but he couldn’t quite grasp it; something just beyond. Well, she had said it would be so, but even so, instructions were clear enough, as was his own plan. Let them have the room and see what they do with it. They are but simpletons pretending to be sophisticated, knowledgeable. But under it all, still just that: simpletons. And another voice said, Wrong, wrong. What was it about this?
And he said, “Certainly, indeed. I would not dream of violating a trust. We have such as well as you. But, of course, any insights you could pass along, through the Institute, would be most gratefully appreciated by us all. Do you have contacts there? No doubt they would like to apply this kind of thinking to some of the problems we are facing. We have a considerable problem in this area . . . people mislay and forget things, drift off into irresponsible reveries, start spending time daydreaming.”
Fellirian shook her head. “Speaking with due attention to your goal, I see little we could add to help you. What we do does not aid memory, increase the span of attention, or energize people whose wits are slipping. But I will mention your needs to my friends in their departments; I am sure that they will be able to offer you some insight
s which will be useful to you.” Standoff! Errat had been trying to lead Fellirian by negatives; let her deny enough areas of applicability, and he could find the area and fill it in himself, with a little cleverness. But she had simply fed back his own categories to him, and then shut down the conversation.
Errat nodded. He understood what had been said, as well as that which had been implied. He stood back a bit and motioned to them to follow. “Well, come along, then. We can release the girl if you’re ready for her.”
They followed Errat out of the anteroom, and Morlenden watched closely, direct vision averted, warily, as they proceeded by a most roundabout way through the viscera of Building 8905; there were corridors with poor lighting and many abrupt turns; short, dingy stairwells, lifts, walkways, ramps. To his eye, 8905 was fey, alien, a structure embodying concepts they hardly knew, much less cultivated. Its strangeness, he felt instinctively, possessed a complexity that concealed its essence from even its regular users. And he could not escape the suspicion, arising just as instinctively, that the way they were going was not the main route through the building, but was a back way, a janitor’s route, or a watchman’s patrolway. Or perhaps a secret route, known only to initiates. Errat did not hesitate: he seemed to know exactly where he was going. Along the way they met few people; all, to a person, minded their own business and did not look, beyond a cursory inspection. And on they walked. Sometimes up, sometimes down. The light from the frosted windows remained exactly the same, no matter how they found the windows, and the light did not change in quality. Morlenden knew that they had walked farther than the outside of the building could have contained. That, and the unchanging light, convinced him that wherever they were, it was not inside the building they had seen from the outside. A cold chill passed rapidly through him. This whole neighborhood must be eight-nine-oh-five, passaged like an anthill with connecting tunnels and over-walks, and every single one of the windows is blind to the outside, its lighting controlled artificially. What shows on the outside is just a front, and located on a side alley as well.
He glanced covertly at the others who had come with him; Fellirian, his insibling and co-spouse. She was not such a stranger to the ways of the forerunners, and in this place, seemed to be only slightly more alert than usual. It was obvious they were going to give them the girl and let them go. What else they might have in mind, she felt they could handle. But along her face, around her large, expressive eyes, around the corners of her broad, full mouth, there were also infinitesimal little lines and tics revealing her concern for the condition in which they could expect to find Maellenkleth. Or, rather, she who had once been Maellenkleth. No more. She who was yet to be in this body they would call Schaeszendur, for though the body be the same, the persona would be different.
On the other hand, Krisshantem was tense and wary as a wild animal confronting the zoo for the first time. Every sense was alert, every perception was peaked at maximum receptivity. Morlenden had learned to trust the boy’s perceptions, and he recalled that during their journey to this place, this anthill warren, he had not been so nervous, but moody and belligerent. Therefore he sensed something about this Building 8905. What was it he had seen, sensed, or inferred in these bland, sometimes cracked and stained walls, the substantial, heavy doors, the rare figures they passed who averted their eyes, and the silences? The silences? These, Morlenden knew, were not the quiet of absences, but a pressure of closeness, things carefully hidden.
At last they came to a section that revealed, in its better lighting, and a sharp, astringent scent in the air, it was devoted to medical purposes. In the odor-complex, there were also undertones of many other substances, mostly organic, some natural, some highly artificial. He could identify none of them. They passed through a brightly lit area that seemed to be the source of most of the odors, a laboratory, and onward into a suite of wards and rooms. Errat spoke briefly to an attendant who seemingly materialized out of thin air, and they entered one of the rooms. There was an inhabitant, tied lightly in a hospital bed. It was Maellenkleth.
To Morlenden, who could remember the mnemo-holistic image impressed into him by Krisshantem, the girl looked much the same in overall configuration and shape, although she was a bit thinner than he recalled in the image. But the expression in her face was neither that of a living adolescent, nor of a person who had withdrawn within, but rather like an abandoned newborn: vacant, blank, uncoordinated. It was easy to see, but that difference said everything, even as one almost overlooked it and its simplicity. The personality, the persona, the undefinable, unboundable person that inhabited this body and acted in it was now gone, as if it had never been. This was not, strictly speaking, Maellenkleth, but an empty shell that had once responded to that name.
Morlenden had never seen a forgetty close before in his life; and if it had not occurred to him before, it was brought home now to him with redoubled force that something had indeed been very, very wrong, to lead to this result. He did not know yet the secret Maellenkleth had been protecting with her life, but knowing as much as he did, he was sure that this was no accident. Intuition: this did not happen. It was caused.
He watched Krisshantem closely. This time, above all others, must not be the one ruled by the power of Water. The emotions. Kris must not reveal to any watcher that he had any relationship with her whatsoever. What would he do? The boy did nothing. Krisshantem looked closely at the girl, dispassionately examining her as if she were just another specimen of these labs, and then turned back to Morlenden. The expression on the boy’s face told Morlenden what he wanted to see: This person is not the girl I knew, loved, slept with, made dhainaz with, uncounted sweet moments we hoped would never end. Yes, it was she, once, but this one is a stranger. It deserves care and respect, this strange ksensrithman girl, but little more than that. And of revenges we shall speak later, when we know more. Much more. It was a look of logic and duty. No more, save deep down under it there simmered fire.
Both Fellirian and Morlenden suddenly felt all their careful plans empty into a stagnant sump, dissipating. What could they do with her? She was helpless, and they could not in any way recover her here. Madness! They were at a loss for the proper action. Should they just go to the bed, and unceremoniously pick her up and cart her off, like a sack of potatoes? What could she do, or not do?
Errat, sensing their quandary, politely suggested, “To us, she appears to have no more responses than the average newborn, in fact, somewhat less than the human standard we have compared her with. She doesn’t seem to learn as fast. At the first, it was necessary to restrain her, as she thrashed about uncontrollably; later she did gain enough control to avoid abrupt movements. Now she is generally quiet. She cannot turn herself over, nor sit up, nor care for herself in any way. It is a most odd condition. Is this a peculiar ler form of psychosis?”
Fellirian answered, “Most definitely not a psychosis.”
“We have even had to exercise her, but I am sure there has been considerable muscular atrophy. . . . What will you do with her?”
Morlenden volunteered, “We’ll have to carry her back to our home. We’ll need something to carry her in. I suppose a . . . stretcher. Excuse me, but my Modanglic is strictly school level, and I don’t know the exact terms.”
Errat answered smoothly, “Yes. Of course. One can be obtained.” He turned to an orderly, who exchanged words with him and then vanished. Errat made an impatient gesture. “Yes, easily. My man has gone for it even now. But even with the three of you, you’ll need help.”
Fellirian said, “We can manage.”
Errat seemed to become fractionally more insistent. “It will be no trouble at all. In fact, the two who would accompany you are the very ones who have been working with her in therapy. They are both strong of arm and knowledgeable of mind.”
“Oh, very well. We can certainly use the help,” she said. As she spoke, Morlenden had the thought that he could indeed be certain that the orderlies would be strong and knowledgeable. Indeed.
And a more accurate description of their role would be “agents.”
Errat left the room for a moment. Fellirian started to speak, but Kris motioned her to silence. And shortly afterward, he returned with two large, muscular men, dressed in white uniforms, and they were pushing a low, wheeled stretcher. The two went to work immediately, gathering Maellenkleth and placing her into the apparatus. They did not appear all that expert in their work.
Errat said, as the attendants were completing their preparations, “We assumed that you would wish to return her to your own environment without further delay; the trip already has been a long one. So arrangements have been made; we have procured tickets on the southbound evening tube. If you leave now you can make it.” He added, as an afterthought. “We had to settle for a local, so there will be more stops, but at the least, there will be private compartments.”
Fellirian watched the two men bundling Maellenkleth clumsily onto the stretcher, and said, “Very well. We accept.” She watched the two orderlies closely. “And what about the forms you mentioned earlier, the damage claims, the surcharges?”
Oddly, the question seemed to bother Errat no little bit. He looked about, almost apprehensively, saying quickly, “No problem there, at all. We can paperwhip it here and send the rest to the Institute later, through Vance. Yes, the forms will be routed through the Office of the Director. You may sign them at your leisure.”
Fellirian nodded agreement, otherwise making no motion, no sign, but Morlenden saw a quick flicker in her gray eyes, a tiny brightening of expression, and then it was gone. Errat had not seen it, he had been turned away. And how would Errat have known to send it to Vance? He should know that paperwork routing and deliveries were the bane of civilization, and that one did not send valuable papers blind. Had they been followed all the way from the reservation, from before, even? How much did these people see?