by S. J. Madill
He locked eyes with the woman, whose emotionless gaze went to his hand as he produced his credit chip. It was still set to the amount he'd given to the statue vendor, and he tapped it against the datapad on the counter. The round woman glanced at the chirping display, and her face broke into a thin, insincere smile. "Room one, please. First door on the left."
* * *
The examination room was an impersonal, sterile, stainless steel cube. It reeked of strong antiseptics and chlorine bleach. Glaring white lights shone down on the cold steel table, the reflection glinting off the green tile walls.
"Why am I so tired?" asked Heather. She sat on the edge of the table, her legs dangling over the side. Leaning forward, she rested her hands on her knees, staring at the floor. "And why is it so damned hot in here?"
Elan took her hat from her head, dropping it on the table next to her. Blonde waves tumbled out, oily with sweat. "I don't know," he said, though he wished he did. He knew next to nothing about human biology; how they survived at such high body temperatures was still a mystery to him.
Heather lifted her head to stare at him. "Are you going to keep that getup? Aren't you hot?"
Elan pushed the goggles up onto his forehead but left the face-covering cloth in place. "My coldsuit is still working," he said. "Mostly. Maybe I should lend it to you?"
She managed a thin smile. "I'd go and stretch it all out of shape. Give it bumps in strange places. It'd never fit right again." Puckering her lips, she exhaled forcefully. "I must have an infection or something."
He smiled in return, trying to think of something to say. Here he was, the engineered epitome of Palani wisdom and insight, without a clue what to do. He began to unwrap the bandages that covered his hands, revealing the chalk-white skin underneath.
"What are you doing?" asked Heather. "Someone could come in."
"They could," he replied, dropping the bandage cloth on the table. He placed his palms on the sides of Heather's neck, under her ears, wrapping his fingers around the back of her neck. Her skin was hot to the touch.
She let out a moan. "Oh god, yes. You're so cold. Thank you."
Elan nodded. It wasn't much, but if it gave her some comfort, it was easily done. He wished he could do more.
After a moment, she lifted her head up a little. "So, tell me… your trip to Earth. Was it worth it? What did you learn?"
"Worth it?" he blurted. Judging by the grin that crept onto her face, his expression must have given away his thoughts. "By the Divines, Heather. Yes. Very much worth it."
"You're cute," she said. "So, what have you learned?"
He thought about that for a moment. He hadn't had time for a calm analysis of the pros and cons, assessment and review. He just went with what came to mind, which struck him as a very human thing to do. "Well, humans have come a long way in the past millennium. What the Pentarch told me — about humanity's brutality and thuggishness — may once have been true, but not now. Not as much." He shrugged, noticing how the tiled reflections mimicked his movements. "There's a gap between rich and poor. The rich don't have the same stresses in their lives as the poor do. Life is different for people who are focused on their own survival, their own personal needs. It's the gap that's the problem," he said. "Not so different from anywhere else, I guess."
Heather reached up to her neck, and put her hands on top of his. "Tell me," she said, her voice calm and quiet. "Tell me why you studied our religions so much. You have something to do with Palani religion, don't you?"
He should have told her ages ago. It had never seemed like the right time; he'd always thought there would be a better moment. It was wrong of him not to have told her. "Yes," he said simply. "I was created as a prophet. A figurehead for the Palani religion. I was—"
"Created?" Heather's eyes were wide open, searching his.
"Yes. Created. In a laboratory, by geneticists. They spliced together DNA from Palani prophets of old." Sometimes he felt ashamed of the secret of his 'birth'. But he wasn't ashamed to tell this human woman whose hands were on his. "I told you I never met my parents. I didn't. All fifty-three of my 'parents' died a thousand or more years ago."
Heather began, very slowly, to shake her head. Her eyes never left his. "Elan," she whispered. "I am so sorry."
"Sorry?" That was not the response he expected.
"It's unfair," she said. "You didn't ask to be manufactured."
"No one asks to be born, Heather. We just are."
"You don't mind? You aren't angry?"
"No, not angry. A bit disappointed, I suppose. I represent desperation."
"Huh? How?"
In retrospect, he wasn't sure why he'd put off telling her. He felt increasingly safe sharing everything with her. "Heather, the Palani religion is about constant self-improvement. Of the self, and of the race. Constant striving for perfection. But," he said, his voice cracking, "we're failing. We've meddled too much, trying to force improvement on ourselves. Our DNA is a mess, and we're going extinct." Elan tried to force a grin as tears formed in his eyes, but the grin came out lopsided. "They created me to convince the masses there was still hope. But there isn't. It isn't going to work. We're going to die out."
Heather looked like she wasn't sure whether to cry or laugh. "Wow. A prophet who's lost his faith."
"Some Palani want to punish humanity for its success, to show our people we're still strong and powerful. I came to Earth because I wanted to understand. And, maybe, to find something new to believe."
"Did you?"
Elan heard a sound in the hall outside, and glanced at the closed door before turning his eyes back to Heather. "Most Earth religions are about holding on to ancient values, in the hope that some better world will come as a result. There is kindness and beauty in the faiths of your world, but so few people live the same values they worship. So," he shrugged, "yes and no."
"What will we do when—"
The examination room door slammed open as a white-coated woman burst in. She was tall and thin, with dark brown skin and curly black hair. There were datapads and other devices in her pockets, and she barely glanced at the two of them as she turned toward the wall, pumping disinfectant gel into her hands.
"Now then," she said, turning around with both hands covered in gel, "what can I…" Her eyes went straight to Elan's bone-white hands, then to his eyes. She paused a moment, rubbing her hands together. "Well well," she said, one eyebrow rising upward. "Something new. Hello, young Palani man."
"Doctor," said Elan, haltingly. He backed away, gesturing toward Heather. "It's my, er…"
"It's me," said Heather, rolling her eyes at Elan before turning to face the doctor. "I feel like crap. Too tired, too hot, sometimes too cold. I'm a mess."
"Huh," said the doctor, pulling a datapad from her coat pocket as she approached the table. "How long have you felt like this?" she asked, poking at the display. "Where did you come from?"
"About a week. I…we…got here yesterday. From Earth."
The doctor glanced sideways at Elan. "Earth, you say? A Palani came here from Earth? Were you the one on the news?" She pulled out a second datapad-like device, and held it up next to Heather. "In the event of a contagion, I need to know how you got here."
"We were stowaways," offered Elan. "I don't know the ship's name."
The doctor nodded, slowly passing the handheld scanner up and down Heather's body, watching the datapad in her other hand. She paused, holding the tip of the scanner against Heather's bare wrist. "I'm going to take a blood sample. Is that okay?"
"Sure," said Heather.
Elan heard the scanner chirp. After a few moments, columns of additional data began to appear on the doctor's datapad. She read through it while Heather sat still, looking increasingly fatigued.
"Well, there you go," said the doctor, putting the scanner down. "Huh." Slender brown fingers tapped at the datapad.
"Ma'am?" asked Heather.
"Miss," said the doctor, leaning one hip against the steel tab
le, "you're pregnant. About two weeks along, maybe three."
Elan saw Heather's jaw drop open before he realised his had too. Their eyes met, and he found himself unable to form words. Heather found her voice first. "No," she stammered, "no, that's not right."
"It's very interesting," said the doctor. She turned the datapad around to show Heather, who stared, not comprehending, at the display. "The DNA sequence suggests it's half human," said the doctor, "and half Palani."
"I thought…" said Heather, stumbling over her words, "…no, no. It can't be. I had my contraceptive shot." She was almost pleading. "I did. I know I did."
The doctor raised one eyebrow. "Contraception is a yearly shot. When did you get it?"
Heather was sitting up straighter, her eyes looking toward the ceiling. Her lips moved, forming silent words as she thought. "April," she whispered, starting to deflate. "April. Last year."
"Uh huh," said the doctor, shaking her head. "Miss, that's almost a year and a half."
"But I wasn't seeing anyone," protested Heather. "I thought I could put it off and it would still be good…" She looked at Elan. "…I assumed it wasn't possible, not with..."
Looking into Heather's frightened eyes, Elan finally found his voice. "I was specifically told it was impossible." He felt fear forming in his stomach. Now Heather's health was at risk. This was all his fault; all because he'd left the Temple, acting on a selfish impulse.
"You're both right," said the doctor. She gave a hint of a sympathetic smile. "It is impossible. You're different species. But somehow you conceived, which is a Nobel Prize waiting to happen. Pardon me for being blunt," she looked meaningfully from Heather to Elan and back, "but there's no way it'll go to term. You'll miscarry. Soon."
"What?" shrieked Heather. She was half-turned to face the doctor, her hands clutching at Elan's arms. He'd never heard such despair in her — or anyone's — voice before. "No!" she cried. "Why?"
"Sweetie," said the doctor, her voice soothing, "you feel like crap because your reproductive system and your immune system are at war with each other. There's only one way this can end. I'm sorry."
"Wait," said Elan. He held Heather's shoulders; she had begun to rock back and forth, pain in her tear-filled eyes as she clung to him with trembling hands. "Wait," he repeated. "We're going to Palani Yaal La. They can help."
"Sweetie," said the doctor, looking at him. "I'm so sorry, I know this is difficult for you both. But it's only two or three weeks; it's not even a fetus yet. Can Palani doctors really develop it and bring it to term? Outside the womb?" She shook her head.
"I don't know," said Elan. He knew they'd tried, and failed. They hadn't risked it with his batch, implanting them in surrogates until they could be safely removed to incubators. But even that had only worked the once. Him.
The doctor returned to the counter to apply more gel to her hands. "I'm sorry, kids. I really am. But it's not going to work, and there's nothing I can do. If you're still here when it happens, come back and I'll take care of you." She spoke over her shoulder at them. "Do you have any questions?"
Elan felt Heather's arms let go of him. He blinked as tears ran down his face. "Beatty," he said, his voice weaker than he expected. "I was told Beatty in the Greenhouse can arrange a ship to Palani Yaal La."
"Yeah," said the doctor, headed to the door. "You can trust Beatty." She hesitated, her hand on the door handle. "I'm sorry, you two." She opened the door. "Good luck."
The door closed behind her, and the room fell into silence.
Heather sniffled loudly, her hands gently pushing Elan away until he was at arm's length. He saw the redness in her eyes and on her cheeks; she looked defeated. "It's time to go," he said.
She took a long, quivering breath then nodded, dropping her hands into her lap. "I know," she said, her voice breaking. "I get it."
"Okay," said Elan. He took a step toward the door, but stopped when she didn't move. When he looked back at her she was sitting on the edge of the table, curled into herself. Her eyes were staring down at the floor. "Aren't you coming?" he asked.
She didn't look up at him; a frown creased her forehead. "Just go, okay? Don't fuck with me about it."
"Wait," he said. "What's wrong, Heather? We need to go find a ship."
"Just go!" she cried, her voice hoarse between sobs. "Go back to your fucking palace…" She shook her head, closing her eyes.
"Wait," he said again. It hurt that she wouldn't look at him. "Heather, I don't understand. We need to get you and the baby to Palani Yaal La. Why do you want me to leave?"
Heather made eye contact with him, her eyes red and filled with tears. "You heard her! It's not going to work. The baby's going to die." She looked away. "And you're going to leave."
"I don't believe that," he said. The human doctor didn't understand. Palani doctors had facilities far beyond anything in human space. They could do the impossible; he was proof of that. "We just have to get you to Palani Yaal La. They can help."
"Even if they could," sobbed Heather, "you couldn't take me back to your world. Not now. Not with a bastard child. They'll send us away. They'll call me—"
"They'll call you Heather," interrupted Elan. He stepped back to the table, pushing himself up and sitting next to her. "'Bastard' is a human word, not Palani. I still want you to come with me. That hasn't changed."
She wiped her nose with her sleeve, looking at him out of the corner of her bloodshot eyes. "Elan, you're not listening. I'm pregnant. And it probably won't live. Didn't you hear that?"
"I did," he said, keeping his voice calm. "I heard that. And I believe it will live. But why does any of that mean I should abandon you?"
"Because I might have a child?" she said, her eyes narrowing. "Because it's too much commitment?" She shrugged, turning her head away. "Because I'm a magnet for men like that."
Elan picked up a clean towel from the table and handed it to Heather. "I'm not one of those men," he said. He reached behind her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders. "I'm here, and I'm staying."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Dillon stepped into the dark alley between two stalls, leaving the packed street behind. A single light glowed, feebly illuminating a steel door and its battered sign, which read 'Private' in hand-painted letters. It was calmer here, farther away from the smells and voices of the street. A ventilation fan rattled overhead, and grimy water dripped from a battered grille.
Amba was already waiting for him. She was leaning against the wall, wrapped in her bulky overcoat, the hood pulled over her head. "Feda?" came her voice from the darkness inside the hood. "Did you find anything?"
He shook his head. "No, nothing. Two frightened kids aren't enough to be noticed around here." He gestured back toward the street. "And I keep thinking some of these people know something. The gang that runs this station ought to be able to help somehow."
"I doubt it," said Amba. "They wouldn't have seen much either. Have you seen any cameras?"
Dillon studied the ceiling, with its twisted maze of pipes, wires and bent plating. "I've seen where cameras used to be," he said, "but no cameras."
"Exactly," said Amba. "So, what next?"
"You're asking me?"
"You're the captain, Feda."
"Nice," he muttered. As always, it was the Captain's job to pull all the right answers out of his ass. He'd spoken to Lee five minutes ago, and got much the same response: we don't know what to do, give us an idea. Right now, ideas were in short supply.
"If they want off this damned place," he said, "they'll need to find a ship. Whether they buy a ticket or the prophet kid just talks his way aboard, or whatever, they'll still need to know which ship. Have you asked anyone about how to get passage?"
"I did," said Amba. Her overcoat moved as she gestured with her hand. "I've been referred to three different people, and have also been warned about all three of them. But it sounds like most of the ship brokers are in an area called the Greenhouse."
"Great," said Dillo
n. "That's our plan, then. We find the Greenhouse."
He turned around and walked back to the alley entrance, pulling his coat tighter around him. The bulky lines of his armour showed under the draping fabric of the coat, while the same coat hung limp from Amba's unarmoured shoulders. Glancing behind him to make sure she was following, he stepped out into the fray of the street.
There was barely room to manoeuvre in the street, with a solid mass of people moving at the same time. Most of them threaded past each other with the strange grace of city dwellers, but some moved without subtlety, shoving others aside and ignoring the shouts thrown at them. Dillon pushed into the crowd with his shoulder, cleaving his way through the waves of people like a ship through ocean swells. In his wake, the narrower Tassali travelled smoothly, following close behind him before the mass of humanity closed the gap again.
When they came to the stairs, no amount of finesse could speed them through the mob of people moving up and down. Most people kept to the right, creating an upward flow on the outside of the stairwell, but some coming down were trying to shove their way against the upward flow. People slammed into Dillon's shoulder, their surprise turning to anger and then deference as they realised the large-coated man was armed and armoured. A few traded glares, others muttered curses, but all continued on their way.
Two decks up, they emerged onto the landing. "That was unpleasant," said Amba. "I can't imagine living here."
Dillon was forging on ahead, and turned his head to speak. "I don't know if 'living' is the right word." He gestured in front, where the curved floor of the deck rose up out of sight. "I see some signs up there. Less traffic, too. We might—"
Amba grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop. The people in the corridor parted, passing them like a river around an island. "What is it?" he asked.
She pointed toward a hatchway at the side of the hallway. Faded red paint was still legible. "The medical clinic?" asked Dillon.
"If he was injured in any way — if either of them were — they might have come here. It wouldn't take long to ask."