Storyteller

by Amy Thomson

  "I see," Teller said. "How long do I have?"

  "Perhaps another dozen years in good health; then, with good geriatric care ..." His hands flew wide again. "... per­haps another five or even ten years."

  "And my mind?"

  The director looked less poised. "Good geriatric care takes into account the wishes of the patient. It is possible to manage your care so that your body accompanies your mind into death."

  "But how long do I have as an alert, aware, mentally present person?" she persisted.

  "Perhaps fourteen or fifteen years, maybe a year or two more than that if you're lucky. A great deal depends on the patient's attitude. Many of our patients become severely de­pressed when they discover that the treatment has failed to take." He looked sad. "I'm afraid that they squander the few remaining years they have left in regrets and recriminations." He paused. "We have grief counseling available, if you would like it."

  Teller just shook her head. So little time left.

  "If you are willing to stay for another week, there are sev­eral other treatments that will help keep you physically sound for as long as possible."

  Teller nodded. She wanted her last years to be good ones. "Thank you, I would appreciate that, Director."

  The director stood, "Sera Bernardia, I hope you will al­low me to express my sincere and profound sadness at your bad news. I was a resident here when I first met you, a hun­dred and fifty years ago. You taught me a great deal then. I had hoped that the treatment would work, despite my doubts."

  "Thank you," Teller said, touched by his words. "I appre­ciate all you've done for me over the years."

  Teller went back to her room and sat down. She closed her eyes and rubbed her face with her hands, waiting for whatever feelings would come. But there was nothing there. She felt oddly numb. She got up and looked out the window at the manicured gardens.

  "Well," she said to herself, "so I'm coming to the end of it all at last." She felt only a vague sadness at the thought. But there was so much to do in the decade she had left. Who would take care of Thalassa and her people? Who would look after the Guild and the harsels when she was gone? If only Samad were a few years older, she thought, with a twinge of guilt. He was too young. She didn't want to load such a burden on his young shoulders. But there really was no one else. There were some who loved the harsels, others who carried Thalassa's history in their heads, and still others who worked on behalf of Thalassa itself. But no one else bal­anced those three drives as equally as Samad did. Ever since she had recovered from Abeha's death, she had been preparing Samad to be her heir, but she hadn't expected to have to turn it all over to him so soon. Ten years was too short a time for him to learn everything he needed to know. If only she had another fifty years.

  Well, you don't have fifty years. You're going to have to do it in fifteen, she told herself. And that meant a lot of hard work and careful planning. She sighed, feeling the weight of all she had to do. This would probably be the last real vacation she would ever have.

  There was a tentative knock at the door. It was Samad, clutching a sheet of paper in one hand.

  "The Union has sent me the results of my gene scan," he said.

  He handed her the sheet of paper. She read it.

  "According to our records," the paper said. "Your mother was Ruth Anne di Bernardi. Your most probable father, based on genetics and location at the time of conception, was Charles Helmison. We regret to inform you that both of your parents are deceased. Your parents were both reared in the Arthur Robinson creche on Oda. They have no known relatives."

  "Oh, Samad, I'm so sorry," Teller said. "This must be very hard news."

  He shrugged. "At least I know who my parents were," he told Teller. "The rest doesn't matter much. I have you."

  Teller smiled and tugged lightly at one of his curls. "And I have you. But it's not exactly true that you have no known relatives. Your mother was a di Bernardi. The di Bernardi line was descended from a genetic sample the Union took from me. Even though I never knew your mother or your fa­ther, you and I are related."

  "Really?" Samad said, brightening.

  Teller nodded. "It's a distant relationship. We're proba­bly fifteen or sixteen generations removed from each other.

  But Samad, it doesn't really matter to me. You couldn't be more my son if I had carried you inside me. But if it com­forts you to know that you have relatives, you do."

  "Does that mean that I'm related to all the other di Bernardi pilots?"

  Teller was silent for a long time. "Yes. But there's a dif­ference between sharing genes and being family. You and I are a family. We've been through so much together. The other di Bernardi pilots are all creche-raised. The only thing you share with them is some DNA. They don't understand family the way you and I do. There are no mothers or fathers in creches, only caretakers."

  "It sounds awful."

  Teller nodded. "If I'd known what they were going to do, I would never have let them use my genes. But I was young and foolish then. I was proud to be the progenitrix of a line of pilots. Although it hasn't been all bad. I have at least one descendant who I'm very proud of." She smiled at him, her eyes hazed with tears. "You've been such a gift to me, Samad."

  They embraced, and then Teller remembered her own bad news. "Sit down, Samad. I have something else to tell you."

  Samad listened to her with all the attention of a trained storyteller. His hand stole into hers when he realized what she was saying.

  "Teller, I wish I could give you some of my years."

  "No!" Teller said. "Never say that! I've had more than my share of life. It's just that there's so much I'll have to leave behind."

  "Teller, fifteen years is a long time," Samad said. "Who knows what will happen between then and now. Maybe they'll even find another way to extend your rejuve."

  Teller smiled at Samad. For him, fifteen years was a long

  time. Perhaps she should think of it that way, too. A lot could happen in fifteen years.

  "Good morning, Ser Bernardia. May we please speak to you?"

  Samad gestured his visitors into the room. He recognized their uniforms from the pictures he had seen in Teller's al­bum. They were from the Pilots Union. One was a gray-haired older man with a deeply lined face. The other was a startlingly beautiful young woman.

  "Please sit down," Samad said, wondering why they were here.

  "Thank you, Ser Bernardia," the older man said. "I am Patrick Turner, and this is my assistant, Trinh di Bernardi. As you know, the Union recently reviewed your gene scan."

  "Yes," Samad confirmed. Had the Union made some kind of mistake?

  "Your genetic markers indicate that you have the poten­tial to be a very strong Talent," Turner told him.

  "Talent?" Samad asked. "What kind of Talent?"

  "You could be a Jump pilot. Possibly one of our best," Turner explained.

  "We're here to invite you to be tested to confirm that Talent," di Bernardi added.

  Turner took a neat dossier out of his briefcase. "The uni­verse could be yours, young man."

  "It's been wonderful for me!" di Bernardi added, her eyes shining. "There's nothing like Jump Space."

  "You're a pilot?" Samad asked.

  "For the last five years," di Bernardi replied. "I've been to more than thirty systems, all the way round known space. I'm on my five-year service leave now, but I can hardly wait to get back into space!"

  "What's it like to Jump?" he asked. He never could get

  Teller to talk about her years as a Jump pilot. At last, he had someone who could answer his questions.

  "I—it's hard to describe," she said. "It's like a dream. It seems to last forever and no time at all. You're everywhere and nowhere, all at once. And then you're out of the Jump, and feeling ..." She shook her head and looked at him, her eyes wide and dark. "I really can't describe it to you. But it's the most wonderful feeling in the world." She smiled like an eager child. "You should come and be tested. There
are so few lucky enough to be blessed with true Talent."

  "The testing is free. You're under absolutely no obliga­tion," Turner told him. "It would be a shame to waste this chance." He held out the sheaf of documents, "Here—"

  There was a knock on the door, and then Teller walked in.

  "Samad, I—" she began and then stopped, taking in the Union uniforms of Samad's visitors. Her expression became grim and angry.

  "Get out," she told di Bernardi and Turner, her voice flat and very hard. "You have no right to contact my son with­out my permission."

  "Teller—" Samad began.

  "Your son has a right to decide for himself what he wants to do with his life," di Bernardi said, her eyes flashing. "You have no right to keep him from us."

  "I'm his mother," Teller shot back. "And I was a pilot, too. Don't you dare lecture me about rights! I've known what it's like to burn out, and I don't want Samad to have to go through that."

  Teller took the sheaf of documents that Turner had given Samad and tore them up.

  "Teller!" Samad said, horrified at her behavior.

  "Now go!" she ordered the recruiters. "Go! And don't contact my son again, or I will have you up on charges."

  "It's my life, Teller!" Samad protested.

  "It's your life when you're twenty, Samad," she replied.

  Turner and di Bernardi picked up their briefcases. "Our offer remains open, Samad," Turner said. "I hope you will consider it when you are free to do so."

  "Out!" Teller shouted, pointing at the door. Her face was purple with fury. Samad had never seen her this angry be­fore. It frightened him. "Get out!"

  "Teller," Samad said, taking her arm in an attempt to calm her. She was quivering with rage. Turner and di Bernardi left as quickly as their pride would permit.

  "Teller, calm down," Samad said. He was furious at Teller's abrupt and peremptory interference, but knew better than to show it now. "It's all right. They're gone now."

  Teller shook her hair back from her face. She still looked furious. "I forbid you to have anything to do with the Pilots Union."

  Stung by Teller's high-handedness, Samad lost his tem­per. "It's my life, Teller. I do get to make some choices for myself!"

  "I forbid you to throw your life away," Teller insisted. "Not now, not ever. You're my son, and I won't let those Union bastards near you!"

  Samad stared back at her defiantly. If he wanted to become a Jump pilot, there was nothing she could do to stop him.

  A boy in every port, some dark, tempted portion of his psy­che whispered. The stars! The stars would be yours, not just tiny, backwater Thalassa. You could be free! Really free!

  "Teller, I'm goddamned tired of being your good little boy!" he shouted. "It's time to let me grow up and make my own fucking mistakes!" He yanked the door open and tried to slam it behind him as he left. The door whispered shut on the silence surrounding Teller.

  Teller stared out the window, her rage dying to ashes and fear. She had forgotten how angry she still was at the Pilots Union. But when she saw them trying to steal her son, her centuries-old resentment of them had exploded into new life.

  Had her rage driven Samad away from her forever? She hoped not. She needed him, needed someone to care for her as she declined, and more than that, she needed him to carry on her legacy. She thought of all she had done on Thalassa. She had planted orchards and bred livestock to feed the first arrivals. By helping those in need, she had started a legend that had helped inspire her people to generosity. With the harsels she had founded the Compact that bound har and human together in a partnership that helped both species.

  And she and Barbara had created the Storytellers Guild, which had taught Thalassans to be proud of who they were. The Guild also acted as her eyes and ears, keeping her ap­prised of the world's troubles, both large and small. All that had been left for her to do in the last few centuries had been to fend off outworld interests seeking to exploit Thalassa's rich oceans and its lovely, fertile islands. Lately, she hadn't even had to do much of that. Thalassa was considered a backwater, where off-world businesses did not prosper. Per­haps once or twice a decade, she had needed to intervene to prevent off-world exploitation.

  But what would happen when she was gone? Much of what she had fostered would remain for a few generations, but sooner or later, a crisis would come. And when it did, who would be able to take the long view needed to guide Thalassa through it? Who would look after the harsels? Who would keep the planet's myriad islands from being de­spoiled? Who would maintain her legacy?

  It must be Samad. And now the Pilots Union was trying to steal his heart with dreams of freedom and adventure. But the freedom they offered was only a tempting illusion.

  The reality behind the illusion was the intense craving for Jump Space, which grew and grew until all you lived for was the next Jump. The Union would use Samad up, steal his soul, and when his Talent was gone, they would spit him out. Their fat pension was no fair payment for what burnout did to your soul.

  Her eyes grew sad and dark as she remembered those long days and longer nights when she was the only human on all of Thalassa. If it hadn't been for Abeha, whose mind­songs had soothed the pain and filled the hole left by her Talent, she would have taken her own life.

  Even so, there had been times when she had taken out her knife and watched the light run down its sharp, silver edge. But she had never been able to use it to end her urgent longing for Jump Space.

  Teller shook her head. It was dangerous to remember such things. But she would not let Samad become prey to that suicidal craving. If only Abeha were here. He could have talked some sense into Samad.

  For a moment, her longing for Abeha was as keen as her old craving for Jump Space had ever been. She rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window, tears filling her eyes. I miss you, old soul, she told Abeha in her thoughts.

  Abeha would have known what Samad wanted, would have felt beneath the surface impulses to the deeper need, and found some way to resolve it. She wondered what Abeha would have advised her to do? Abeha would never have let Samad's silent secrecy last so long. Abeha would have asked Samad to trust him, to tell him what was wrong. But after her towering, imperious rage, would Samad trust her enough to unburden himself to her?

  Samad strode determinedly down the hall of the clinic and out into the garden, seeking a place where he could be alone

  with his anger and frustration. Damn Teller! How dare she order him about? It was his future, his life. He would spend it as he chose. And if he chose to be a pilot, then Teller was just going to have to get used to the idea.

  He found a quiet spot, hidden by the arching branches of a weeping tree with slender, dark purple leaves. He lay back; looking up at the tiny bits of sky that showed through the tree's leafy canopy. He squinted until the spangles of sunlight blurred and became stars in a dark purple sky. He imagined himself in a pilot's chair, looking out at those stars, visiting alien worlds, and exploring unknown planets. Maybe, like Teller, he could find a world that would be his and his alone to explore. How he envied her those years alone on Thalassa. She had seen it all first. Thalassa was hers in a way that no other human could claim.

  The sun was low in the sky, and it was getting cool when he finally came inside. Teller was waiting for him in the darkened living room of their suite. The freedom of his day­dreams slipped out of his grasp like a handful of seawater.

  She stood as he came in. "Samad, I spoke harshly to you this morning, and I am sorry," she said, stiffly formal. "I thought it might do us a bit of good to get out of this mau­soleum for an evening. There's a nice restaurant in the vil­lage. Would you like to go out for dinner?"

  Samad nodded acknowledgment of her invitation. Her anger this morning had frightened him. "I'd like that," he said. It would be good to get away from the clinic for a while.

  The restaurant was small, and the food was good. There was a large tree rising in the middle of the dining room, up through the r
oof, sheltering the building under its wide branches. Small, brightly colored lizards inhabited the tree, scuttling nimbly up and down the trunk. Flyers fluttered their leathery wings in the branches. The restaurant's slatted

  shutters of dark wood gave the place a feeling of screened-in intimacy. As night drew on, the flyers rustled and cheeped among the tree branches, occasionally settling to the ground to pick up a fragment of bread dropped or tossed to them by the diners. Lizards scuttled along the walls and ceilings, catching bugs drawn by the candles on the tables.

  Teller kept up an amiable flow of innocuous small talk and reminiscences. She looked more alert and younger, but underneath that was a sense of fragility he had not seen be­fore, as if her new youthfulness was only a brittle shell. Oc­casionally she looked off into the distance, her face closed and sad, and he knew she was fretting over the failure of her rejuve.

  He felt a pang of guilt. The failure of the rejuvenation treatments was a death sentence for Teller. She had given him so much, everything except life itself. How could he abandon her to die alone? But the Pilots Union had offered him the stars. And he wanted them very much. He felt torn apart by his desire for freedom and his debt to Teller. But would Teller even want him for a son if she knew that he de­sired men rather than women?

  "Samad?" Teller asked, laying a hand on his arm.

  "I'm sorry, what did you say?" Samad said, shaken out of his reverie.

  "I was just saying that we don't seem to be communicat­ing like we used to," Teller said. She sounded faintly amused.

  Samad looked down, embarrassed by the truth. "I guess you're right, Teller," he admitted.

  "So, what's keeping us from talking?" she asked.

  Samad looked down at the polished wood floor of the restaurant and shrugged.

  "Please, Samad, whatever it is isn't as important as you are to me."

  He looked up at her, a long, serious, searching look. He took a deep breath, then looked away. He was so afraid that she would hate him for what he was.

  "You promise you won't be angry again?" he said. He was afraid to ask her not to disown him.