EarthChild

by Sharon Webb

  Kurt lo­oked thro­ugh cros­sing eyes at Chao, who ga­ve him back a she­epish lo­ok and shrug­ged. Wit­ho­ut a word, they fell in­to a rag­ged li­ne be­hind the­ir gu­ide and me­ekly fol­lo­wed.

  She led them down a hal­lway and on­to a mo­ver that whis­ked them away with a spe­ed that de­ran­ged Kurt's vi­si­on and ba­lan­ce, a spe­ed that se­emed to him to be clo­se to that of light. The pro­of of it was that his he­ad felt lar­ge eno­ugh to fill the uni­ver­se. Be­si­de him, Chao clung to the hand­ra­il. From the exp­res­si­on on his fa­ce, de­ath wo­uld be wel­co­me.

  After what se­emed to be an eter­nity, they ca­me to a lar­ge hall. Over wi­de do­ub­le do­ors le­ading off to the left hung a sign: IN­FIR­MARY.

  He con­si­de­red the sign. In­fir­mary… For the in­firm. He se­emed to qu­alify.

  Kurt, Chao, and half a do­zen ot­hers fol­lo­wed the gu­ide in­to a lar­ge ro­om. One by one, she de­po­si­ted them in cu­bic­les.

  He sat whe­re he was told. Wa­iting, he pas­sed the ti­me lis­te­ning to his he­ad throb. Pre­sently, a mo­to­ri­zed cart ap­pe­ared and spo­ke to him in a mo­no­to­ne: "Pla­ce yo­ur hand in the tu­be." The cart ex­ten­ded a vid-eye, be­amed in on his pa­le fa­ce, and ext­ru­ded a tu­be in his di­rec­ti­on.

  He po­ked his hand in­si­de. Im­me­di­ately, he felt it clas­ped and drawn, along with most of his arm, in­si­de as the cart mo­ved clo­ser, pin­ning him aga­inst the cha­ir. Sundry pric­king sen­sa­ti­ons as­sa­iled his cap­tu­red limb. Be­fo­re he co­uld open his mo­uth to pro­test, the vid-eye sta­red in­to his. "Bre­at­he," com­man­ded the cart. Si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly, a mask emer­ged from the body of the mac­hi­ne and pres­sed it­self over his mo­uth and no­se.

  Clam­ped as he was in the cart's emb­ra­ce, he had no cho­ice but to bre­at­he the cold, sharp gas that fil­led the mask.

  After half a mi­nu­te, the cart re­mo­ved its bre­at­hing ap­pa­ra­tus and rep­la­ced it with a tu­be that sna­ked to­ward his mo­uth. "Drink."

  Fe­ar­ful of what it might do to him if he re­fu­sed, he be­gan to swal­low. To his re­li­ef, the drink se­emed to be a su­gary mix­tu­re of fru­it ju­ices.

  At last, the cart re­le­ased his arm and pul­led away. As it trund­led to­ward the next cu­bic­le, he re­ali­zed that his he­adac­he was sub­si­ding and his vi­si­on was slowly re­tur­ning to nor­mal. A few mi­nu­tes la­ter, he was ra­ve­no­usly hungry.

  The gu­ide col­lec­ted them with a che­ery, "Bet­ter now?" and ste­ered them out thro­ugh a hal­lway to­ward the mo­ver. On the way, they pas­sed a se­ri­es of ro­oms mar­ked CO­UN­SE­LOR. Thro­ugh a partly open do­or, he he­ard a girl's vo­ice cry, "I can't. I can't do this. I want to go ho­me." A mo­ment la­ter she be­gan to sob. He ca­ught a qu­ick glimp­se of her. She held her fa­ce in slim fin­gers, whi­te aga­inst the strands of auburn ha­ir that tra­iled over them.

  He pa­used and sta­red thro­ugh the do­or. A mo­ment la­ter, the gu­ide ca­ught his arm. "This will be exp­la­ined to you la­ter. Now, you must eat or you will fe­el much wor­se."

  * * *

  The rest of 12-Co had left the di­ning hall by the ti­me they ar­ri­ved. By now, Kurt's he­ad was cle­ar as ice and he tremb­led with a hun­ger that ap­pro­ac­hed na­usea. The ot­hers se­emed to be in si­mi­lar sha­pe.

  They sat in two gro­ups of fo­ur, Chao and he with two yo­ung wo­men he va­gu­ely re­mem­be­red from the night be­fo­re. They gob­bled the­ir hi-pro bre­ak­fast in un­so­ci­ab­le si­len­ce. Only when the­ir un­na­tu­ral ap­pe­ti­te was aba­ted did they at­tempt con­ver­sa­ti­on.

  "Co­uld it be," as­ked Chao, "that the tre­at­ment is per­haps wor­se than the ma­lady?"

  "Po­iso­ned. Po­iso­ned with punch and then tor­tu­red," sa­id a girl with ash blon­de ha­ir and pa­le skin. "It's a Co­ali­ti­on of Bor­gi­as we've got in­to."

  Kurt sta­red at her in surp­ri­se; she had spo­ken in Eng­lish. He lap­sed in­to it too as he int­ro­du­ced him­self.

  "My na­me is Fos­ter," she sa­id. "Pa­me­la Fos­ter. From Chel­sea."

  The ot­her girl frow­ned at them, lo­oked ac­ross at Chao, and sa­id po­in­tedly in one-ton­gue, "I was ta­ught that it is ru­de to use fo­re­ign lan­gu­ages in the pre­sen­ce of non-spe­akers. We­ren't you ta­ught that?"

  Chao re­ma­ined po­li­tely si­lent.

  "Sorry," Pa­me­la sa­id in one-ton­gue. "Dep­lo­rab­le lap­se of man­ners. Did you see the girl in the Co­un­se­lor's of­fi­ce?" They nod­ded.

  "I tal­ked with her last night. She des­pi­ses the idea of the Mi­nistry and all that. I think they're go­ing to send her off."

  "Ho­me?" as­ked the ot­her girl. "Do we ha­ve a cho­ice?"

  "I think so. It wo­uldn't ma­ke sen­se to ke­ep so­me­one on in a prog­ram they ha­ted, wo­uld it now?"

  "It's hap­pe­ning too qu­ickly," sa­id the ot­her girl. "They ha­ven't gi­ven us ti­me to know what our tra­ining will re­al­ly be-what any of the fu­tu­re will be, for that mat­ter." She tur­ned to Kurt, "If we do ha­ve a cho­ice, which way will you go?"

  He sta­red at his pla­te. Her qu­es­ti­on had star­ted an ava­lanc­he of tho­ughts-tho­ughts of what his li­fe had be­co­me sin­ce Mo­u­at and Ga­ri had chan­ged the world.

  What wo­uld he cho­ose? He scar­cely knew what the cho­ices we­re. He tho­ught of Pol­vay-that lit­tle man in the last sta­ges of his li­fe-re­ac­hing out for so­me sort of im­mor­ta­lity. He felt the bit­ter co­re of di­sil­lu­si­on emer­ge on­ce aga­in. What cho­ice had the mor­tals gi­ven the child­ren they kil­led? What cho­ice had they of­fe­red Jor­ge? He tho­ught of Se­an lying in Mac­Dill Hos­pi­tal-Se­an who had ne­ver har­med an­yo­ne.

  And what cho­ice wo­uld his own fat­her ha­ve gi­ven him? He co­uld see tho­se lips mo­ving on­ce aga­in-mo­ving, comp­res­sing:… I wan­ted very much to kill you…

  He lo­oked evenly at the girl ac­ross the tab­le. "We don't ha­ve a cho­ice." They we­re the ol­dest-the ones who had to go first, the ones who had to le­ad the way. He tho­ught of the yo­un­ger ones then-the child­ren. They wo­uld lo­ok to the ol­dest the way a child lo­oks to its pa­rents. "We don't ha­ve a cho­ice," he re­pe­ated. "We've got to chan­ge things."

  Chapter 5

  The do­or sig­hed open, and Kurt and Hal­lie step­ped out­si­de in­to a bla­zing af­ter­no­on. The pa­ve­ment ste­amed from the re­ma­ins of a sho­wer too bri­ef to cle­ar the muggy air that hung over Tam­pa.

  Sho­ul­de­ring the­ir packs, they wal­ked to­get­her in si­len­ce. Fi­nal­ly, Hal­lie sa­id, "I don't know why, but it se­ems as if we've be­en away for a lot lon­ger than two days."

  He had no­ti­ced it too; he nod­ded.

  "It's be­ca­use we cram­med so much in, I gu­ess." She pa­used at the tur­noff to her dorm. "This ti­me next we­ek then… Jo­in the Co­ali­ti­on and see the world."

  Mo­re than the world. In one we­ek, he wo­uld be le­aving for L-5 with 12 Co­ali­ti­on. Hal­lie was jo­ining 10-Co then-bo­und for the So­uth Pa­ci­fic. "Send me a co­co­nut."

  "Su­re." With a grin, she to­ok his hand. "You'll get it as so­on as you send me a pac­ka­ge of spa­ce dust."

  They sto­od sta­ring at each ot­her as if the­ir eyes we­re bon­ded to­get­her. Then with qu­ick par­ting wa­ves, they tur­ned and wal­ked in op­po­si­te di­rec­ti­ons.

  Wit­ho­ut stop­ping first at his dorm, Kurt he­aded for Mac­Dill hos­pi­tal.

  * * *

  The wo­man at the desk con­sul­ted her con­so­le, then lo­oked up un­cer­ta­inly. "He can ha­ve li­mi­ted vi­si­tors, but I'm not su­re abo­ut you. Fa­mily mem­bers only-" She sta­red over his sho­ul­der. "Wa­it. The­re's Dr. Oli­vo now. I'll ask."

  Kurt fol­lo­wed her ga­ze to the tall yo�
�ung wo­man in a lab co­at who emer­ged from the chart ro­om. "Ne­ver mind," he sa­id, "I'll ask her myself."

  Tur­ning, he fell in step with Dr. Oli­vo as she wal­ked briskly down the hall. "Yes?" she as­ked ple­asantly.

  "I'm he­re to see Se­an McNabb. What can you tell me abo­ut him?"

  She stop­ped and tur­ned to­ward him. "You must be Kurt."

  He nod­ded. "How is he?"

  "Bet­ter. Much bet­ter, physi­cal­ly. But ot­her­wi­se he's not do­ing as well as I'd ho­ped. May­be you can help."

  He tur­ned puz­zled eyes to­ward her. "How? What is it?"

  Li­nes cre­ased her brow, then smo­ot­hed away, "He knows abo­ut Jor­ge… but he's not cons­ci­o­usly ac­cep­ting it. He won't talk to me or the nur­ses abo­ut what hap­pe­ned. May­be he’ll talk to you." She smi­led. "He's as­ked abo­ut you at le­ast a do­zen ti­mes."

  "Then he'll be all right?"

  "Oh, yes. Physi­cal­ly. But he has to de­al with this emo­ti­onal­ly too. Co­me on. I'll ta­ke you to him."

  They tur­ned, and he fol­lo­wed her down the hall to a do­or. She tap­ped on­ce and ope­ned it. "Se­an. So­me­one's he­re to see you."

  The boy tur­ned start­led blue-gre­en eyes to­ward her. When Kurt step­ped thro­ugh the do­or, Se­an's eyes wi­de­ned even mo­re.

  "I'll talk with you la­ter." She step­ped back in­to the hall and shut the do­or qu­i­etly be­hind her.

  Kurt cros­sed the ro­om in two steps. "How are you do­ing?" He ruf­fled the boy's cop­pery ha­ir with a bro­ad hand. "Ne­ed anyt­hing? So­met­hing mo­re to eat, may­be? You lo­ok as if you co­uld use a few candy bars."

  Se­an sho­ok his he­ad. "I'm not hungry."

  Kurt se­arc­hed the boy's fa­ce for a se­cond, then he drew a cha­ir up to the bed and sat down. "They told you I was out of town, didn't they? I ca­me the first night, but they wo­uldn't let me in."

  "Ye­ah, they told me." He lo­oked down at his hands and pul­led on a fin­ger un­til the knuck­le pop­ped.

  Se­an lo­oked pa­le to Kurt-too pa­le. His freck­les se­emed to stand out in three-di­men­si­onal re­li­ef aga­inst the whi­te skin. "You, uh, fe­eling all right now?"

  "Yea, fi­ne."

  He wasn't fi­ne; he wasn't fi­ne at all. "What hap­pe­ned, Se­an? Who did this to you?"

  The boy ca­ught his lo­wer lip bet­we­en his te­eth. He blin­ked and sho­ok his he­ad.

  Kurt le­aned for­ward, "Who was it? One of the ma­in­te­nan­ce men? A work­man?" Then with sud­den sus­pi­ci­on, "A te­ac­her? Was it a te­ac­her?"

  Se­an sho­ok his he­ad aga­in and lo­oked away to­ward the win­dow.

  Kurt ca­ught his arm. "Who, then? Lo­ok at me, Se­an. Who was it?"

  The boy lo­oked at Kurt for a mo­ment and then sta­red down at his hands. Tug­ging at his fin­gers aga­in, he pop­ped one knuck­le af­ter the ot­her. Fi­nal­ly, he sa­id in a low vo­ice, "It was one of the Kindy kids."

  "What?" Kurt to­ok the boy's hand in his.

  "One of the Kindy kids."

  "Which kid? Which one?"

  He sho­ok his he­ad. "I don't know. I don't know his na­me. He had a red birth­mark right he­re." Se­an to­uc­hed an in­dex fin­ger to the ang­le of his jaw. "Right be­low his ear."

  "You're su­re?" He co­uldn't be­li­eve it. He had be­en so cer­ta­in it had be­en one of the adults, one of the mor­tals.

  Se­an nod­ded. "He loc­ked me in."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know."

  "What abo­ut Jor­ge? Are you sa­ying this kid loc­ked both of you in that ro­om?"

  Se­an lo­oked blank for a mo­ment. Then he sa­id, "Jor­ge got away. He got away, but I was loc­ked in."

  Kurt sta­red at him for a few se­conds, then he sa­id qu­i­etly, "What hap­pe­ned to Jor­ge?"

  His lips be­gan to qu­iver and he pres­sed them to­get­her.

  "What hap­pe­ned to Jor­ge, Se­an?"

  "He got away." He thrust his chin out, and then his lips be­gan to qu­iver mo­re. "He got away… but I co­uldn't. And it was hot and my hands hurt. They hurt so bad. And smo­ke was all over. I got sick and then-" Te­ars brim­med from his eyes and he co­ve­red them with his hands. He sob­bed, sha­king the bed with the for­ce of his an­gu­ish. "The gu­inea pig di­ed, Kurt… The gu­inea pig di­ed…"

  * * *

  "A child? A fi­ve-ye­ar-old?" La­uren ra­ised un­be­li­eving eyeb­rows.

  "That's what Se­an sa­id… and I be­li­eve him." Kurt drop­ped in­to the cha­ir by La­uren's desk.

  "But, su­rely they co­uld over­po­wer a fi­ve-ye­ar-old."

  "Not if he slip­ped out ahe­ad of them. It must ha­ve hap­pe­ned fast."

  A tho­ught­ful lo­ok ca­me over her fa­ce, then she frow­ned. "If he did that-if he loc­ked them in-then it was de­li­be­ra­te. I can't be­li­eve a lit­tle kid co­uld plan so­met­hing li­ke that."

  "Be­li­eve it or not," he sa­id with a tra­ce of an­no­yan­ce. "The do­or was loc­ked from out­si­de."

  She to­uc­hed his sho­ul­der. "But Kurt, you sa­id yo­ur­self that Se­an tho­ught Jor­ge got away. May­be he's con­fu­sed abo­ut the who­le thing."

  "That's what I'm go­ing to find out." He had set the whe­els in mo­ti­on al­re­ady. He had marc­hed back to Ma­cOps and de­man­ded pri­ority com­pu­ter ti­me in the na­me of the Mac­Dill Yo­uth Go­vern­ment As­so­ci­ati­on. "So­met­hing ought to turn up by mor­ning when the te­ac­hers get no­ti­ce. How many child­ren co­uld ha­ve a birth­mark li­ke that?"

  "I.can't be­li­eve it, Kurt." La­uren sho­ok her he­ad. "I just don't be­li­eve that a fi­ve-ye­ar-old co­uld do anyt­hing li­ke that.” She tug­ged at his hand. "Let's go to din­ner. And on the way, you can tell me abo­ut yo­ur trip." She tip­ped her he­ad. "What was the big mystery abo­ut?"

  As they wal­ked to­get­her, he told her bits and pi­eces abo­ut 12-Co, but when he lo­oked in­to her fa­mi­li­ar fa­ce, he co­uldn't find the right way to tell her that he wo­uld be le­aving in a we­ek. The words se­emed to be dam­med up in­si­de him.

  "This tra­ining pe­ri­od," she per­sis­ted. "How long do­es it last?"

  How co­uld he tell her? How co­uld he tell her that he wo­uldn't be se­e­ing her for the next thirty ye­ars?

  As if sen­sing so­met­hing, La­uren lo­oked at him gra­vely. "I, uh, ho­pe that this 12-Co thing won't co­me bet­we­en us, Kurt."

  He tri­ed to mask the sud­den empty fe­eling with a qu­ick smi­le. "How co­uld it?" But, everyt­hing had hap­pe­ned so qu­ickly. And at le­ast part of his de­ci­si­on had be­en ba­sed on Se­an… He had be­en so su­re-so po­si­ti­ve-that mor­tals we­re res­pon­sib­le for the fi­re.

  A hund­red tho­ughts jost­led in his bra­in at on­ce un­til no­ne of them se­emed to ma­ke sen­se any mo­re. When La­uren spo­ke aga­in, she had to re­pe­at her­self twi­ce be­fo­re she had his at­ten­ti­on.

  * * *

  Mar­ga­ret sta­red at the fle­xi-she­et. That bu­si­ness abo­ut the birth­mark… They had to me­an Sil­vio Ta­ran­ti­no. But why? She lo­oked up from her desk in the por­tab­le shel­ter that ser­ved as a kin­der­gar­ten clas­sro­om un­til the ma­in bu­il­ding co­uld be re­pa­ired. Sil­vio was pa­in­ting in­dust­ri­o­usly with bright tem­pe­ra co­lors. He se­emed comp­le­tely ab­sor­bed in what he was do­ing.

  She ro­se and wal­ked over to the boy as he wor­ked the bro­ad brush over the pa­per in me­ti­cu­lo­us oran­ge stro­kes. "That's very ni­ce, Sil­vio."

  As he lo­oked up at her, a smi­le sto­le over his fa­ce. He tur­ned back to the pa­per and ad­ded anot­her stre­ak of oran­ge that tra­iled up­ward to­ward the top of the she­et. "And what's this?" Mar­ga­ret po­in­ted to a small dark obj­ect ne­ar the bot­tom.

  A thumb crept to his mo­uth. "Pep­per."

/>   "Oh." The gu­inea pig. With a start, she re­ali­zed what the oran­ge stre­aks of pa­int rep­re­sen­ted. Aw­ful how even the very yo­ung ones we­re af­fec­ted. They sho­uld ne­ver ha­ve ta­ken them to the cha­pel. "Everyt­hing's go­ing to be all right, Sil­vio. We'll get a new gu­inea pig very so­on." As she sto­od sta­ring thro­ugh the open win­dow at the blac­ke­ned wall of the ma­in bu­il­ding, she squ­e­ezed his sho­ul­der ab­sently and won­de­red why in the world Mac­Dill Yo­uth Go­vern­ment wo­uld be in­te­res­ted in Sil­vio.

  * * *

  Inste­ad of the com­mit­tee she had ex­pec­ted, only one yo­ung man met Mar­ga­ret as she wal­ked in­to the cha­pel with her hand tight aro­und Sil­vio's.

  A ni­ce-lo­oking yo­ung man, she tho­ught, but the­re was so­met­hing in his eyes she didn't li­ke, so­met­hing that ca­me in­to his eyes when he lo­oked at Sil­vio. She slid her hands pro­tec­ti­vely over the boy's sho­ul­ders, squ­e­ezing gently. "You say you're on the dis­cip­li­ne com­mit­tee? I don't un­ders­tand." This was non­sen­se. The dis­cip­li­ne com­mit­tee was con­cer­ned with tro­ub­le­ma­kers. Tro­ub­le­ma­kers-not lit­tle boys li­ke Sil­vio. He had ne­ver gi­ven her a mo­ment's gri­ef-which was mo­re than she co­uld say abo­ut so many of them.

  "I'd li­ke you two to co­me with me." Kurt pic­ked up a small re­cor­der and led them to the ramp that con­nec­ted the cha­pel and the hos­pi­tal.

  Baf­fled and a lit­tle de­fen­si­ve, Mar­ga­ret re­cap­tu­red Sil­vio's hand and fol­lo­wed Kurt down the hall. They stop­ped out­si­de a do­or tag­ged with the na­me Se­an McNabb. She sta­red at it. Wasn't that the boy in the fi­re? Yes. She was su­re of it. She thrust her chin to­ward Kurt. "May­be you'd bet­ter exp­la­in why you're so in­te­res­ted in this child."

  "I'd be happy to. La­ter. But right now, I'd li­ke to ask him a few qu­es­ti­ons." He star­ted to open the do­or, then stop­ped. "Ple­ase let him ans­wer for him­self."