EarthChild

by Sharon Webb

  "Our de­epest sympathy go­es out to his fa­mily in the­ir ti­me of an­gu­ish. This in­qu­iry is now clo­sed."

  Si­len­ce struck the ro­om. Then Mar­ga­ret sto­od ab­ruptly. "It's all over, Sil­vio. You can for­get abo­ut this now."

  Very calm, very qu­i­et, the boy sto­od next to her. He lo­oked at Kurt for a long mo­ment, and in that mo­ment Kurt saw so­met­hing flic­ker be­ne­ath the art­less baby ve­ne­er- so­met­hing so old, so ma­le­vo­lent, that he felt a sud­den chill.

  "I don't for­get. Ever," Sil­vio sa­id. And then the lo­ok of vir­gin in­no­cen­ce slid back aga­in, and a chubby thumb crept to his lips.

  * * *

  After the ot­hers left the con­fe­ren­ce ro­om, Kurt wa­ited un­til he and Mor­ti­mer we­re alo­ne. "I want to talk to you."

  Mor­ti­mer le­aned back in his cha­ir and eyed Kurt. "I tho­ught you wo­uld."

  "You don't re­al­ly be­li­eve it was an ac­ci­dent."

  Mor­ti­mer was si­lent for a mo­ment; then he sa­id, "Mac­Dill has a go­od re­cord. We're go­ing to ke­ep it that way."

  "By ig­no­ring the evi­den­ce?"

  "By avo­iding pub­lic aro­usal and pa­nic, yo­ung man. The­re are tho­usands of pa­rents out the­re who ex­pect me to ke­ep or­der he­re. They ex­pect me to gu­aran­tee the sa­fety of the­ir child­ren. Gu­aran­tee. No mat­ter if that child is he­re or ho­me on pass."

  "And you think the way to do that is to ig­no­re a child li­ke

  Sil­vio."

  A fa­int smi­le qu­ir­ked the ed­ge of Mor­ti­mer's lips. "And you think the ans­wer is to drag in the judi­ci­ary." He le­aned for­ward in his cha­ir. "Did you stop to con­si­der the re­sults of that? If pe­op­le be­li­eve that this de­ath wasn't an ac­ci­dent, then they'll cho­ose-many of them-to be­li­eve that the old tro­ub­les are star­ting up aga­in. Anot­her thing: to­day sho­uld ha­ve ta­ught you so­met­hing. The qu­es­ti­on of the McNabb boy's gu­ilt wo­uld su­rely be ra­ised. Wo­uld you want him to go thro­ugh that?"

  "But-"

  "Lis­ten to me." He fi­xed Kurt with a pe­net­ra­ting lo­ok. "What co­uld be ga­ined by pro­ving the gu­ilt of a fi­ve-ye­ar-old? A fi­ve-ye­ar-old is a le­gal in­no­cent."

  Kurt's eyes wi­de­ned. "Then you be­li­eve Sil­vio did it too."

  "Do you think the way to help the child is to ha­ve his re­cord mar­red for all ti­me?"

  Kurt sat back and sta­red away for a mo­ment. Then he sa­id, "You had yo­ur mind ma­de up be­fo­re you wal­ked in he­re, didn't you? Is that why you tri­ed to disc­re­dit me? Ma­ke ever­yo­ne be­li­eve I was bi­ased?"

  "Pe­op­le are al­ways bi­ased, Kurt-one way or anot­her. I wan­ted you to exa­mi­ne yo­ur mo­ti­ves."

  He cur­led his lip. "And that's all you had in mind?"

  To his surp­ri­se, Mor­ti­mer la­ug­hed. "Of co­ur­se not. I was using that to strengt­hen my po­si­ti­on… my de­ci­si­on. I ad­mit my bi­as, you see." Then, so­lemnly, "It's too bad you ac­ted so im­pe­tu­o­usly. If you'd co­me to me first, it co­uld ha­ve be­en hand­led in a dif­fe­rent way; the child co­uld ha­ve be­en qu­i­etly re­fer­red to doc­tors. I'm af­ra­id you comp­li­ca­ted things un­ne­ces­sa­rily. You re­al­ly left me no cho­ice."

  "And so, you're just go­ing to pre­tend it ne­ver hap­pe­ned- pre­tend everyt­hing is fi­ne."

  Mor­ti­mer le­aned back in his cha­ir and stu­di­ed the ce­iling be­fo­re he sa­id tho­ught­ful­ly, "Did it oc­cur to you to won­der why I'm tel­ling you the­se things?" He ga­ve Kurt a qu­ick lo­ok. "No, I didn't think so." Then ab­ruptly, "I know you've be­en cho­sen by World­Co for tra­ining. And yo­ur tra­ining might as well start now. You will not be de­aling in ab­so­lu­tes. You're a fo­ol if you think that everyt­hing is black and whi­te."

  "But… in this ca­se-"

  "In no ca­se," he thun­de­red. Then mo­re qu­i­etly, "The­re are no ab­so­lu­tes. And in the end, you ha­ve only yo­ur own jud­ge­ment to rely on."

  Kurt ra­ised an eyeb­row. "Even if it's wrong?"

  "Espe­ci­al­ly if it's wrong. Do you think you can put it to a vo­te? You're not de­aling with a de­moc­ra­tic system he­re. You li­ve in an oli­garchy. Bet­ter to be wrong and ta­ke the con­se­qu­en­ces than to blow with the wind."

  As Kurt sta­red at him, Mor­ti­mer le­aned for­ward and fi­xed him with an iron ga­ze. "Let me tell you so­met­hing, yo­ung man. So­me­day you are go­ing to be fa­ced with a prob­lem that af­fects the li­ves of many pe­op­le. You're go­ing to ha­ve to ta­ke res­pon­si­bi­lity for yo­ur de­ci­si­on. And you're go­ing to ha­ve to li­ve with it. When that ti­me co­mes," he sa­id de­li­be­ra­tely, "I ho­pe you can."

  * * *

  By the ti­me Mar­ga­ret got back to her class, she was ex­ha­us­ted. She felt hot and out of sorts. Brus­hing a lock of ha­ir from Sil­vio's fa­ce, she sent him to his se­at whe­re a gro­up of child­ren cut bright pa­per in­to strips with ro­und-no­sed scis­sors as the subs­ti­tu­te te­ac­her watc­hed.

  Mar­ga­ret tho­ught of as­king the girl to stay on for the rest of the day. It wo­uld be so won­der­ful to go ho­me now, to stretch out and go to sle­ep. She wasn't fe­eling well. Not at all well, re­al­ly. Mar­ga­ret glan­ced at the clock. Not much ti­me left tho­ugh. She sup­po­sed it wo­uld be best to stay.

  The girl left, and Mar­ga­ret sat down at her desk. Story ti­me was next, but she just didn't think she co­uld ma­na­ge that. Her he­ad was be­gin­ning to ac­he. She de­ci­ded she wo­uld just let them ke­ep on cut­ting and pas­ting for as long as they wo­uld.

  Ti­me pas­sed un­til she was start­led by a boy at her el­bow. "I'm thirsty."

  She sta­red at the clock. It was past ti­me to ta­ke them for a drink and then to the bath­ro­om. She sto­od and lo­oked aro­und the ro­om. "Wa­ter fo­un­ta­in ti­me." She tri­ed to ma­ke her vo­ice che­ery, but her he­ad felt aw­ful.

  The child­ren fell in­to a rag­ged li­ne, and she marc­hed them out to the low wa­ter fo­un­ta­in that sto­od on a conc­re­te strip bet­we­en two of the tem­po­rary bu­il­dings. "Don't push," she sa­id auto­ma­ti­cal­ly.

  Sally was next in li­ne at the fo­un­ta­in. She put a hand qu­ickly to her mo­uth and le­aned over the stre­am of wa­ter, her pig­ta­ils swin­ging with the mo­ti­on li­ke bra­ided ears. Sud­denly, Sally stif­fe­ned and threw a hand to her mo­uth. Her fa­ce flus­hed as Mar­ga­ret watc­hed. "What is it? Sally, what's wrong?"

  The child's mo­uth wor­ked, but no so­und ca­me out, and to Mar­ga­ret's hor­ror, a dre­ad­ful gray-blue co­lor spre­ad over Sally's fa­ce. Cho­king. Oh, God! She was cho­king.

  Run­ning to her si­de, she grab­bed Sally from be­hind. Trying des­pe­ra­tely to re­mem­ber her first aid, Mar­ga­ret pres­sed a fist in­to the child's sto­mach.

  With a lit­tle who­ofing so­und, so­met­hing flew out of Sally's mo­uth, and the child be­gan to co­ugh and sob si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly. In ne­ar pa­nic, Mar­ga­ret whac­ked and pat­ted the girl's back un­til both of them had re­co­ve­red eno­ugh to bre­at­he nor­mal­ly aga­in.

  Mar­ga­ret lo­oked at the ex­ci­ted clus­ter of lit­tle fa­ces aro­und her and sho­o­ed them back in­to the­ir wa­ter fo­un­ta­in li­ne. Then kne­eling be­fo­re Sally, she to­ok her sho­ul­ders. "What did you ha­ve in yo­ur mo­uth?"

  The lit­tle girl lo­oked away, then co­ug­hed-this ti­me mo­re from gu­ilt, Mar­ga­ret de­ci­ded, than from cho­king. "What was it, Sally?"

  "A be­ad."

  "A be­ad!" She ought to know bet­ter than that. "Do you ha­ve any mo­re?"

  "Well… one."

  "Show me."

  The child fis­hed in­to a mi­nus­cu­le poc­ket and bro­ught out a shiny ebony be­ad.

  Mar­ga­ret to­ok it. "Why did you put that in yo­ur mo
­uth?"

  " 'Ca­use it's ma­gic. Sil­vio sa­id." Then Sally clam­ped her hand over her mo­uth and sho­ok her he­ad.

  "What? What did Sil­vio say?"

  Sally's eyes we­re wi­de now. "I can't tell. The ma­gic turns to bad if I tell."

  "Non­sen­se." Her vo­ice was shar­per than she me­ant it to be. "The­re isn't any ma­gic in that be­ad. Ma­gic is just a ma­de-up thing, Sally."

  "Huh-uh." The pig­ta­ils swung as she sho­ok her he­ad. "It turns to bad if I tell. I co­uld die… li­ke Jor­ge."

  Mar­ga­ret roc­ked back on her he­els and sta­red at the black be­ad in her hand. As she sta­red, she sud­denly saw qu­ite cle­arly in her mind a string of black be­ads in a de­ad boy's hand-a string of be­ads that en­ded in a sil­ver cru­ci­fix.

  The po­un­ding in her he­ad in­ten­si­fi­ed. She co­uld smell them-smell the ro­ses. She was drow­ning in the smell of them. "Ste­vie," she sa­id un­der her bre­ath. "Ste­vie…"

  She had be­en pad­dling the lit­tle bo­at. Ste­vie sat in the bow, fa­cing her, chubby legs stretc­hed out. She lo­oked aro­und qu­ickly. They we­re out fart­her than they we­re sup­po­sed to be, but Daddy and Char­lot­te hadn't no­ti­ced.

  The sun was hot on her body and her su­it was ne­arly dry now. She le­aned for­ward and sa­id slyly, "Know whe­re we are?"

  He sho­ok his he­ad.

  She ro­se, half-cro­uc­hing, clin­ging to the bo­at with one hand, po­in­ting with the ot­her to the pla­ce whe­re the wa­ter was blac­kest next to the tang­le of ro­ots from a half-sub­mer­ged cypress. "That's a ga­tor ho­le." She clutc­hed at the bo­at with both hands now and be­gan to rock. "Ole ga­tor li­ves down the­re, and he eats lit­tle boys."

  Ste­vie's eyes grew wi­de and he clung to the bo­at-tigh­ter now as it tip­ped de­eply, then righ­ted, then plo­wed in the ot­her di­rec­ti­on. "Don't, Mar­ga­ret."

  "Ole ga­tor's gon­na get you." She roc­ked aga­in, wil­der now. "Gon­na eat you up. Gon­na eat you up, and you'll be de­ad." Wa­ter slos­hed in­to the bo­at.

  He be­gan to whim­per now. "Don't. Don't, Mar­ga­ret."

  "Gon­na eat you up, and you'll be de­ad." Sud­denly she felt her fo­ot slip. Start­led, she fell he­avily aga­inst the si­de of the bo­at and plun­ged in­to the wa­ter.

  Sput­te­ring, she grab­bed the cap­si­zed bo­at and blin­ked the wa­ter out of her eyes. She didn't see Ste­vie. "Co­me on up," she sa­id. “Co­me on. The­re isn't any ga­tor."

  The wa­ter rip­pling aro­und her chest felt warm-much war­mer than the sud­den ice she felt in her belly. "Ste­vie." The ice was pu­re fe­ar now. "Ste­vie…"

  Mar­ga­ret was on her fe­et, stumb­ling thro­ugh the start­led clump of child­ren. She clutc­hed at Sil­vio-hug­ged and clutc­hed and sob­bed out the words "He didn't me­an to. Didn't me­an to. Didn't me­an to… It was an ac­ci­dent…"

  Sil­vio sto­od ri­gidly in her pa­nicky emb­ra­ce, his fa­ce qu­ite im­pas­si­ve un­til he slowly smi­led.

  Chapter 8

  The shut­tle wasn't what Kurt had ex­pec­ted. From its pic­tu­res, he tho­ught it wo­uld be much lar­ger. It was most li­ke a Tam­paT­ran car stuf­fed in­to a me­tal sle­eve, he de­ci­ded.

  Be­fo­re lift-off, his emo­ti­ons had ho­ve­red bet­we­en di­sap­po­int­ment and ex­ci­te­ment. Now, they we­re in free flight, and all he co­uld see to his left was a cur­ving me­tal wall li­ned with thick ple­xi-shi­elds, and to his right, the smi­ling fa­ce of Chao Ching-jen.

  They we­re so firmly velc­ro­ed and latc­hed, so comp­le­tely me­di­ca­ted for mo­ti­on sick­ness, that ex­cept for the fact that he felt so­met­hing li­ke a trap­ped bal­lo­on, we­ight­les­sness was bo­ring.

  Ahe­ad, all he co­uld see was an arm emer­ging he­re and the­re from one of the do­zens of con­to­ured se­ats. Ever­yo­ne se­emed sub­du­ed and pre­oc­cu­pi­ed, li­ke pas­sen­gers on a night com­mu­ter tra­in. He sig­hed fa­intly; he was go­ing in­to spa­ce and it wasn't much dif­fe­rent from go­ing in­to Tam­pa.

  "Am I de­tec­ting a sigh of gri­ef, or one of dyspep­sia?" Chao as­ked.

  It was so­met­hing in bet­we­en. "The shut­tle." Kurt smi­led ru­eful­ly. "I was ex­pec­ting so­met­hing a lit­tle mo­re ex­ci­ting."

  Chao nod­ded, then sud­denly chuck­led. "I find it ha­ir-ra­ising."

  Kurt fol­lo­wed his ga­ze. From the se­at ahe­ad, so­me­one's long bra­id of black ha­ir had es­ca­ped its mo­orings and was ri­sing slowly in the air. The ta­il of the bra­id spre­ad li­ke a cob­ra's ho­od as its body writ­hed in sna­ke­li­ke un­du­la­ti­ons.

  Kurt held an ima­gi­nary flu­te to his lips and be­gan to whist­le the po­pu­lar song "Sna­ke Dan­ce." Chao to­ok up the the­me with gut­tu­ral jung­le "uck-ucks" and drum­mings on his thigh. Be­hind them, so­me­one la­ug­hed, and in se­conds the aft sec­ti­on of the shut­tle ec­ho­ed with fluty whist­les and drum­be­ats to the comp­le­te puz­zle­ment of the for­ward sec­ti­on.

  Fi­nal­ly, a hand re­ac­hed up, se­ized the bra­ided ap­pen­da­ge, and it di­sap­pe­ared to a storm of ap­pla­use and de­ligh­ted ho­otings.

  But the chill was go­ne from the air now. So­mew­he­re be­hind Kurt, a girl be­gan to sing a funny lit­tle song abo­ut a frust­ra­ted uni­corn and, with much fa­king of the words, ever­yo­ne jo­ined in on the cho­rus.

  The cap­ta­in's vo­ice ca­me ab­ruptly over the spe­akers: "Earth to star­bo­ard." As he spo­ke, in­ter­nal lights dim­med and win­ked out as a sec­ti­on of the hull at right-over­he­ad rol­led away, le­aving only the ple­xi-shi­eld bet­we­en them and the black of spa­ce.

  A col­lec­ti­ve gasp ro­se from the gro­up. Kurt felt his he­art clench at the sight: the jewel-blue, clo­ud-dres­sed full Earth. It was so be­a­uti­ful and yet at the sa­me ti­me so vul­ne­rab­le, so alo­ne, that he felt a wrench at the full re­ali­za­ti­on that he wo­uld not to­uch ho­me aga­in for many ye­ars.

  So­me­one sob­bed, and then a girl's cle­ar vo­ice be­gan to sing the ant­hem "Our One World." One by one they to­ok it up, ad­ding vo­ices, and then ever­yo­ne was sin­ging the simp­le, mo­ving me­lody. The song swel­led un­til it se­emed to fill all of spa­ce, un­til it se­emed as if they we­re a part of it, flo­ating free of the­ir craft to hang li­ke stars abo­ve a ga­uzy sap­phi­re ca­ught in vel­vet night.

  PART THREE

  Mouat-Gari Year Ninety-Nine

  Chapter 1

  When his so­lo ca­me to a stop at North Un­derg­ro­und, Kurt Kra­us got out and stro­de thro­ugh the pub­lic ro­om to the rest­ric­ted area of Chat­lan­ta Ter­mi­nal. A small mass of musc­le bul­ged over his tightly clam­ped jaw.

  A light snow was fal­ling out­si­de, mel­ting as so­on as it to­uc­hed the gro­und. At the hig­her ele­va­ti­ons, the decks of the econ­dos that stud­ded the fa­ce of Mis­si­onary Rid­ge we­re al­re­ady co­ated with whi­te. In­si­de the ter­mi­nal the walls glo­wed sun yel­low, co­un­te­rac­ting the dull we­at­her.

  As Kurt step­ped in­to the G-l wa­iting ro­om, a ste­ward ca­me up car­rying a tray la­den with ste­aming cups. "Help you, Mr. Kra­us? Cof­fee to­day?"

  Kurt sho­ok his he­ad and se­lec­ted a caf­fe­ine tab­let, was­hing it down with a glass of oran­ge ju­ice.

  "So­met­hing to eat, per­haps?" as­ked the ste­ward.

  Kurt didn't know him. He glan­ced at the man's bad­ge, re­ading his na­me. "No, thank you, Tho­mas." The­re was a wry twist to his lips as he smi­led at the man. The ste­wards we­re anach­ro­nisms. A sop to our egos, he tho­ught. But it was ni­cer to ke­ep so­me of the old ways-mo­re per­so­nal than a mac­hi­ne.

  The light ca­me on over the bo­ar­ding ga­te; a pur­ring fe­ma­le vo­ice sa­id, "Bo­ar­ding for the Mi­nistry Of­fi­ces now be­gin­ning."

&nbs
p; Kurt step­ped in­to the Tu­be and to­ok a se­at in his car. Anot­her sop, anot­her anach­ro­nism-ha­ving his own car. The tho­ught pas­sed; the car ca­me with the job, and he had be­en Mi­nis­ter of Cul­tu­re for ne­arly fifty ye­ars.

  He set­tled back in his cha­ir, fit­ting per­fectly in­to its con­to­urs, and ran his hand thro­ugh his thick black ha­ir; then he drop­ped his hand to the con­so­le in front of him and pres­sed a but­ton.

  The com­mu­ni­ca­tor scre­en lit up. "Go­od mor­ning, Mr. Kra­us."

  "Sche­du­le," he sa­id. The win­dow­less car se­aled and in a mo­ment be­gan to mo­ve thro­ugh its smo­oth bo­re. It ac­ce­le­ra­ted ra­pidly. The com­mu­ni­ca­tor flas­hed Kurt's sche­du­le on the scre­en. At ten hund­red ho­urs, the "me­eting" with Menc­ken-trans­la­te, "enco­un­ter." He twis­ted his lip. He'd se­en the re­sults of Menc­ken's tests and charts a do­zen ti­mes. The tests po­in­ted to only one conc­lu­si­on.

  Lo­gi­cal­ly, that left him a sing­le de­ci­si­on. A clo­ud se­emed to pass over his eyes for a mo­ment. A sing­le de­ci­si­on-And did the end, af­ter all, jus­tify the me­ans?

  The car be­gan to de­ce­le­ra­te. In two mo­re mi­nu­tes, he di­sem­bar­ked. In so­ut­he­ast Chat­lan­ta, the snow had not yet be­gun. Pul­ling his outer clo­se to ke­ep out the damp cold, he step­ped from a windy pas­sa­ge­way on­to the ro­ofed zon­ti­la­tor as a drizzly ra­in spre­ad its dull she­et over So­uth End. He sto­od tall and alo­ne, gli­ding si­lently thro­ugh the gray stre­et, he­aring only his own tho­ughts: How many wo­uld ha­ve to die? How many?

  * * *

  Ca­me­ran Menc­ken pres­sed the con­so­le but­ton with a slim, ma­ni­cu­red fin­ger. As the disp­lay flas­hed on, she tur­ned to Kurt. "My of­fi­ce chec­ked the re­sults aga­in. The cor­re­la­ti­on is un­mis­ta­kab­le." She fi­xed him with a co­ol sta­re.