EarthChild

by Sharon Webb

  The child­ren be­gan to ar­ri­ve in the af­ter­no­on. In or­der to ke­ep the­ir first-day stress to a mi­ni­mum, Kurt had exc­lu­ded World­Co mi­nis­ters and of­fi­ci­als. Ins­te­ad, he wan­ted the child­ren to be gre­eted by the­ir new te­ac­hers and co­un­se­lors. But, re­ali­zing the system-wi­de in­te­rest in Re­nas­cen­ce, Kurt per­mit­ted a World­Co sa­tel­li­te bro­ad­cast that eve­ning.

  After an early din­ner, they gat­he­red in the Com­mon Hall. In the dimly ligh­ted ro­om, fi­re­light flic­ke­red on the fa­ces of the child­ren. So­me se­emed puz­zled and ap­pre­hen­si­ve, ot­hers se­emed at ease im­me­di­ately, but all of them sho­wed a bright gle­am of cu­ri­osity abo­ut each ot­her and the­ir new sur­ro­un­dings.

  He al­lo­wed them to talk away the ed­ge of the­ir ner­vo­us­ness be­fo­re he sig­na­led for the prog­ram to be­gin. When a hush fell over the gro­up, he ro­se and sto­od ca­su­al­ly by the gre­at sto­ne he­arth and be­gan to spe­ak: "Wel­co­me. Wel­co­me to Re­nas­cen­ce." He scan­ned the fa­ces of the child­ren, trying to pla­ce them in his mind. He had go­ne over the list many ti­mes. The­re, al­most hid­den in the depths of a cha­ir much too lar­ge for him, was a pa­le blond boy-Evan, whom they sa­id wo­uld pro­bably turn mat­he­ma­tics to­ward a new di­rec­ti­on, gi­ven his chan­ce.

  Spraw­led ung­ra­ce­ful­ly on a lar­ge co­uch aga­inst one wall we­re a set of iden­ti­cal twins from Aust­ra­lia's in­te­ri­or-two dark boys who co­uld work ma­gic with pri­mi­ti­ve flu­tes and pi­pes of the­ir own de­vi­sing.

  Stan­ding well back un­der an al­co­ve was a girl so le­an and tall, so black, that she se­emed to blend with the sha­dows of the ro­om-a girl who thro­ugh dan­ce and mi­me co­uld charm and se­du­ce-yet she was ba­rely ten.

  His ga­ze dar­ted aro­und the ro­om: The­re, a child who fo­und a bat­te­red vi­olin in a Vi­en­na dorm when he was three ye­ars old and, tho­ugh it was much too lar­ge for him, had co­axed mar­vels from it; ac­ross, a girl who se­emed to think in me­tap­hor and pa­rab­le, who plan­ted lan­gu­age li­ke se­eds and re­aped a com­pel­ling har­vest; next to her, a boy who­se mind jum­ped the chasm of lan­gu­age al­to­get­her and drew symbols and abst­racts from the com­pu­ters he wor­ked with, un­til it se­emed that he and his mac­hi­nes we­re of one mind.

  "Wel­co­me-all of you-to this pla­ce cal­led Re­nas­cen­ce," sa­id Kurt. "You are sur­ro­un­ded he­re by fo­ur tho­usand squ­are ki­lo­me­ters of wil­der­ness. The­re is a re­ason. In the wil­der­ness, li­fe starts a new cycle each spring. For too long now, hu­man­kind has ig­no­red its ori­gins. It is ti­me to to­uch them aga­in, to re­ga­in the rhythm, the flow, of the­se cycles; to ex­pe­ri­en­ce what we ho­pe will truly be a re­nas­cen­ce-a re­birth of hu­man­kind.

  "You will li­ve he­re un­til yo­ur body tells us that it is ti­me for yo­ur Fi­nal De­ci­si­on. At that ti­me, you will cho­ose bet­we­en the im­mor­ta­lity of yo­ur body or yo­ur art." He pa­used, then sa­id, "The cho­ice will be yo­urs, and we be­li­eve you will cho­ose well…"

  Bal­fo­ur, the Di­rec­tor of Re­nas­cen­ce, sto­od up then to ma­ke the for­mal pre­sen­ta­ti­on of the gifts to Re­nas­cen­ce. Lights ca­me on at her to­uch, il­lu­mi­na­ting each work of art gi­ven by the pe­op­le of World­Co: a sun-yel­low Van Gogh bla­zing with light; a back­lit col­lec­ti­on of an­ci­ent mu­si­cal inst­ru­ments from Chi­na; a blue light pla­ying over a gold mask from a king's tomb. On it went un­til the mag­ni­fi­cent ro­om was awash with light that ric­he­ned the gol­den glow of its walls and di­sap­pe­ared wit­hin its dar­ker be­ams and ba­lust­ra­des. The child­ren put on neck­la­ces then-"Gift of the Out­land child­ren of L-5, Lu­na Com­mu­nity, Ves­ta, and He­be…" sa­id Bal­fo­ur, as the hid­den ca­me­ra eyes of World­Co watc­hed.

  "And now," sa­id Bal­fo­ur, "we pre­sent a re­ci­tal of yo­ur pe­ers." With anot­her to­uch, the lights be­gan to dim and then win­ked out. Ins­tantly a sing­le spot ca­me on, and a small girl be­gan to dan­ce to the ac­com­pa­ni­ment of the twin Aust­ra­li­an boys' pi­pes. The two boys, hid­den at first, emer­ged as elon­ga­ted three-di­men­si­onal sha­dows that stretc­hed ne­arly to the top of the high ce­iling. Fa­intly then, the pla­in­ti­ve so­unds of a pe­le­forté jo­ined in co­un­ter­po­int to the imp­ro­vi­sa­ti­onal pi­pes un­til it se­emed as if the inst­ru­ments we­re un­der the cont­rol of one mind.

  The lit­tle dan­cer's body was a part of it-mo­ving as if the dan­ce we­re mu­sic ma­de in­to flesh, and then, so­me­how, trans­cen­ding flesh. At a trill from a pi­pe and an ec­ho from the pe­le­forté, the child be­gan to spin-so ra­pidly that the blue Ves­ta­ni­te crystal at her thro­at se­emed to wink with the mo­ti­on li­ke a blind blue eye.

  She spun to a stop, then sud­denly stag­ge­red awk­wardly. She sta­red out in­to the ro­om and gas­ped for bre­ath. As the pi­pes pla­yed on, she gas­ped aga­in-too he­avily for me­re exer­ti­on-and, clutc­hing her he­ad, she be­gan to vo­mit.

  Kurt sta­red in hor­ror at the girl. Then, with a crash of hands aga­inst the pe­le­forté key­bo­ard, Tan­ya ro­se to her fe­et. She was pan­ting, drag­ging in air with sob­bing, strug­gling bre­aths. She tur­ned her fa­ce to­ward him, a fa­ce pa­le as de­ath. She sta­red at him with glassy, un­se­e­ing eyes, then, swa­ying on­ce, she col­lap­sed.

  A. scre­am ca­me from be­hind Kurt. Then anot­her to his left. He saw a child in the audi­en­ce be­gin to gasp-and then anot­her. He be­gan to run and fo­und him­self oh one si­de of Tan­ya. Dr. Nes­he­im knelt at the ot­her.

  The doc­tor felt the ca­ro­tid pul­se of the gas­ping child. Sud­denly, he le­aned over her, his fa­ce clo­se to hers, and snif­fed her bre­ath. He ra­ised stric­ken eyes to Kurt's. "Oh, God!" he sa­id. "It's cya­ni­de."

  "What!" Kurt's pul­se po­un­ded in his thro­at. "How? From the air?"

  "No. We'd all be de­ad. It's not in the air." Nes­he­im bar­ked or­ders to an as­sis­tant who rus­hed over. "Amyl nit­ri­te. And hurry!" The man left at a run. Ot­hers fol­lo­wed.

  "Was it the fo­od? So­met­hing they ate?"

  "The ti­me's not right." With a thumb un­der Tan­ya's chin, Nes­he­im tip­ped her he­ad back, ope­ning her air­way.

  Kurt bent over the child. Her he­ad was coc­ked to one si­de. The Ves­ta­ni­te crystal had flip­ped over. Ca­ught in the hol­low of her thro­at, it mo­ved with every gasp. He sta­red at it. Dis­rup­ting the smo­oth set­ting was a thin out­ward-cur­ving ca­sing of sil­ver. A tiny drop of flu­id hung at its ba­se. The neck­la­ce… the only per­so­nal gifts… And every child was we­aring one!

  With a sud­den mo­ve, he rip­ped it from her thro­at. He le­aped to his fe­et, his vo­ice car­rying thro­ugh the crowd: "Ta­ke off the neck­la­ces. Throw them down. Ta­ke them off now!" His vo­ice rang with aut­ho­rity. At his words, pe­op­le be­gan to snatch neck­la­ces from the thro­ats of child­ren.

  He re­pe­ated his words aga­in and aga­in. It se­emed to him that ti­me had en­te­red a new fra­me, that pe­op­le res­pon­ded in slow mo­ti­on. Hands mo­ved li­ke slugs. Blue crystals drif­ted to the flo­or thro­ugh thic­ke­ned air. Ac­ross the ro­om, a boy be­gan to drag in air in an in­ter­mi­nab­le gas­ping strug­gle for oxy­gen.

  Yet, only se­conds had elap­sed.

  Chapter 7

  From his Ves­ta Cent­ral cont­rol ro­om, Sil­vio Ta­ran­ti­no watc­hed the bro­ad­cast of the ope­ning ce­re­mo­ni­es of Re­nas­cen­ce.

  A dan­cer was spin­ning. The blue crystal at her thro­at win­ked with every re­vo­lu­ti­on of her body. Sud­denly, she stag­ge­red and was vi­olently ill. Sil­vio le­aned for­ward in his cha­ir and sta­red in­tently at the ho­lo fi­gu­res. Wit­hin se­conds, Re­nas­cen­ce was in cha­os. Pe­op­le scre­a
med as child­ren be­gan to gasp and clutch at the­ir he­ads. His eyes wi­de­ned at the sight. What was hap­pe­ning?

  A vo­ice yel­led so­met­hing. Then, hands re­ac­hed out- snatc­hing neck­la­ces away, bre­aking thin sil­ver cha­ins, flin­ging crystals to the flo­or.

  Sil­vio's ga­ze loc­ked on­to the sce­ne. As neck­la­ce af­ter neck­la­ce ar­ced and fell, his hands co­iled and tigh­te­ned in­to claws. Why we­re they do­ing it? So­met­hing was wrong. So­met­hing was ter­ribly wrong.

  Abruptly, the trans­mis­si­on en­ded. He was cut off from Re­nas­cen­ce now. His fin­gers tigh­te­ned in his palm as he sta­red at the blank trans­mis­si­on sta­ge. Slowly, he ope­ned his fin­gers, clo­sed them aga­in, ope­ned them on­ce mo­re. Bright cres­cents of blo­od wel­led in his palms, yet not no­ti­cing, aga­in he clenc­hed his fists, dri­ving his na­ils de­eper in­to his flesh. It was all go­ing wrong. That wasn't what he had plan­ned. It was all wrong.

  The nag­ging tho­ught ca­me to him that per­haps he had ac­ted has­tily. Pre­ma­tu­rely. He had be­en so su­re his plan wo­uld work…

  He felt the fury of de­fe­at cre­ep and grow wit­hin him. Un­der­ne­ath it, that ot­her thing-that part he kept so hid­den- stir­red and shud­de­red. With ef­fort, he held it back. He mustn't let it show. Must not let it show now. Must not.

  It was gro­wing, the thing. It was co­ming, and he had to hi­de it. Hi­de from it. Had to.

  So­me­how, he was on his fe­et, scramb­ling to the do­or. The Laby­rinth… had to get the­re. They co­uld hi­de him the­re- lock him away un­til it was over.

  It had hap­pe­ned only twi­ce be­fo­re-the ter­rib­le un­le­as­hing of the thing in­si­de him. The last ti­me he had be­en loc­ked wit­hin the cell-li­ke ro­om for over two days un­til it was over, un­til he was calm aga­in and in full cont­rol.

  Only then had he be­en ab­le to step out, smi­ling, from the rock-hewn ro­om with walls that ran with blo­od.

  Chapter 8

  Still no word. No word yet abo­ut the child­ren. Se­ven of them lay in the lit­tle Re­nas­cen­ce hos­pi­tal whi­le me­di­cal per­son­nel wor­ked be­hind clo­sed do­ors.

  At first, Kurt had wor­ked fe­ve­rishly too, ta­king over the com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons con­so­le of the Di­rec­tor's of­fi­ce, sum­mo­ning ex­perts, dis­patc­hing an ur­gent mes­sa­ge to the Mi­nistry of Jus­ti­ce.

  Acti­vity whir­led aro­und him now li­ke winds aro­und a storm cen­ter. On the sur­fa­ce, he se­emed calm. In­wardly, he se­et­hed with a fury partly di­rec­ted at the vi­ola­ti­on of the child­ren, partly di­rec­ted at him­self. He co­uld not put asi­de the fe­eling that he had do­ne this to them. Re­nas­cen­ce had be­en his pro­j­ect, his de­ci­si­on. He had to li­ve with it now-and with the know­led­ge that se­ven child­ren might die be­ca­use of it. Se­ven? Only se­ven? All of them we­re go­ing to die be­ca­use of him-all the child­ren who cho­se to stay on and deny the­ir im­mor­ta­lity. A bit­ter smi­le pla­yed ac­ross his lips as he re­mem­be­red a scrap of ad­vi­ce he had be­en gi­ven on­ce: …in the end, you ha­ve only yo­ur own judg­ment to rely on… Only his own-even if it we­re wrong.

  A to­ne so­un­ded on the con­so­le in front of him; a call ca­me thro­ugh: the che­mist he had sum­mo­ned. "We ha­ve par­ti­al re­sults of the analy­sis."

  "I'll be right the­re," Kurt sa­id.

  * * *

  "You work fast."

  "The la­bo­ra­tory fa­ci­li­ti­es are ex­cep­ti­onal," Thomp­son ans­we­red.

  They we­re me­ant to be. Not­hing too go­od for our yo­ung, mor­tal sci­en­tists, Kurt tho­ught bit­terly. Gi­ve them the best- af­ter all, they won't be he­re very long. He lo­oked aro­und the lab. "I ne­ver tho­ught it wo­uld be chris­te­ned li­ke this. What ha­ve you le­ar­ned?"

  Thomp­son pic­ked up a neck­la­ce and po­in­ted to the back. "The com­part­ment was ad­ded. It was se­aled off with a wax that melts at body tem­pe­ra­tu­re. The car­rying agent sta­yed in­si­de un­til the child­ren put on the neck­la­ces."

  He sta­red at the pi­le of Ves­ta­ni­te crystals tang­led among the sil­ver cha­ins. "Lit­tle agents of de­ath-every one of them."

  "No," sa­id Thomp­son. "The po­iso­nings we­re ac­ci­den­tal."

  "Acci­den­tal! How can you be­li­eve that?"

  The che­mist stuck a she­af of prin­to­uts in Kurt's hand. "Lo­ok," he sa­id. "This is what we fo­und."

  Kurt sta­red at the che­mi­cal equ­ati­ons. "You'll ha­ve to trans­la­te the­se for me."

  "They're in­comp­le­te, but they show di­methyl sul­fo­xi­de- the car­rying agent-mi­xed with a mild hypno­tic. We're not su­re which one yet. Who­ever did this didn't know eno­ugh che­mistry."

  "What do you me­an?"

  Thomp­son po­in­ted to the com­part­ment at the back of the neck­la­ce, "Sil­verp­la­te. So­me of the neck­la­ces pic­ked up eno­ugh re­si­due to com­bi­ne with the car­rying agent."

  "Re­si­due?"

  "Sil­ver cya­ni­de. It's used in sil­ver-pla­ting. The re­si­due com­bi­ned che­mi­cal­ly with the car­rying agent-eno­ugh to re­le­ase free cya­ni­de in the child­ren's bo­di­es. The po­iso­nings we­ren't plan­ned."

  Kurt lo­oked at Thomp­son. "No­ne of this ma­kes sen­se. You sa­id the­re was a hypno­tic mi­xed in. Why?"

  Thomp­son tur­ned the neck­la­ce over in his hand, then la­id it down and nod­ded to­ward the la­bo­ra­tory adj­acent to them. "The elect­ro­nics pe­op­le ha­ven't is­su­ed a fi­nal re­port yet, but it se­ems that the pur­po­se of the neck­la­ces was sug­ges­ti­on. Sub­li­mi­nal. That's why the hypno­tic was ad­ded-to ma­ke the child­ren mo­re sug­ges­tib­le."

  "Sug­ges­tib­le! What are you tal­king abo­ut?"

  Thomp­son pic­ked up a neck­la­ce and han­ded it to him. "Put it on." As Kurt he­si­ta­ted, Thomp­son la­ug­hed, "I'm not trying to po­ison you, Mr. Kra­us. That one's empty."

  He, held the two ends of the sil­ver cha­in to­get­her at the back of his neck and felt them lock shut. "Well?"

  Thomp­son had step­ped to the do­or of the adj­acent elect­ro­nics lab. "Gi­ve it a lit­tle ti­me," he sa­id over his sho­ul­der and di­sap­pe­ared thro­ugh the do­or. In a few mi­nu­tes, he was back with a small re­cor­ding de­vi­ce in his hand. He thum­bed it on. "He­ar anyt­hing?"

  Kurt sho­ok his he­ad.

  Thomp­son to­uc­hed a di­al on the de­vi­ce. "Now?" A whis­pe­red so­und ca­me from it. Aga­in, the so­und. Kurt co­uldn't ma­ke it out.

  "Ah, but you can," sa­id Thomp­son. He switc­hed off the de­vi­ce. "He­ar anyt­hing now?"

  Kurt stra­ined to lis­ten in the stil­lness of the lab. At last he he­ard so­met­hing-a so­und so fa­int it might be not­hing mo­re than the shus­hing whis­per of his own blo­od in his ears. "I think so."

  "Right," sa­id Thomp­son. "You're he­aring this…" He switc­hed the inst­ru­ment on aga­in, lo­uder now.

  "It so­unds li­ke a his­sing. Whi­te no­ise."

  "To yo­ur ears. But, it's spe­eded up. What yo­ur bra­in is he­aring is this-" Thomp­son mo­ved the di­al aga­in, slo­wing the so­und.

  Kurt he­ard the words dis­tinctly: Sil­ver T, Sil­ver T, Sil­ver T…

  "From the neck­la­ce," sa­id Thomp­son. "It's ac­ti­va­ted by body he­at."

  "You me­an it do­es this cons­tantly?"

  "As long as it's worn."

  Kurt to­uc­hed the crystal, crad­ling it in his hand. He had to stra­in to he­ar the fa­int shus­hing so­und. "And that's it? That's all it says?"

  Thomp­son nod­ded. "It co­uld be a form of con­di­ti­oning- for so­me la­ter sti­mu­lus."

  Kurt nod­ded une­asily. That wo­uld exp­la­in the ini­ti­al hypno­tic-so­met­hing to che­mi­cal­ly start the con­di­ti­o
ning pro­cess. But… for what?

  * * *

  Back in the Di­rec­tor's of­fi­ce, the­re was still no re­port from Nes­he­im abo­ut the child­ren. Kurt sat alo­ne and tri­ed to ke­ep his mind from ho­ve­ring at the hos­pi­tal do­or by sor­ting out what Thomp­son had shown him. Sub­li­mi­nals. He had vo­wed ne­ver to let them to­uch Re­nas­cen­ce. To him, this at­tempt on the minds of the child­ren was mo­re obs­ce­ne than the as­sa­ult to the­ir bo­di­es.

  A lump of musc­le in his jaw pul­sed. How da­re they? How da­re they in­va­de the minds of his child­ren?

  With a fa­int start, he re­ali­zed that he had tho­ught of the child­ren in the pos­ses­si­ve. But, that's what they we­re now, we­ren't they? His child­ren-his res­pon­si­bi­lity.

  A qu­ick knock ca­me at the do­or. He lo­oked up as Bal­fo­ur, the Di­rec­tor of Re­nas­cen­ce, sa­id, "Mr. Kra­us. The Mi­nis­ter of Jus­ti­ce is he­re."

  He sto­od up as the man ca­me in­to the ro­om and gras­ped his hand-a link to the past. Chao Ching-jen.

  "I am sorry we must me­et un­der the­se cir­cums­tan­ces," Chao sa­id. "I tho­ught it best to co­me in per­son."

  Kurt nod­ded, then sat down.

  "It is with reg­ret that I he­ard of the de­ath of yo­ur brot­her and the il­lness of the child­ren." Chao ma­de no at­tempt to sit down. "I ha­ve re­ce­ived the che­mist's re­port. My of­fi­ce has be­en ap­pri­sed of it."

  "When do you ex­pect to ta­ke ac­ti­on?" Kurt as­ked.

  "It may not be so simp­le," sa­id Chao. "We may ne­ver le­arn just who did this."

  Kurt's eyeb­row ro­se. "Why?"

  "My of­fi­ce has be­en in to­uch with ot­hers over this mat­ter. The­re is a dif­fe­ren­ce of opi­ni­on abo­ut what sho­uld be do­ne. The con­sen­sus is that an open in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on wo­uld exa­cer­ba­te cer­ta­in gri­evan­ces with the Out­land co­lo­ni­es."