Yes—she could feel her awareness creeping outward through halting linkages. Sandals covered her feet; she felt the straps. Rough ground underfoot when she tried two shuffling steps. Fabric swished against her ankles—a coarsely woven sack of a garment. She felt how it abraded her shoulders when she moved; it was the only garment covering her body . . . no. There was a piece of cloth wound around her hair. She reached up and touched it, turning as she did this to face downhill.
A crowd of several hundred people could be seen down there—perhaps as many as three hundred. She was not sure.
She felt that this body might have been running before she assumed her place in it. Breathing was difficult. A stink of old perspiration assaulted her nostrils.
She could hear the crowd now: a murmurous animal noise. They were moving slowly uphill toward her. The people in it surrounded a man who dragged what appeared to be part of a tree over his shoulder. As he drew nearer, she saw blood on his face, an odd circlet at his brow . . . it looked like a spiney sweat band. The man appeared to have been beaten, bruises and cuts could be discerned through his shredded gray robe.
While the man still was at some distance from her, she saw him stumble and fall on his face in the dirt. A woman in a faded blue robe hurried to help him up but she was beaten back by two young men who wore crested helmets and stiff upper garments which glittered. There were many such men in the crowd. Two of them were kicking and prodding the fallen man, trying to force him to his feet.
Armor, she thought, recalling her history holos. They’re wearing armor.
A sense of the great time which stretched between this moment and her shipside life threatened to overwhelm her. Ship?
Be calm, Ekel. Be calm.
She forced several deep, painful breaths into the old lungs. The armored men, she saw, wore dark skirts which covered them to the knees . . . heavy sandals on their feet, metal greaves over their shins. Each had a short sword sheathed at the shoulder with the handle sticking up beside his head. They used long staves to control the crowd . . . No, she corrected herself. They were using spears, clubbing the crowd back with the butt ends.
The crowd was milling around now, concealing the fallen figure from her. There was a great screaming and crying from them—a conflict which she did not understand.
Some called out: “Let him up! Please let him up!”
Others shouted: “Beat the bastard! Beat him!”
And there was one shrill voice heard above all the others: “Stone him here! He won’t make it to the top.”
A line of the armored men pushed the crowd back, leaving a tall dark man beside the fallen one. The dark man glanced all around, his fear obvious. He jerked to one side, trying to flee, but two of the armored men cut him off, swinging the butts of their spears at him. He dodged back to the side of the fallen man.
One of the soldiers shook the pointed tip of his spear at the dark one, shouted something which Hali could not make out. But the dark one stooped and picked up the tree, lifting it off the fallen one.
What is happening here?
Observe and do not interfere.
A cluster of women was wailing nearby. As the fallen man climbed to his feet and accompanied the dark one, who now dragged the tree, all moved up the hill toward Hali. She watched them carefully, seeking any clue to tell her what was happening. Obviously, it was something painful. Was it momentous? Why had Ship insisted she witness this scene?
They drew nearer. The beaten man lurched along and, presently, stopped near the wailing women. Hali saw that he was barely able to stand. One of the women slipped through the ring of soldiers and mopped the injured man’s bloody face with a gray cloth. He coughed in long, hard spasms, holding his left side and grimacing with each cough.
Hali’s med-tech training dominated her awareness. The man was badly injured—broken ribs at least, and perhaps a punctured lung. There was blood at the comer of his mouth. She wanted to run to him, use her sophisticated skills to ease his suffering.
Do not interfere!
Ship’s presence was like a palpable thing, a wall between her and the injured man.
Steady, Ekel
Ship was in her mind.
She gripped her hands into fists, took several deep gasping breaths. This brought the smell of the crowd into focus. It was the most disgusting sensory experience she had ever known. They were rank with an unwashed festering. How could they survive the things which her nostrils reported?
She heard the injured man speak then. His voice was soft and directed at the women who fell silent when he spoke.
“Weep not for me, but for your children.”
Hali heard him clearly. Such tenderness in that voice!
One of the armored men struck the injured one in the back with a spear butt then, forcing him to resume that lurching march uphill. They drew nearer. The dark one dragged the section of tree.
What were they doing?
The injured one looked back at the cluster of women who once more were wailing. His voice was strong, much stronger than Hali had thought possible.
“If they do these things in a green tree, what will they do in a dry?”
Turning back, the injured one looked full at Hali. He still clutched his side and she saw the characteristic red froth of a lung puncture at his lips.
Ship! What are they doing to him?
Observe.
The injured one said: “You have traveled far to see this.”
Ship intruded on her shock: “He’s talking to you, Ekel. You can answer him.”
The dust of the crowd welled up around her and she choked on it before being able to speak, then: “How . . . how do you know how far I’ve come?”
It was an old woman’s cracked voice she heard issuing from her mouth.
“You are not hidden from me,” the injured one said.
One of the soldiers laughed at her then and thrust his spear in her direction. He did it almost playfully. “Get along, old woman. You may’ve traveled far but I can send you farther.”
His companions guffawed at the jest.
Hali recalled Ship’s reassurance: No one bothers an old woman. The injured man called out to her: “Let them know it was done!”
Then the angry shouts of the crowd and the swirling, odorous dust engulfed her. She almost choked as they moved past, caught by a coughing spasm which cleared her throat. When she could, she turned to gaze after the crowd and a gasp was forced from her. At the top of the hill beyond the crowd two men were hanging on tree constructions with crosspieces such as that being dragged along with the injured man.
A momentary opening in the crowd gave her another glimpse of the injured one and, turning back toward her, he shouted: “If anyone understands God’s will, you must.”
Once more, the milling crowd hid him from her.
God’s will?
A hand touched her arm and she jerked away in fright, whirling to see a young man in a long brown robe at her side. His breath smelled of sewage. And his voice was an unctuous whine.
“He says you come from afar, mother,” the foul-breathed one said. “Do you know him?”
The look in Foul-breath’s eyes made her acutely aware of the vulnerable old flesh which housed her consciousness. This was a dangerous man . . . very dangerous. The look in his eyes reminded her of Oakes. He could cause great pain.
“You had better answer me,” he said, and there was poison in his voice.
Chapter 26
You call Avata “Firefly in the night of the sea.” Avata has doubts about such words because Avata sees the landscape of your mind. Avata moves through your landscape with difficulty. It shifts and twists and changes as Avata goes through. But Avata has made such journeys before. Avata is an explorer of such landscapes. Your phantoms are Avata’s glides. We are linked in motion.
What is this thing you call “the natural universe”? Is that something taken from your god? Ahhh, you have separated your parts to create the unique. You do not need this s
eparation for your creations. This fluid evasiveness of your landscape is your strength. The patterns . . . ahhh, the patterns. From yourself come the forces which shape the course of each thought. Why do you confine your thought in a tiny fixed landscape?
You find a distinction between measurement and preparation of your landscape. You continually prepare, saying: “I am going to say something about . . .”But that limits what you say and it tells your listener to accept your limits. All such measurement and limiting date back to a common system in a simple, linear landscape. Look about you, Human! Where do your senses find such simplicity?
Does a second look at the landscape yield the same view as the first look? Why is your will so inflexible?
A magical affinity between object and likeness, between being and symbol, underlies all symbol systems. It is the assumed foundation of language. The word for thing or object in most languages is related to the word for say or speak and these, in turn, have their roots in magic.
—Kerro Panille, I Sing to the Avata
OAKES STOOD in stunned silence, staring at Jesus Lewis standing just inside the Ceepee cubby’s hatch. Somewhere, there was a background buzz. Oakes realized he had left the holofocus projecting Agrarium D-9. Yes . . . it was full dayside out there. He slapped the cut-off.
Lewis moved another step into the cubby. He was breathing heavily. His thin, straw-colored hair was disarrayed. His dark eyes moved left, right—probing the room. It was an eye movement which Oakes identified as characteristic of groundsiders. There was a patch of pseudoflesh over an injury on Lewis’ narrow, cleft chin, another over the bridge of his sharp nose. His thin mouth was twisted into a wry smile.
“What happened to you?”
“Clones . . .” Deep breath.”. . . revolt.”
“The Redoubt?” A sharp twinge of fear shot through Oakes.
“It’s all right.”
Limping, Lewis crossed the room, sank into a divan. “Is there any of your special joy juice around? Every last drop was lost at the Redoubt.”
Oakes hurried to a concealed locker, removed a bottle of raw Pandoran wine, opened it and handed the whole bottle to Lewis.
Lewis upended the wine and took four long swallows without a breath while he stared around the bottle at Oakes. The poor old Ceepee looked to be in bad shape. There were dark circles under his eyes. Tough.
For Oakes, the moment was welcome as a time to recover his wits. He did not mind serving Lewis and the sense of personal concern this conveyed would have a desired effect. Obviously, something very bad had happened at the Redoubt. Oakes waited until Lewis put down the bottle, then: ‘They revolted?”
“The discards from the Scream Room, the injured and the others we just can’t support. Food’s getting very short. I put all of them outside.”
Oakes nodded. Clones thrown out of the Redoubt were, of course, condemned to death. Quick and efficient disposal by Pandora’s demons . . . unless they had the misfortune to encounter Nerve Runners or a Spinneret. Messy business.
Lewis took another deep swallow of the wine, then: “We didn’t realize that the area had become infested with Nerve Runners.”
Oakes shuddered. To him, Nerve Runners were the ultimate Pandoran horror. He could imagine the darting, threadlike creatures clinging to his flesh, savaging his nerves, invading his eyes, worming their ravenous way through to his brain. The long agony of such an attack was well known groundside and the stories had made the rounds shipside. Everything Pandoran feared the Runners except, perhaps, the kelp. They seemed immune.
When he could control his voice, Oakes asked: “What happened?”
“The clones raised the usual fuss when we put them outside. They know what it’s like out there, of course. I suppose we didn’t pay as close attention as we should. Suddenly, they were screaming, ‘Nerve Runners!’”
“Your people buttoned down, of course.”
“Everything shut up tight while we tried to spot the boil.”
“So?”
Lewis stared at the bottle in his hands, took a deep breath.
Oakes waited. Nerve Runners were horrible, yes—it took three or four minutes for them to do what other demons did in a few eyeblinks. Same result, though.
Lewis sighed, took another swallow of the wine. He appeared calmer, as though Oakes’ presence told him that he really was safe at last.
“They attacked the Redoubt,” Lewis said.
“Nerve Runners?”
“The clones.”
“Attacked? But what weapons . . .”
“Stones, their own bodies. Some of them smashed the sewage baffle before we could stop them. Two clones got inside that way. They were infected by then.”
“Nerve Runners in the Redoubt?”
Oakes stared at Lewis in horror. “What did you do?”
“There was a wild scramble. Our mop-up crew, mostly E-clones, locked themselves in the Aquaculture Lab but Runners were in the water lines by then. The lab’s a shambles. No survivors there. I sealed myself in a Command room with fifteen aides. We were clean.”
“How many did we lose?”
“Most of our effectives.”
“Clones?”
“Almost all gone.”
Oakes grimaced. “Why didn’t you report, ask for help?” He tapped the pellet at his neck.
Lewis shook his head. “I tried. I got static or silence, then someone else trying to talk to me, trying to put pictures in my head.”
Pictures in his head!
That was a good description of what Oakes had experienced. Their safe little secret communications channel had been penetrated! Who?
He voiced the question.
Lewis shrugged. “I’m still trying to find out.”
Oakes put a hand over his own mouth. The ship? Yes, the damned ship was interfering!
He did not dare speak openly of that suspicion. The ship had eyes and ears everywhere. There were other fears, too. A Nerve Runner boil had to be met by fire. He envisioned the Redoubt a mass of cinders inside.
“You say the Redoubt’s all right?”
“Clean. Sterilized, and we have a bonus.” Lewis took another long swallow of wine and grinned at Oakes, savoring the suspense he read in the Ceepee’s face. The Ceepee was so easy to read.
“How?” Oakes did not try to hide his impatience.
“Chlorine and heavily chlorinated water.”
“Chlorine? You mean that kills Nerve Runners?”
“I saw it with my own eyes.”
“That simple? It’s that simple?” Oakes thought of all the years they had lived in terror of these tiniest demons. “Chlorinated water?”
“Heavily chlorinated, undrinkable. But it dissolves the Runners. As a liquid or a gas, it penetrates all the fine places to get every one. The Redoubt stinks, but it’s clean.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m here.” Lewis tapped his chest, took another swallow of wine. Oakes was reacting strangely. It was unsettling. Lewis put down the bottle of wine and thought about the report he had read on the shuttle coming shipside. Legate to the Scream Room! Were there no limits to what the old bastard might do? Lewis hoped not. That was how to control Oakes—through his excesses.
“You are, indeed, here,” Oakes agreed. “How did you get . . . I mean, how did you discover . . .”
“Those of us in the Facilities Room had all of the controls in front of us. We started dumping whatever we could find to . . .”
“But chlorine—how did you get chlorine?”
“We were trying salt brine. There was an electrical short, a wide-scale electrolytic reaction in the brine and we had chlorine. I was on the sensors at the time and saw the chlorine kill some Runners.”
“You’re sure?”
“I saw it with my own eyes. They just shriveled up and died.”
Oakes began to see the picture. Colony had never put chlorine and Nerve Runners together. Most shipside caustics had little effect groundside anyway. Potable water was
produced with filters and flash heat from laser ovens. That was the cheapest way. Fire worked on Nerve Runners. Colony had always used fire. Another thought occurred to him.
“The survivors . . . how . . .”
“Only those locked into a sealed area before the infection spread were saved. We flushed everything else with chlorine gas and heavily chlorinated water.”
Oakes imagined the gas killing people and Runners, the caustic water burning flesh . . . He shook his head to drive out such thoughts.
“You’re absolutely sure the Redoubt is safe?”
Lewis stared up at him. The precious Redoubt! Nothing was more important.
“I’m going back dayside.”
Belatedly, Oakes realized he should show more human concern. “But my dear fellow, you’re wounded!”
“Nothing serious. But one of us will have to be at the Redoubt all of the time from now on.”
“Why?”
“The cleanup was pretty bloody and that’s causing trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The surviving clones, even some of our people . . . well, you can imagine how I had to clean up the place. There were necessary losses. Some of the surviving clones and a few of the more irrational among our people have . . .” He shrugged.
“Have what? Explain yourself.”
“We’ve had to handle several petitions from clones and there were even a few of our people who sympathized. I have Murdoch down there standing in for me while I came up to report.”
“Clones? Petitions? How are you handling them?”
“The same way I handled the food problem.”
Oakes scowled. “And . . .the sympathizers?”
Again, Lewis shrugged. “When we sterilized the area around the Redoubt, the other demons returned. They’re a fast and efficient way to solve our problem.”
Oakes touched the scar of the pellet at his neck. “But when . . . that is, why didn’t you send someone up to . . .”
“We stayed until we were sure we were clean.”
“Yes . . . yes, of course. I see. Brave fellows.”
“And can you imagine what would happen if word of this leaks out?”
The Pandora Sequence: The Jesus Incident, the Lazarus Effect, the Ascension Factor Page 15