Seven days for Verid to convince the microzoöids she was their best friend, then watch their world die—unless she turned up something to change the vote of the L’liite or the Bronze Skyan.
“We’ll give you two extra days first, to reach Prokaryon on the transfold express,” offered Delegate Elysium. “I’ll pick up the cost.”
Verid’s hands shook. “What if they fight back? Those storms they cause—do you know what kind of energy that takes?”
“All the more reason to act now,” said the Bronze Skyan.
“I can’t do it,” Verid said. “I have a conflict of interest.” They all knew about Iras.
The Sharer said, “You have to, Verid. Because no one else can.”
EIGHTEEN
Into the clearing in the singing-tree forest a lightcraft descended, seeking to land away from the tumblerounds. Rod saw that it was Quark.
“I’m impressed,” he told Quark. “You said you’d never touch this world again.”
“Somebody had to do it,” Quark grumbled. “I told them you all ought to wear skinsuits, but they said it was too late to avoid contamination, and that your microzoöids sound friendly. Friendly, indeed.”
Rod was suddenly aware of the state he was in. Before, he always wore his robe, and the children their best outfits neatly washed and combed, to visit the satellite. Now the three of them wore travel clothes soiled with tumbleround glue. It was a wonder the lightcraft allowed their feet to touch its nanoplast. “Thanks for coming for us, so many times,” said Rod softly. “I’ll remember.”
The nanoplastic entrance to the lightcraft melded shut. That was it, Rod thought; he might never set foot on Prokaryon again. He held Haemum and Chae close, as together they watched the swirl of Spirilla spiral away, and the planet shrink to moon size in the void. Farewell, Architeuthis…He felt vaguely angry at the Reverend Mother’s stories. Was it right to make a myth out of those one’s own race chose to destroy?
As the lightcraft approached the lock, the young colonists picked up their backpacks. Rod tried at least to smooth Chae’s hair, and Haemum managed to dig out a comb. But nothing could help the tumbleround smell.
“Don’t touch the walls,” warned Station. The nanoplastic entrance pulled open about twice as wide as usual. “Proceed immediately to Decontamination.”
Just inside the gate waited Khral. Rod stopped. He wanted to accuse her—of what? Of being wrong, or of being right too late? The words froze in his throat. For a moment nothing existed but her eyes. Then he took a step, and she was in his arms. He held her fiercely, as if his hands had taken on a life of their own. Her body melted into his, and her fingers caught his hair. Then he realized that she, too, wanted more than a greeting. You are being tested…Slowly he released her, letting his arms fall aside.
Khral said, “I’m so sorry, about everything. I—”
“It’s none of your fault,” he murmured.
“We should have protected the children.”
Before he could speak again, Station interrupted. “Proceed to Decontamination.”
Khral picked up the backpacks. “Come on, let’s keep Station happy. Not that it can make much difference.”
“What do you mean?”
“If those microzoöids learn to grow in nanoplast, we’re finished. The Fold will incinerate Station, too, along with the planet.”
After extensive bathing and disinfecting, the three colonists sat in the clinic while the caterpillar medics injected nanoservos to probe them for silicates. Rod reached Mother Artemis on the holo, at the satellite expansion which housed the rest of Prokaryon’s human refugees. Her nanoplastic hair reached toward him, as if to escape. “I have prayed for you without ceasing.”
Rod’s face twisted, seeking what could not be said in words. “Did everyone get out all right?” he demanded at last. “How are they treating you?”
“We are all well. Three Crows has been a big help to us. He’ll stay as long as we need.”
He smiled, wondering what Elk would think. The Reverend Mother could have quite an influence on people. “We’ll be with you soon.”
“Not too soon.” The medic arched its long back, waving its forelimbs. “All three of you are carriers. Brother Rhodonite carries the most; at least ten thousand silicates were counted in your cerebrospinal fluid, most of them concentrated around your occipital lobe. Haemum has nearly as many; there’s little we can do for her. But Chae has fewer than a hundred. We’ve been able to clear that many from a carrier without inducing meningitis.”
“That is good,” said Station. “After he is cleared, he can rejoin your colony.”
Rod patted Chae’s shoulder. “You’ve done a brave job, Brother. The family will be glad to see you again.”
Mother Artemis nodded. “You’ll return to a hero’s welcome.”
“I just want to help Prokaryon,” Chae said, but he looked enormously relieved.
“Brother Rod,” asked Haemum, “what about us?”
“You will join the quarantined sector,” said the medic.
“Without whirrs,” said Station, “you’re not infectious; but we’re taking every precaution.”
Haemum frowned. “I want to help Brother Rod.”
“You’ve done more than enough, Sister,” said Rod. “You need to resume your studies.”
For a moment her face took on an expression strikingly like ’jum’s. “Come on, Chae,” she said coldly. “I’m sure the adults have everything under control.” Rod watched them leave, thinking sadly, how fast they had grown.
Mother Artemis said, “We know you have a job to do, Rod.” Too soon, her image was gone.
Rod thought of something. “What becomes of the silicates that are ‘cleared’?”
Station said, “We add them to the cultures.”
“Against my better judgment,” said the medic suddenly. “Deadly infectious material should be sterilized.”
Later in the research lab, Rod asked Khral again about the cultures. Khral shuddered. “They don’t survive that long in the cultures either. They need a live host. Let’s hope their friends are forgiving. All we’ve lost so far is a dead dog, whereas they…”
He did not like the implications. Ten thousand “people” inside his head—how long would he have to keep them before they found a new home?
In the laboratory, amidst the shifting implements of nanoplast, sat ’jum, holding Sarai’s two phototipped vines, one in each hand. With her thumbs she covered and uncovered the lights to make them flash. She stared at them fixedly, not looking up even to greet Brother Rod.
Elk was watching her, as he took notes on the holostage. “She says the microzoöids are inside her,” the tall Bronze Skyan explained. “We found her like this, ‘communicating.’ Rather like you did, to teach them our alphabet—except that she learned theirs.”
Rod watched with mixed emotions. He still loved the little girl, and he wished she would return him a smile. He admired what she had done, yet he feared for her, and felt ashamed at his failure to protect her. No more prions again, ever, he had promised; but what infected her now was far worse. “Can’t you clear her out? She needs to return to the colony.”
Sarai stood by the holostage, arms folded across her breasts. “Ushum’s work is of critical importance. The sisterlings need her.”
“But ’jum is a human child who needs proper care.”
Khral caught Sarai’s arm before she could reply. “Sarai, remember, Rod is infected, too.” She turned to Rod. “’jum carries too many micros to clear safely. But hers seem friendly; and she made an important discovery. The microzoöids ‘count’ by prime factors. Each digit represents the multiplicity of each prime factor. Look.” The holostage produced a table:
1 2 3 5 7 11 13 17 19 23 29
1 1
2 1 1
3 1 0 1
4 1 2
5 1 0 0 1
6 1 1 1
7 1 0 0 0 1
8 1 3
9 1 0 2
&nbs
p; 10 1 1 0 1
11 1 0 0 0 0 1
12 1 2 1
13 1 0 0 0 0 0 1
14 1 1 0 0 1
15 1 0 1 1
16 1 4 0
17 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1
18 1 1 2
19 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1
20 1 2 0 1
21 1 0 1 0 1
22 1 1 0 0 0 1
23 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1
24 1 3 1
25 1 0 0 1
26 1 1 0 0 0 0 1
27 1 0 3
28 1 2 0 0 1
29 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1
30 1 1 1 1
“It’s amazing,” Khral observed. “Their numbers sort of cycle back on each other, just like—”
“They can count on their fingers for all I care. You can’t experiment on a child.”
“The Reverend Mother said she could stay.” Khral bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Rod. How else will Haemum and the other carriers be saved?”
Elk explained, “Some of the carriers from New Reyo have sickened, too, like the Elysians.”
Rod felt numb.
“I don’t like it either,” Elk added, “but so long as the microzoöids communicate, we need ’jum’s help. You see, they work visually—whether ‘talking’ one-on-one, or sending messages by singing-tree, or hiding in your brain. Your visual system is the one part that makes sense to them. They can ‘see’ what your eyes see; then they stimulate your brain to ‘see’ their own signals.”
“Excuse me,” Station interrupted. “Prepare for Safety Drill. Everyone immediately relocate to your evacuation vessel, for use in an unlikely emergent event.”
Sighing, Khral headed for the exit.
Rod tried to nudge ’jum from her seat. At last he carried the potted vine along with her. “I don’t remember Safety Drills,” he told Khral. “What’s Station thinking? Do the microzoöids have spaceships to attack?”
“We need to be prepared,” said Khral. “In case the microzoöids get into nanoplast. They could wreck Station herself.”
He had not thought of that. They reached the lifeship and helped ’jum to climb in. No one would last long, he realized, even in a lifeship. And who would care to pick them up?
“Khral, it’s so quiet here now. The reporters—where are all the snake eggs?”
“All sent home, by emergency order. Since then, not a ship can leave.”
“I thought the microzoöids bail out when you get near a spaceship.”
“Not always. Carriers have been found as far as Valedon and Bronze Sky.”
Microzoöids infecting everywhere—the thought chilled him.
“Never fear, Rod,” said Khral, “we’ve got plenty to do before you try the docking tube. A crash course in microzoöid linguistics.”
The biologists tried to connect all they knew about the microzoöids’ language, from Khral’s statistics, from the “words” Sarai and ’jum had identified, and from the messages inside Rod’s vision. They probed Rod with nanoservos to report the effects of the microzoöids in his occipital lobe. The holostage produced sentences for Rod to read, alongside flashing number codes that Sarai thought might represent familiar objects—a singing-tree, a zoöid—and activities, such as a person walking or swimming. Several hundred of these were tried, over the course of an hour, but there was no response. Rod found himself wondering if he had only imagined whatever he saw before.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, a light flashed. “There it is,” he exclaimed. “A letter will form…”
“Exactly,” said Station. “The nanoservos report detecting stimulation of your optical receptors. The microzoöids are responsible, somehow. They must produce neurotransmitters.”
Rod read out the response: MAN SWIMS ZOOID—WHO SWIMS LLAMA?
Elk and Khral exchanged looks. “It’s gibberish,” said Elk.
“Maybe not,” said Khral. “A microbe experiences life differently; instead of walking, you swim.”
“They don’t ‘swim’ in llamas,” Elk objected. “We tested all the llamas, along with the children. The llamas were clear—not a silicate to be found.”
“Maybe the micros use some other kind of ‘skinsuit’ inside llamas,” suggested Khral, “which the medics can’t detect.”
“Oh, no,” said Quark. “Don’t say that.”
The medic said, “We incinerated all nonhuman potential carriers.”
Good-bye llamas, thought Rod, with a silent prayer. “Where would the micros get the word ‘who’? You never showed them a picture.”
Khral thought about this. “Your mind must have formed a picture of it. You must have been wondering ‘who?’ quite a lot lately.”
“You mean they can read my mind—whatever I’m thinking?”
Elk shook his head. “I doubt that. Only things you can visualize.”
Rod closed his eyes. “I’m not sure I can handle this,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’d rather have meningitis. You can clear out the silicates, and ‘talk’ to them in tissue culture.”
For a while no one spoke.
“If that’s what you want, Rod,” said Khral. “I’ll direct the nanoservos myself.”
Elk looked away, his face creased in pain.
The medic said, “I just left one of the Elysians in critical condition. Without treatment soon, she will deteriorate beyond repair.”
Rod took a breath. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Very well,” said Khral with an effort. “But Station, we can’t just speed up basic research. One word at a time—what else can we do?”
From across the lab came Sarai to check their progress. “Now that we’ve figured out words and numbers, we’re working on chemical names. Ushum has figured out what they call methane and ethane.”
Elk gave Sarai a weary glance. “That’s great, but how will it help us talk them into leaving us alone?”
Khral said, “Perhaps ’jum’s population learns faster.” Her eyes widened. “Wait a minute. What if…we put the two cultures together?”
Elk caught his fist. “That’s it! We remove a few each from Rod and from ’jum, then put them together in culture fluid and let them share information.”
“Just like we shared with you, Sarai.”
Sarai folded her arms. “Ushum’s microzoöids seem content where they are. Would they like being kidnapped? Refugees in a culture dish?”
“No time for that approach,” said Station. “Let’s inoculate a few from ’jum directly into Rod.”
The medic reared angrily, waving several limbs. “I object! This is completely against regulations.”
“It’s too much,” Elk agreed. “We can’t treat people like test tubes.”
“I make the regulations here,” said Station.
Rod held up his hands. “Never mind. With so many already, what’s a few more?”
The caterpillar body hunched down. “I withdraw from the case.” With that statement, the medic crawled out.
“I’ll do the transfer,” said Khral quietly. “I’m certified.” She coaxed ’jum over to sit by the probe, then directed it to withdraw a dozen silicates from her spinal fluid. Rod watched her expert hands, thick hair down the back of her fingers. Afterward, as she turned to him, her arm was shaking.
Elk said, “We can call one of the other medics.”
“Leave them be, the cowards.” Khral’s voice was short. “The probe will do its work. Rod, you can settle yourself here, while the cell sorter filters out things that would trigger your immune response.”
Rod sat next to the probe and looked away as it snaked near his back.
After the transfer his temperature rose, and he developed a headache. Station was reluctant to administer drugs that might affect the “visitors” in his brain, so long as his own health was not in danger. He went to bed to rest. Rest did not come easy, though, with a roomful of machines sending alarms at his slightest change in blood pressure. He dozed unevenly, dreaming of the long trail before Mount Anaeon, the mist rising fore
ver in the distance, the loopleaves forever tangling his feet.
The afternoon passed, with still no sign from the visitors, new or old. No more lights flashed in his head at all, no matter what he tried to “show” them. The hours passed, and all the researchers could do was wait.
At his bedside, Khral and Quark came to visit. Khral touched his hand. “Are you feeling better, Rod?”
“Much better,” he said, not admitting why.
“Rod—you’re not mad at us, are you?”
“No. I just wish…” For a moment the nanoplastic walls and ceiling all slipped away, all just a mistake, corrected. He was back at the homestead the colonists had built with their own hands, the children tugging at his legs, the llamas calling outside, the brokenhearts ready for harvest. Then his eyes focused again, and he half sat up. “What’s been happening to the planet?” he demanded. “Have they—”
“They’ve done nothing.” Khral brightened, glad to bring good news. “There were so many incidents with ‘bad weather’ that they just postponed the cleansing indefinitely.”
“They don’t admit as much,” said Quark, “but they’re dead scared. Have you any idea how much power it takes to make a storm appear out of a blue sky? Proteus doesn’t know what’s going on—nobody does.”
Rod sank back again, feeling his prayers were answered. “I just wish I could do a better job for you. Maybe these microzoöids have trouble remembering what they learn, and passing things on, if their generation only lasts a day.”
“Oh no,” said Khral. “It’s true, most of them reproduce within a day, but their ‘elders’ live on for another month or so. Like Elysians, some choose to live longer, instead of having children of their own.”
“Even so,” said Quark, “you can see why the ones in the singing-trees lost interest after a month of trying to figure us out.”
Rod thought this over. “Station is right; we have little time.”
The Children Star Page 21