The Bohr Maker

by Linda Nagata

  “I need a telephone,” Sandor said.

  Phousita nodded. “Arif has gone to find one. But he has no money to pay the operator. He must find someone willing to provide the service on credit.”

  Where money was absent, sometimes skills could be bartered. The Knives had hired themselves out to pay the rent on this room. They’d earned their first night here by evicting the previous tenants: three men, all infected with a debilitating plague that gradually turned their skin into beautiful, inflexible golden shells like the skin of the Buddha that presided over the temple by the park. A statue cannot walk or work. The fat old matron who owned the line of tenements had related the unhappy fact that it had been a week since any of them had left the room, a week since the rent had been paid. The Knives carried the afflicted men nearly a mile to the Christian hospital, then left them at the end of a long line of sufferers.

  Now Phousita’s inner vision had shifted to a different forest, a different point of view. She crouched in the shadows, her whole body focused on the progress of a bright red, stilt-legged bug as it walked through a swath of sunlight that had fallen across her leaf. Instinct spurred her to action. She scuttled into the sunlight, snatched the bug in her jaws and bit hard. Horrible poisons flooded her body. Her mouth opened. She dropped the carcass and staggered back toward the illusory safety of her shady lair.

  “Why do you live like this?” Sandor asked.

  She looked at him in surprise. “What other way is there for us?”

  Sandor’s fists closed indignantly. “A thousand other ways! There are new ways being invented all the time. It does not have to be like this.” His hand swept the room in a contemptuous gesture. “There can be enough for everyone. It’s just that your government has forbidden Makers. For religious reasons, I think.”

  Phousita shrugged. She didn’t understand this. She wondered pensively if Sandor were completely sane. His memories were too wonderful. Who could live in a cloud forest with no canopy and no ground, where the monkeys talked like men? Who could have a brother who was not a man, but a blue china human spider? Her eyes flew open wide; her hand covered her mouth. The old woman had visited her this morning. The old woman had tried to warn her. She’d talked of such outlandish things so many times. . . . “Are you a god?” Phousita whispered.

  Sandor closed his eyes, and for the first time since Arif had pulled him from the river, he seemed to relax. “Not me,” he said easily. Then he opened one eye. “How about you?”

  She ducked her head, her face flushing hot. Shame crowded her mind. Hadn’t she just wondered if she’d been granted a goddess’s vision? Stupid country girl! “I’m only a witch, tuan,” she whispered.

  He started to lean forward, then remembered his nudity and covered himself with his limbs as best he could. She sighed. Though she respected his modesty, she could do nothing to help him. The clan had no clothes to spare.

  “How’d you know about Sax?” Sandor asked. “And don’t just shrug, please. Who hired you? What do they want with me? What’s going on?”

  She turned away, startled at his accusation, so similar to the harsh words of the Chinese doctor. “It’s not like that, tuan.” She couldn’t imagine who would hire her, who would entrust her with the care of this stranger—so healthy, pure, beautiful—he must be the cherished servant of a great power. “I don’t know anything. I’m just a witch.”

  “But that’s something, Phousita. I’ve never met a witch before.” He lifted his hand, wanting to touch her, though he didn’t quite dare. What was the custom here? She seemed to be something of a shaman. Though she didn’t demand respect, he wanted to offer it. He didn’t know how. And the stifling heat in this shack had numbed his brain. Or was that a residual gift of the local police? He didn’t know, couldn’t think. He wanted to go outside, breathe clean air, eat. But he had no clothes and didn’t want to offend anybody. Oh, Summer House, hurry before he ran the wrong code and somebody took mortal offense.

  He looked up as the bright rectangle of the doorway darkened. Arif swept aside the thin cloth that served as a door and entered the foul little room. A boy with nut-brown skin and wispy blue hair followed him. Sandor forgot his vow of decorum when he saw what the boy carried in his right hand. He leapt to his feet, almost cracking his head on the rafters. “You got it!” he shouted, reaching for the precious telephone.

  The boy snatched it out of his grasp with a vicious snarl. He jabbered angrily at Arif, than started to leave. But Arif barked a quick command, and two children blocked the door, a knife dancing silently between their hands, passed with the skill of practiced jugglers. The boy turned back to Arif, muttering something that sounded obscene. But he offered the telephone.

  Arif took it. “Make your call,” he growled, handing it to Sandor. “Make sure you get through. This boy’s papa will use white skin in his brothel if he can’t get paid any other way.”

  Sandor took the phone with shaking hands. He felt as if he’d slipped through the Looking Glass into a world that was an inverse of his own. Poverty, violence, exploitation: before today he’d never witnessed them. He hadn’t really known they’d existed. Why? Why had the House kept him ignorant of this world?

  He turned over the phone; stared at it a moment. “I, uh . . . I don’t know the number. The cops wiped that out when they—”

  Arif said something to the boy. The kid sneered and rolled his eyes, but he took the phone back from Sandor and punched in a code. Arif listened to his explanation, then translated: “Information,” he said. “The voice will help you. You do know who you want to talk to?”

  “Sure.” Regional headquarters. “Summer House-at-Earth,” he told the computer, while keeping a wary eye on Arif. A moment later he was greeted by a pleasant, masculine voice.

  “Summer House Incorporated: Achieving personal security through diverse and abundant life. You’ve reached our offices at Castle. How may we help you?”

  “This is Corporate Member Sandor Jiang-Tibayan declaring a personal emergency. I have no ID My codes are broken. I’ve sustained personal and system injury. Help me. I must speak to David Enberg, now.”

  “Please hold.”

  He closed his eyes, breathing slowly through the suspense. How would the computer answer? Please don’t tell me I’m dead, he thought. Just don’t tell me I’m dead.

  David Enberg directed the regional security wing. (Should I have asked for a subordinate?) Maybe the computer would classify him as a crackpot. But he didn’t know any of David’s subordinates. Didn’t know David, really. Had only met him for a few minutes nearly a month ago. Sandor came from Summer House, not Castle. First time Earth-side—

  “Sandor?” a doubtful voice spoke from the telephone.

  “David, it’s me!” Sandor shouted. He paused long enough to nod triumphantly at Arif. “I was arrested! The municipal police. Oh, David, you don’t know what it’s like down here. They wiped out my atrium, and— and Nikko, too, I guess. Everything. Help me, David. Send somebody for me, please. Send money. They’ll kill me if they don’t get something.”

  “It’ll be all right now, Sandor. Calm down. Calm down. We got your distress packet. We know you had a run-in with the municipal police.”

  “A run-in? David, they had me in their station.” He heard his voice going shrill; took a breath to calm himself. “Send somebody, David.”

  “Sandor?” A woman’s voice this time. “This is Marevic Chun.”

  His mouth opened in astonishment. Marevic Chun was the regional president of Summer House-at-Earth; she commanded all corporate operations Earth-side. Why had she come on line for him?

  “We’re astounded to find you alive,” she said. “Our agents on the ground led us to believe the worst. Where are you?”

  “I don’t know. In a slum somewhere. The cops thought I was dead so they dumped me in a river. Arif fished me out. You can trace this call, can’t you, Marevic? Send somebody for me?”

  “Are you safe where you are?”

  He fro
wned in confusion. Arif observed his change of expression and stepped forward, his eyes hard. Turning away, Sandor hissed into the phone. “What’s the matter, Marevic? Why don’t you just send someone?”

  “We’d like to, Sandor. But things are a real mess up here. Nikko had some trouble with the Commonwealth Police, and unfortunately, your name got mixed into the fray. If Kirstin Adair finds out you’re alive, she’ll have you on trial in an hour. So stay put. Stay hidden. I need time to sort through Nikko’s notes and prepare your defense or the police will crucify you.”

  “But why? What did I do wrong?”

  “Nothing, Sandor. You just got caught up in other people’s games.”

  “But you can’t leave me here! You don’t know what they said they’d do to me!” Arif started to snatch the phone. Sandor jerked it away from him. “Marevic, you have to help me!”

  Arif caught his wrist and yanked the phone out of his hand. “You want this boy back, you will pay for him now,” Arif growled into the receiver. He glared at Sandor while he listened to Marevic’s reply. It seemed to go on so long. But finally, he nodded. “Sure, if that’s what you want.” He clicked the phone off and handed it back to the blue-haired boy, a wicked grin on his face. He uttered an ear-splitting whoop of triumph, then turned to Phousita, caught her up in his arms and kissed her. Incomprehensible words ran off his tongue, interspersed with laughs. Phousita appeared uncertain.

  “You’re going to stay with us!” Arif barked. Then he laughed at Sandor’s look of dismay. “Marevic’s paying us to take care of you. Hope you like it here in the Spill. She says it could be a couple of days before they can retrieve you.”

  The afternoon ground past with impossible slowness. Sandor’s captors had left him alone in the shack. He could hear some of the children playing outside, but he didn’t hear Phousita, and he didn’t see her when he peered past the curtained doorway.

  Where had she gone? Inexplicably, he found he missed her. He held his head in his hands. The heat and humidity were making him dizzy. Or maybe it was the lack of food. His belly groaned. He wished he knew the local word for water. Yesterday, it would have been so easy to consult a library. Today. . . .

  He felt like a victim of tunnel vision. All he could see were the crumbling walls of this room. All he could hear was the brave laughter of the children out in the street and a blend of voices beyond them. These had become the boundaries of his perception.

  What had Nikko done to get him into this mess?

  He dozed.

  Or at least that’s how he accounted to himself for the time that ultimately passed.

  He was roused by a shrill cry in the distance, a commanding ululation that rose suddenly over the slum’s continuous low mutter of noise. The children outside quieted instantly. Sandor sat up. In their low whispers he heard Arif’s name.

  The whoop sounded again and this time the children answered with their own shrill cries. Sandor crouched in the shadows near the door and looked out.

  Arif had come back. He’d brought Phousita with him. They each carried two distended plastic sacks. The children crowded and cavorted around them while Arif set the sacks on the ground. Sandor watched in fascination as he began producing treasures from the bags. Bananas—one for everybody—mangos, thin slices of meat on a stick, calorie bars, a bag of peanuts—

  Sandor felt a wave of dizziness sweep across him. He pressed his forehead against the termite-eaten wood. Splinters jabbed at his hands. He tasted dirt in his mouth. Someone nudged at his shoulder. Pushed harder until he rolled over. He found himself lying on his back on the shack’s dirt floor, looking up at Arif’s laughing face a thousand kilometers above him. “Don’t die on us, tuan. Marevic expects to have you back someday.”

  “Here, drink this,” Phousita said. She knelt at his side, holding a plastic jug to his lips. “Forgive me, tuan. I should not have left you alone.”

  He drank. The warm water slid down his throat and the awful buzzing in his head began to recede. He pushed himself to a sitting position; held his pounding head in his hands. “We have food,” Phousita said.

  “I’m not hungry.” He thought he might puke if he put anything in his mouth now.

  Arif laughed at him. “Got one of those ‘delicate’ constitutions?” he asked. “Too bad. But we’ll eat again tomorrow.” He dropped a bundle at Sandor’s feet. “Get yourself dressed. I’m tired of looking at your dick.”

  Arif had brought him a pair of khaki work pants, patched at the knees and butt and a little too small, but Sandor took them gratefully. He slipped them on, while a little girl stood in the door eating a banana and watching him.

  Phousita brought him two bananas and a slice of meat on a stick. He took the food and ate ravenously, his nausea forgotten. Phousita watched him, a pleased smile on her face. He grinned at her, then drank more water. Outside, Arif produced another prize from his last bag. Some sort of confection, Sandor surmised, by the squeals of the children. Arif carefully divided the treat amongst the little ones, then squatted on the pavement, his clown face reflecting smug satisfaction as he watched them greedily devour his gift.

  “Did you spend everything?” Sandor asked.

  Arif scowled at him. “Stay out of sight,” he warned. Then: “I spent only a tiny part of it.” He patted the belt at his waist. “I’ve never held so much money before, not even that last night when I parted from my master. But it’s nothing to Summer House, is it?”

  A child pulled at the hem of Arif’s shorts, interrupting him. The little girl who’d been watching Sandor dress. She rubbed her stomach and groaned, then sat down abruptly on the pavement. Arif’s arm went around her shoulders as she began to jerk convulsively. She threw up on the ground, then stared in shock at what she’d done. A moment later she was sobbing hysterically against Arif’s chest.

  He stared past her, his absurd face stunned, helpless. The food had been too rich, Sandor realized. Her system wasn’t used to it, couldn’t handle it. Other children were already holding their middles, groaning in pain as their bellies cramped in protest at the unaccustomed feast. Arif had poisoned them with his gift.

  “It’s all right,” Phousita said. Sandor’s gaze followed her voice. She crouched beside a little boy who lay on the pavement, his knees pulled up to his chest, his face knotted in pain. She pressed her hand against his belly, and a few seconds later his face began to relax, his body began to straighten. Phousita left him to visit another child, then another. She touched each one of them, easing their pain with a soft stroke of her palm.

  Sandor stared after her in amazement. Without thinking, he stepped outside the hut and approached her. She knelt beside the last child, the little girl who’d already lost her meal—the only meal she could expect that day. She said something to the girl, and the child smiled and nodded. Then Sandor was at her side. He caught up both her hands in his and turned them over. Tiny white glands glinted wetly in her palms just below the knuckles, along her fingers, and on her fingertips. Sandor touched them gingerly. He’d never seen a mutation like this one. She could heal with a touch. Somehow the glands must generate healing Makers that could cross the barrier of a patient’s skin. But how did she program the Makers? How did she direct them to their tasks? (And how had she developed this remarkable talent amidst the degradation and ignorance of the Spill?)

  She lifted her hands, staring at them as if she’d never seen them before. “I’ve changed them,” she muttered.

  He frowned. “You didn’t know?”

  She shook her head slowly, wonderingly. “There have been so many changes, so quickly, since. . . .”

  “Ah. . . .”: a soft sigh of disappointment. He’d imagined the healing touch to be a system of her own design. “You don’t understand your abilities, do you?”

  She bowed her head, her shoulders hunched as if in shame. “No, tuan. I’ve become a witch but I don’t know what I can do, or why, or how, until the very moment something needs to be done. Even then, I do nothing but obey the spiri
t of the sorcerer that inhabits me.”

  Sandor nodded his understanding. He imagined that it could feel that way. “You command a very powerful Maker,” he said. “How did you learn to do that?”

  She gazed at him with a confused, disoriented face, so that he knew immediately she didn’t understand him. He bowed his head and sighed, his fingers rubbing at the stinging sweat that clouded his eyes. Her Maker had taught her to speak English; she knew every word he knew. Yet he sensed she did not understand the words. Raw knowledge without an adequate frame of reference.

  “Leave her alone,” Arif growled. He stood behind Sandor’s shoulder. As Sandor started to turn, Arif placed his foot against Sandor’s butt and shoved, toppling him to the pavement. Sandor scrambled quickly to his feet, anger rushing in discrete packets through his veins. “She’s a sorceress and her powers are growing,” Arif shouted at him. “You are the one who doesn’t understand what’s going on here.” Arif stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and Sandor. “Look here. And here,” he said, jabbing his steely fingers into Sandor’s chest, forcing him to stumble back. “She touched you. Look what her magic has done.”

  Sandor looked. His chest was unblemished. His jaw dropped. Gingerly, he touched the site of the burns he’d received under interrogation, the laceration where they’d cut his ID chip out of his arm. . . .

  All sign of the injuries had vanished.

  Sandor’s gaze jerked back to Phousita. “This is not magic,” he hissed. “It’s technology. A technology banned by the Commonwealth.” The children crowded them anxiously. In their dark eyes Sandor read confusion, and fear. They couldn’t understand his words, but like Arif they recognized his doubt. And they resented it. Why do you question Phousita? their earnest faces seemed to demand. For she must be as a goddess to them. A sweet savior ready to lift away some of the agony of their existence. And now he must condemn her.