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.
but few speculated about missing people.
We've been conditioned not to face the finality of absolute endings. Is that
why Ship showed me Yaisuah?
The thought stood there in her awareness, riding on the hum of the servo
carrying her toward Medical and Ferry.
It was clear to her that Yaisuah had ended, but his influence had not ended.
Pandora was a place of endings. It gulped food and people and equipment.
What influences were about to be sent reverberating from that place?
Endings.
The servo fell silent, stopped. She looked up to see Medical's servo gate
and, across the passage, the hatch to Ferry's offices. She did not want to go
through that hatch. Her body still throbbed with sensitivities ignited by
what
Ship had shown her. She did not want Ferry touching her body. It was more
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than her dislike for him -- the silly old fool! He drank too much of the
alcohol which came up from Colony and he always reached out to put a hand on
her somewhere.
Everyone knew the Demarest woman brought him his wine from groundside. He
always had plenty of it after her visits.
His food chits can't support that kind of drinking.
She stared at the dogged hatch across the way. Something was definitely wrong
-
- shipside and groundside. Why did Rachel Demarest bring wine up to Ferry?
If she brings him wine, what does she get in return?
Love? Why not? Even neurotics like Ferry and Demarest needed love. Or . . .
if not love, at least an occasional couch partner.
A remembered image of Foul-breath shuddered through her mind. She could
almost feel the touch of his hand translated to her own young flesh.
Involuntarily, she brushed her arm.
Maybe that's how they get so foul. No love . . . no lovers.
There was no evading the summons, though. She slid off the servo and crossed
to
Ferry's hatch. It snicked open at her approach. Why was she reminded of a
sword leaving its scabbard?
"Ahhh, dear Hali." Ferry opened his palms to her as she entered.
She nodded. "Dr. Ferry."
"Sit down wherever you like." His hand rested on the arm of a couch, inviting
her to the place beside him. She chose a seat facing him, cleared off the
mess of papers and computer discs that covered it. The whole office smelled
sour in spite of Ship's air filtration. Ferry appeared to be drunk . . . at
least happy.
"Hali," he said, and recrossed his legs so one foot reached out to touch hers.
"You're being reassigned."
Again, she nodded. Groundside?
"You're going to the Natali," Ferry said.
It was totally unexpected, and she blinked at him stupidly. To the Natali?
The elite corps which handled all natural births had never been her ambition.
Not even her hope. A dream, yes . . . but she was not the type to hope for
the impossible.
"How do you feel about that?" Ferry asked, moving her foot with his.
The Natali! Working daily with the sacrament of WorShip!
She nodded to herself as the reality of it seeped through her. She would join
the elite who opened the hatchway to the mystery of life . . . she would help
rear the children shipside until they were assigned to their own schools and
quarters at the age of seven annos.
Ferry smiled a red-stained smile. "You look stunned. Don't you believe me?"
She spoke slowly. "I believe you. I suspected that this . . ." She waved a
hand at his office. ". . . was for reassignment, but . . ."
Ferry made no move to respond, so she went on.
"I thought I'd be going groundside. Everyone seems to be going there,
lately."
He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them.
"You're not happy with this assignment?"
"Ohhh, I'm very happy with it. It's just . . ." She put a hand to her
throat.
"I never thought I . . . I mean . . . Why me?"
"Because you deserve it, my dear." He chuckled. "And there's talk of moving
the Natali groundside. You may get the best of both worlds."
"Groundside?" She shook her head. Too many shocks were coming at her one
after the other.
"Yes, groundside." He spoke as though explaining something simple to an
errant child.
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"But I thought . . . I mean, the foremost provision of WorShip is that we
give our children to Ship until they're seven. Ship designated the Natali as
the trustees of birth . . . and their quarters are here, the estate . . ."
"Not Ship!" Ferry's interruption was guttural. "Some Ceepee did it. This is
a matter for our determination."
"But doesn't Ship . . ."
"There's no record of Ship doing this. Now, our Ceepee has ruled that it is
no violation of WorShip to move the Natali ground-side."
"How . . . how long . . . until . . . ?"
"Perhaps a Pandoran anno. You know -- quarters, supplies, politics." He
waved it all off.
"When do I go to the Natali?"
"Next diurn. Take a break. Get your things moved over. Talk toooo . . ."
He picked up a note from the jumble on his desk, squinted. ". . . Usija.
She'll take care of you from there."
His foot brushed the back of her heel, then rubbed her instep.
"Thank you, Doctor." She pulled her foot back.
"I don't feel your gratitude."
"But I do thank you, especially for the time off. I have some notes to catch
up on."
He held up an empty glass. "We could have a drink . . . to celebrate."
She shook her head, but before she could say no, he leaned forward, grinning.
"We'll be neighbors, soon, Hali. We could celebrate that."
"What do you mean?"
"Groundside." He pushed the glass toward her. "After the Natali go.
"But who'll be left here?"
"Production facilities, mostly."
"Ship? A factory?" She felt her face blaze red.
"Why not? What other use will we have for Ship when we're groundside?"
She jumped to her feet. "You would lobotomize your own mother!" Whirling
from his startled gaze, she fled.
All the way back to her quarters, she heard the drum of Yaisuah's voice in her
ears: "If they do these things in a green tree, what will they do in a dry?"
I like seeing things fall into place.
-- Kerro Panille, The Notebooks
NIGHTSIDE AFTER nightside, always nightside! The horror! Legata awoke on the
deck in a shipside cubby, her hammock hanging around her like the torn shreds
of her nightmares. Sweat and fear chilled her in the dark.
Slowly, reason returned. She felt the remnants of the hammock on and under
her, the cold of the deck against her palms.
I'm shipside.
She had come up earlier at Oakes' command to check out reports that Ferry was
too far gone on alcohol to be effective. It had shocked her, getting off the
shuttle in a familiar shipbay, to see how few Shipmen formed the arrival crew.
Staffing raids by Lewis were decimating the shipside work force to replace
losses at the Redoubt.
How many people did they really lose?
She tugged pieces of hammock out from under her, hurled them into the
darkness.
Ferry, warned of her approach, had gulped too many 'wakepills and had been a
jittering mess when she found him. She had dressed him down in fury which had
surprised even her, and had removed the last of his Colony liquor supply.
At least, she hoped it was the last of it.
I have to do something about these nightmares.
Some details remained unclear upon waking, but she knew she dreamed of blood
and her most tender flesh peeled back by dozens of needlenosed instruments --
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all of this backed by the feverish glitter of Morgan Oakes' smile. Oakes'
thick-lipped smile . . . but Murdoch's eyes. And . . . somewhere in the
background . . .
Lewis laughing.
She found pieces of her bedding, an intact cushion, pulled them together and,
still in the dark, dragged herself across the cubby to a mat. Only once
before had she felt this beaten, this empty . . . this helpless.
The Scream Room.
It was why she had run the P -- to regain some pieces of her self-respect.
Self-respect regained . . . but no important memories.
What happened in that room? What kind of a game is Morgan playing? Why did
he send me in there?
She remembered the preliminaries. Innocent enough. Oakes had given her a few [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]