Freedom's Challenge (5 page)

“As far as it goes and look what happens to Humans who resist…” and Kris' gesture included the planet. “How many worlds
do
the Eosi dominate? I mean, there're the Deski, the Rugarians, the Turs, the Morphins, and the Ilginish…How many others?”

“The Eosi control fifteen star systems that have at least one intelligent race: another ten where they take metals and materials.”

Kris laughed. “You honestly believe a rebellion has a chance against such a setup?”

“If we have the Farmers' help…”

“Boy, oh boy, oh boy, are you an optimist!”

“It is a start. It is more than we have ever had.”

“With two spaceships and a scout, we can go up against that sort of opposition?”

“It is a start.”

“I've got to hand it to you, Zainal. God loves a trier,” Kris said, shaking her head at the impossible task he had proposed. And yet…“Have you mentioned any of this to any one else yet?”

“I talked to Chuck. I will speak to others. We need to go to Earth as soon as possible. Earth needs to know that Botany is!”

“Let's eat first, shall we?” Kris said as brightly as
she could, trying to assimilate the magnitude of his vision.

•   •   •

DOROTHY DWARDIE'S TEAM SPENT THE FIRST week assessing the condition of the mind-wiped and divided them into various arbitrary groupings, according to the perceived severity.

As she said in her initial discussion with her aides, there were two levels of healing: one, the physical trauma of assault on the tissue and/or function of the brain, and two, the psychological trauma of assault on the psyche or self. She expected that some trauma would be time-limited.

“The mind has gone into functional frostbite,” she said, “and when it thaws after the trauma, returns to normal function without help. Since most of these people were trained scientists, it's possible that many will simply reestablish old neural pathways. There may be some loss of factual memory: maybe even a great deal. Even then much may return over a period of time.

“Right now, they need reassurance, interaction: music, smells, kindness, encouragement, gentle exercise. As normal a routine as we can manage. Talk to them, about anything and everything: help them reestablish themselves. Where we know the name, repeat it often. When we know something of their background, refer to that as frequently as possible. Help them reacquaint themselves with themselves.”

Kris had three women, all in their late fifties: two had been research physicians in a drug company—Peggy Ihde and Marjorie Flax; the third they called Sophie because Sarah McDouall said she thought she looked like a Sophie. Kris was to supervise their meals. Just putting a spoon or a fork in their hands stimulated self-feeding. She read to them from Jane Austen's
Pride and Prejudice
, which they might even have read in their younger
days. She took them on quiet walks in the lodge-pole copse, or sat with them above the bay where benches had been placed for meditation.

“Pleasant surroundings are extremely important after the holding pens they've been in,” Dorothy said. “Soft, kind voices, gentle handling will reassure even the most damaged.”

There were a few whose condition was clearly catatonic but Dorothy was serenely confident that, in time, even these would recover.

“There's something about this place,” she said, spreading both arms out to include the entire subcontinent, “that will generate healing. The smells are good, the food is fresh and tasty, and the vibes…” she smiled at using the vernacular description, “are good because we've made them so. Beauty is a natural stress-absorber, you know. It reassures on a nonverbal level that they are now safe.

“You see,” she went on in her soft voice, “we've decided to use a multi-modal treatment of this stress. The right hemisphere—which thinks in pictures—can't tell time: therefore it needs pictures to counteract the negative images of the trauma. The left hemisphere stores rational thought processes in thought and ideas. The two hemispheres interact and each approach can help the other side. We need to maximize good input and involve as much as possible in terms of brain resource utilization. Many of our friends here may never recall exactly what happened. That would truly be a blessing.”

“But won't we have to explain something of how they got here?” Sarah McDouall asked.

“Oh, yes,” Dorothy said with a smile, “and by then we'll probably have a coherent answer for them. They are, to all intents and purposes, on a holiday from their own minds right now.”

“We could always tell them they're in Oz,” someone at the back of the room quipped.

“And no red slippers in sight,” someone added.

Dorothy's expression was droll. “We're all in Oz.”

“The Eosi are the wicked witches…”

“Let's leave the analogy there, shall we?” Dorothy said in the firm tone of she-who-must-be-obeyed.

Kris felt her shoulder muscles relax. She had been readying herself to protect Zainal. Really, she had to stop doing that. He had made his own position here on Botany and was firmly entrenched. She didn't need to fret over possible snide remarks and animosity. She devoutly hoped!

•   •   •

THAT EVENING WHEN ZAINAL CAME HOME from the construction site of the new units for the Victims, he very carefully put a book down on the table.

“That's for kindergartners,” she said in surprise, recognizing the title.

“Kindergartners? It is for learning to read,” Zainal said and gave it a little shove with one large and very dirty thumb.

“Please wash up, dinner's nearly ready,” she said, because she really couldn't tell Zainal not to handle the book—which might be the only one of its kind—with his dirty hands.

“I learn to read,” he said and gave it another, almost angry push.

“You?”

Zainal scowled and Zane, who was seated in the high-seated chair his adoptive father had made for him, began to whimper in apprehension. He was very quick to sense moods. Immediately Zainal turned a smiling face and diverted the child by tickling his feet until he was hilarious with tickle laughter.

“I need to read to use computers.”

Kris blinked in surprise, having forgotten for the moment that Botany now possessed working computers…which
were being put to all kinds of good use. There had been several uninterrupted sessions to develop adapters for the units to run on solar power.

“Oh, yes, of course you would,” Kris said. “Dead easy for a man with your smarts.”

Zainal turned his smiling face from Zane and gave the little book a dark scowl. “Not when all those…squiggles…make no sense at all.”

“Are there many—” and Kris thought swiftly for a less insulting description than “kids' books”—“primer books in what we got?” She hadn't had occasion to look in that section of the hastily assembled “library.”

“This was given me. I wash my hands…and Zane's feet…” he added pointing to the oily smears now marking the child's bare feet.

•   •   •

ONCE ZANE WAS IN BED, SHE TOOK, NOT THE book, but a pad and pencil and wrote out the alphabet in upper and lower case, as large as she could lengthwise across the page.

“But I brought the book to read…” he said, pulling it toward him with now clean hands.

“First you must know the…squiggles that spell the words we use. Too bad we didn't have a book on English for second-language speakers…although come to think of it, that wouldn't do
you
much good. Now, this is the first letter of the alphabet…‘ay.' Which can also be pronounced ‘ah'…just to confuse you. It is a vowel. B, which is usually just ‘bee' is the second letter and a consonant.”

He had repeated “vowel” and now spoke “consonant.” Zainal had no trouble committing the sequence of the alphabet to memory—nor of naming any of them when Kris drilled him. His concentration was incredible. He kept her going until even such words as “Spot” and “Jane” were blurring her eyes. He had also read through the book nine times and had it memorized.

“No Spot and Jane on the computers,” he said.

“We'll work on computer language tomorrow,” she said, rising stiffly from the chair in which his need to learn had pinned her for hours. She yawned.

“I work more now,” he said, looking at her expectantly.

“Okay, see how many words you already know that rhyme with Spot…like dot, and tot, and Scott…or with Jane, like mane…no not drain…ah, try run, fun, gun, stun…”

“Oh,” he said, delighted at such an exercise.

She went to bed. When Zane woke her in false dark, hungry, Zainal had filled pages of similarly sounding words, not all of which were spelled properly but she had to give him an A for effort. Spelling would come later. What did astonish her as she fed Zane by candlelight was the computer manual she found under a pile of his laboriously hand-printed sheets. He had underlined all the un-words…ctrl, del, esc, Pgdn, Pgup, num, menu.

“He can't have read the manual,” she murmured and smothered a laugh. “He may be one of the few who ever did before they turned on a computer.”

She and Zane had gone back to sleep again before full daylight and, by then, Zainal had gone off to work. In a neat pile on the mantel he had left all but the primer. Doubtless that had gone back to the library shelves for something more challenging. The manual was still there but then, there had been plenty of those in the packing cases they'd brought back from the marketplace at Barevi. But why this sudden need to understand computers…ah, yes. It probably had something to do with Zainal's master plan. Maybe it was plans since he intended not only to free Earth but destroy the Eosi
and
release Catten from slavery. Did he also plan to use the mind stimulator on everyone? To equalize the Catten race? Oops, she sort of thought that might be a bad idea.
Zainal was a most unusual Catteni. Still, there might well be similarly motivated Emassi among those whom he was going to enlist to help. But the Drassi…and the Rassi…though she despised herself for generalizing…were different: especially since they were such big people with lots of muscles and not much common sense.

She had an early shift this morning so she and Zane started off in the fresh morning air to the day care center. He was crawling around everywhere, even trying to climb, and spent more time falling down. But she let him fall…and let him get up. He rarely hurt himself. On the advice of other mothers, she had put extra padding on the knees of his trousers, saving him scratches if not bruises. Actually, Kris thought, Botany's new generation was generally sturdy and few mothers had the time to pamper their children. With the notable exception of Janet and Anna Bollinger. Their kids, however, had enough rough and tumble at the day care center to have developed allergies to maternal fussiness.

No television, no Coke, or chocolate—though sometimes Kris' craving for a chocolate bar was almost overwhelming—was all to the good. She did miss caffeine and, while the experiments with beer and other spiritous liquors had been successful, there was as yet no tobacco substitute. As soon as the children were able, they were put to little tasks and chores that would make them as self-sufficient as their parents had learned to be.

Raisha Simonova was checking in the children at the day care center this morning. Zane toddled firmly off to the room that catered to his age group. One of the Deski children, Fil, was on its way (gender in Deskis developed later) so he waited for Fil. Another plus for Botany—no racism. Well, not to fret over, because the few who had trouble assimilating with the Rugarians and Deskis were
gradually losing their sense of Human superiority: difficult to maintain when a Deski walked
up
a wall to carry slates to the roof. Or a Rugarian easily hefted weights that took two or three Humans to manage. Both races were also becoming more and more fluent in English, though they had trouble with past tenses of verbs. Who didn't? And a good couple of dozen Humans were attempting to master their languages.

Almost, Kris thought, as she stopped by the library to pick up the day's reading, it would be a shame to have to open Botany up. It could easily ruin the harmony that had been achieved. And yet…

All three of her charges were sitting in their bedside chairs, an aura of anticipation about them.

“They know to the minute when you're due, Kris,” Mavis Belton said.

“That's good, isn't it?”

“You don't know
how
good,” Mavis said with a deep sigh, slightly turning her head toward one of the “difficult wards” where the worst of the Victims were kept.

“Good morning, Marjorie,” Kris began, initiating her morning routine by touching the arm of each in turn, “Good morning, Peggy. Good morning, Sophie.”

“Why do you call me Sophie? That's my middle name. My
Christian
name is Norma,” the woman said with a hint of petulance. “Norma Sophie Barrow. Miss Barrow.”

“I do apologize, Miss Barrow,” Kris said sincerely, holding her hand now for the woman to shake. “I'm Kris Bjornsen, the nurse's aide.”

“Of course, you are. We've been expecting you,” Miss Barrow said almost tartly. “Aren't we?”

Marjorie and Peggy nodded.

“In that case, let us walk up to the dining hall,” Kris said.

Behind the newly restored Miss Barrow, Mavis was almost
in tears with joy at the breakthrough. It was a very mixed blessing. Miss Barrow was stunned to find herself in such rural, primitive surroundings.

“Rustic, I should say,” she remarked as they entered the log-built main hall. “I would certainly never take my vacation in such a setting.” She wanted coffee and refused to drink the herbal tea which was all that was served. She wanted white bread toast and butter and did not like the berry preserve, which did service as a spread. Nor would she eat the hot oatmeal. Porridge was for children or invalids. She wanted an egg, boiled, three minutes.