Heritage of Flight (27 page)

"And what, ‘Cilla?” Pauli asked as gently as if she spoke to an infant.

"He put me down, and I woke up. See? Here's a picture of him. I just wish I had the colors."

To Pauli's surprise and relief, Dr. Pryor walked into the main room at that moment. The door slid shut, but not before the screams rasped out, distracting everyone in the room but ‘Cilia, who returned to her painting. Pryor walked carefully, probably still stiff from her attempt to rescue Ramon from the icy water. From time to time, if she felt that no one was watching, she coughed, her shoulders hunching up with the force she put into it.

"Any other deaths?” Pauli hated herself for asking.

"Thank God, no. Or not yet,” Pryor answered. “We're likely to have some miscarriages, I think. At least I hope so: otherwise, I'm very much tempted to abort the women.” She took a deep breath and held it, suppressing another spasm of coughing.

"This hits different people differently. ‘Cilia, now, has a case of old-time religion: beyond that, I think she'll be all right. Ramon? you heard his hallucinations. A few others have had much the same visions—the moths, some skeletons with wings, the usual collection of serpents and green things that go squelch in the night: an addict's menagerie of them. They flash back, too. In general, what you see first is what you keep on seeing. I don't envy Dave, either, having to deal with a kid who thinks he's about to be cast into space in a pod."

She sighed, and pushed back limp hair that suddenly seemed more gray than blonde.

"Then there are the ones who are losing circulation in their extremities. If that goes on, we could have gangrenous limbs. I'm trying to stimulate circulation there."

"And for the ones hallucinating?"

Pryor sighed and shrugged. “I'm working on the assumption that there's some sort of alkaloid poisoning at work here and treating it accordingly. Eserine or acetylcholinesterase would be best, but, naturally, we don't have it. We don't even have any way to get medication directly into the brain. I tell you, Pauli, practicing outpost medicine is enough to drive you mad!"

Her outburst drew shocked laughter from both of them. “I'm sorry,” said the physician. “Where were we? I'm using epinephrine to stop the hallucinations."

"Won't that make them as frenzied as the ones outside?"

Pryor nodded despairingly. “For the older ones, or the ones who aren't in good condition, I combine the epinephrine with tranquilizers. Strong ones."

Pauli sighed. “I guess I'd better see what we're up against,” she said.

Pryor turned and led her into one of the small quarantine units where a man twisted on his bed. His sheets were soaked with sweat, and from them rose a familiar, musty odor. Pryor lifted the brownish blanket that covered him, and pointed at the man's feet. They were slightly discolored now, as if bruised, the toes contorted, each entire foot drawn sharply downward. He twisted back and forth ceaselessly, unable to find rest or relief.

Only a scream from outside the dome saved Pauli from gagging, disgracing herself. She flung herself at the door, then out after the woman to whom she had spoken earlier, the one who had completed her work and now had nothing to do. “I'll make them use me, I'll make them!” she kept screaming, and flew at the nearest man, her hands clawing out to tear at his face. He caught her wrists and recoiled until two men came to secure her.

Pryor shook her head. “We're likely to have more and more of that. Frenzy, hysterical strength: God help us, we could be a village of maniacs by sundown. Rafe find anything yet?"

Pauli shook her head. “I had an idea,” she spoke hesitantly, “but Dave told me that the squashes we had at the feast aren't the type that have to be cooked right, or they poison you.” She sighed. “Dave says it's like going back to the Dark Ages.” Abruptly she was as frustrated as Pryor had been by the limits of her powers.

"Damn! I keep thinking that I must be missing some piece of the puzzle."

Pryor nodded. “Why not sit down, then, and look at another one? Maybe you can tell me what we've left out. I have the lists of everything the children ate. Not all of them ate the gourds, so that shoots your curare hypothesis, elegant as it was. And beyond that, there isn't a whole lot that all of them ate..."

Pauli rubbed her temples, a gesture copied by Pryor. Over in the corner, ‘Cilia sat placidly sketching, an expression of almost angelic serenity on her mobile features.

"Cilia?” asked Pauli. “Sorry to disturb you. But can you look at this list of what you ate last night, and tell me if it's complete?"

"Glad to,” said the child and took the leaf of fax. Her lips moved as she muttered the words beneath her breath. Finally her head came up, and she looked puzzled.

"Does it matter if it was one of the special dishes, or what?” she asked.

"What do you mean?” asked Pryor, bending forward eagerly.

"Why you know: some things just go with a meal. Like glasses of water, or napkins, or..."

"Or bread?” asked Alicia.

"That's right. Those things don't really count. Lohr always said that whenever there were two foods, you always had to eat the solid, high-protein stuff first, because you might not have time to eat it second; and it's what really stays with you."

"Bread,” mused Pryor. “Bread. Pauli, excuse me.” She walked off with that rapid medcrew stride.

Pauli stared helplessly at ‘Cilia. “Why isn't Lohr here with you?” she asked.

The little girl smiled as she always did at the thought of her splendid older brother, on whom even Captain Yeager relied. Her waxen skin almost glowed as if she were returning to normal health. Then she dropped her eyes—the faintly manic, dilated eyes of the poison victim—to her paper. “I sent him to talk to the others. They need him too."

Behind her rose Pryor's voice, not the gentle, controlled tones of the physician that the entire settlement had come to trust, but sharp, imperious, demanding to know how the bread had been baked for the Kwanzaa feast. She'd be wanting samples of the flour next, perhaps even the grain, Pauli was sure. She yawned and reached for a stimulant, then started to put it back in her pocket. Perhaps it might be a good idea to sleep now.

Realspace reeled about her, colors strobing, then fading to black as sounds dopplered past her range of hearing, only to explode in strident demands: PAULI DO SOMETHING! She did. She screamed, and Jump snatched the shriek from her lips. She could feel her throat rasp and vibrate with the scream, but she heard nothing. She looked down, and saw herself wavering in and out of existence; and facing her came a witches’ star of enemy pilots, each with her own face as the RED ALERT lights and klaxons brayed...

Rafe's icy hand on her shoulder brought her fully awake. He leapt back just in time to avoid the counterattack some residue of her nightmare made her launch. She thrust clear of the covers that seemed to smother and imprison her and wiped a shaking hand across her brow.
0h, God, sweating like Ari. Or Ramon. Why'd Rafe wake me?

She looked up at him, appalled, and he bent to pick up a blanket and lay it about her shoulders. “You'll freeze like that, Pauli."

She gasped and sank back on the bed.

"Bad dream?” he asked, smoothing back her hair. Over her head, he breathed the words “in a minute!” but she intercepted them.

"What's ‘in a minute'?” she mumbled. She was so tired; and her relief that she too was not about to convulse and hallucinate made her want to sleep even longer. But if Rafe was signalling “in a minute,” something was wrong. She reached for her clothes, but couldn't find them in the dark. The LEDs on the chrono she hadn't turned off before collapsing into bed read 4:00.

"The lights won't work,” Rafe told her. “There's been a power failure. One of the techs went crazy and tried to take apart computer interface with the generators. When we caught him, he started to scream that we were evil and had to be wiped out."

"Ohmigod,” Pauli moaned, and it wasn't a prayer. Her feet, scuffling against the cold floor, kicked against her clothes and she bent to retrieve and tug them on. “Why'd you let me sleep?"

"Pryor's orders. Apparently you told her she could either rest or be sedated. She returned the compliment."

She swore, and knew that Rafe turned aside to hide an out-of-place grin. Stamping into her boots to settle cold feet in them, Pauli rose. “All right, Rafe. The lights are down because some maniac attacked the computer.
What else?"

Rafe looked away. “We're on backups over at the lab. When the system crashed, it took most of the research database with it."

"
Shit,
” Pauli whispered, almost prayerfully.

"Yeah,” said Rafe. “Now we have to start all over. And when you see the mess outside—Pauli, I don't know how much time we have left."

17

Shivering from the speed with which she had waked, Pauli strode outside and found half the crew who had been detached from the
Amherst
for duty here waiting for her. She also found catastrophe. Smeared across one of the central storage domes was a crude representation of a Cynthian, its huge wings daubed black, its jaws flowing a crimson that ran down to stain the snow like sacrificial debris before a bloody altar.

Smoke rose from the remnants of an outlying storehouse, adding an eerie cast to the deep gray sky. Much of the compound lay in darkness; rocks had shattered many of the greenish lights.

In the graveside glow of those remaining lay, writhed, or danced many people who clearly belonged in quarantine. Some should have been sedated or restrained. Some cried out in pain, their faces twisting horribly, while others tried to curl around on bellies as distended as those of women about to give birth. One or two people had bloodstained bandages swathing what should have been hands or feet.

Pauli pointed at them. “Those people should be cared for!” she declared, unable to keep the sick disgust from chilling her voice. “Have there been any deaths? What's happened?"

"Only two deaths so far,” one of Alicia Pryor's assistants spoke up. “But a whole complex of new symptoms."

"Where's Dr. Pryor?” Pauli interrupted.

"Down with fever. No, it's not the madness. She caught it from that dive into the river. The rest of us

...Captain, we've been working till we drop. We drafted as many able-bodied as we could, but then
that"
—he pointed at the twisting, grimacing figures—"started."

"What about the ones with the bandages?” asked Pauli. “What happened to their limbs?"

"Spontaneous amputation,” said the assistant. “About twenty-four hours ago, each man complained of burning on his skin, and stabbing pains in the extremities, which turned black, gangrenous. Finally—you can see that there was very little bleeding. No infection, either.” He seemed bemused by the cases.

Pauli stifled an insane impulse to spit, to turn her face away, to hide indoors until the last of this unholy settlement died, and she could die too.
One night's sleep,
she thought,
because they forced me to take it; and this is what happens!
“So, not only couldn't medcrew care for our sick,” she made herself say, “but the rest of you couldn't protect vital installations."

"Ma'am!” interrupted one of the crewmembers. “These aren't poor sick people; they're mad—criminally insane, maybe. Only some of ‘em scream and hop about. Others—you see that moth on the wall, don't you? They're crazy too: quiet, mean crazy, though. Some of them have taken the law into their own hands, and sentenced us all to die. Request permission to break out sidearms, ma'am."

"Permission denied,” Pauli snapped. “I'm not having you use weapons on—"

"These civs are crazy!” shouted a crewwoman who wore security insignia and should have been more stable.

"They're not
civs,
damn you!” Pauli interrupted, her voice rising into a scream of rage that warmed her as nothing else could have done. “We don't have civs and crew here anymore. We have sick and well; sane and crazy—and right now I'm having trouble telling which is which.
Those people are your fellow settlers, lady: and you will damned well remember that!"

The woman tried to meet Pauli's eyes, succeeded bravely for an instant, then glanced down. “Yes, ma'am."

"All right, then. Now, I'm going to get the reports of the techs and scientists who've been working while the crew I thought I could trust plotted violence against their neighbors. And when I get back here, I want to see that ... that artwork gone, and those people decently restrained and tended. Is that understood?"

The crew's “Yes, ma'ams” were roared so loudly that the people twitching under the sodium lamps whirled around to take notice. One of them laughed, the shrill, nerve-shattering laughter that Pauli had heard too often in the past days. Breathing hard, she strode over to the labs. For once, the tall Rafe had trouble keeping up with her.

"Didn't know you had it in you,” he murmured. He didn't mean the fast pace, either.

"Neither did I.” Now that she'd tongue-lashed her crew, guilt began to creep out from somewhere in her belly to chill the rest of her.

"Fine. Don't make a habit out of it."

Rafe slapped a hand against a palm lock bearing the signs of hasty installation, and the door irised. The first thing Pauli noticed was the computer. Its hum was stilled, and the lights of its drives were dark.