Pegasus in Space (3 page)

“Ruchi?” ’Phania suggested, “since that means taste?”

“Hmm.” Kathleen deliberated a moment, then shook her head.

“Rudra? That, I think, is for the rudrakha plant.”

“I want something that’s
her,
” and Kathleen smoothed the girl’s hair back and smiled with success. “Shaila,” she said emphatically. “It means small mountain.”

Kathleen squatted down beside the newly named child. “Say Shaila, dear. That’s your name.” The deep blue eyes regarded her calmly. “Let me hear you say Shaila, dear?”

“Shy … la.” The light voice stumbled.

“Shaila,” Kathleen repeated the syllables. “You need a name. You are Shaila.”

“Dida?” the child asked, smiling at the nun.

“I do believe that’s the first time she’s smiled,” ’Phania said, pleased.

“No,” Kathleen said to the little girl. “Shai … la,” and Kathleen repeated it, accenting no syllable and poking the child lightly in the chest. “You are Shaila. I am Sister Kathleen.” She pointed to herself. “Sister Kathleen.”

“Sss … er,” was the response. “Kaaa.”

“She’s old enough,” ’Phania said with marked patience. “She should be able to handle three syllables.”

“The report says there’s no physiological reason for her not to speak.” Kathleen sounded dubious even to herself. She hadn’t heard a single word from the child, even to one of the other babbling children. Bangladeshi loved to talk and children chattered all the time among themselves. Except this one.

“The trauma of nearly drowning,” ’Phania stated.

“Shaila!” Kathleen repeated, determined to succeed in getting the child to speak her new name if she did nothing else that day. They had neglected this little waif long enough, getting the others settled in. She put a finger on the small chest, repeating the name once again.

The child shook her head solemnly and poking her chest with a muddy thumb said distinctly, “AmaREEyah!”

“Amareeyah?” The two nuns were flabbergasted and looked at each other. Sister Kathleen looked back at the girl. “Amareeyah is your name?”

“Amareeyah!” Then the child turned back to her endless gardening, crooning softly at her seedlings.

Sister Epiphania smiled. “Amareeyah is a lovely name.” She did not add, “better than Shaila” because that would have been unkind.

“I don’t recognize that as a Bengali name,” Kathleen murmured.

“It could be,” ’Phania said. “But she’s definite that it’s her name.”

When Father Salih arrived, he was somewhat doubtful about the propriety of baptizing an orphan who might yet be claimed by a Muslim family. He did write “Amareeyah” down in his diary. Uncles or grandfathers had now taken away all of the older boys who had been lodged at the Holy Innocents Orphanage after the flood. Even though the traditional Hindi thinking was giving way to modern pressures, girls were not so quickly claimed. Still, he sided with Sister Kathleen that Amareeyah had a more European cast of countenance and physique.

“She might even be younger than the doctor thought. She’s well grown, which might be more her ethnic background than her chronological age. Look at her bone structure and compare it with the more fragile-looking Muslim girls.”

The three of them did, watching Amareeyah, her hair neatly braided down her back, as she squatted by her “garden,” carefully hoeing the ground with her fingers. As usual she was crooning to her sprouting vegetables.

“What is she singing?” Father Salih asked the two European nuns.

Sister Kathleen, who had a strong alto voice, shrugged. “Nothing I ever heard. Surely nothing remotely Bangla. But she’s no trouble. And she’s very good about weeding her rows. If she’s younger, are we asking too much of her?” she finished with a worried frown.

“If she is doing it, let her,” was Father Salih’s advice.

“Would you also tell them in the diocese office that we may have a European cygnet among our Bangladeshi chicks?” ’Phania asked.

“I will be doing that,” the priest replied but he didn’t make a note of it when he should have. Later, he could not remember exactly what it was he should have entered into his report of the visit to that area.

I
n Dhaka, Lance Baden had continued to hoist in supplies. The heavy concrete curves that could be sunk in the torrents to prevent more levee breaches were vitally needed if they were to keep any more of Bangladesh from flooding into the Bay of Bengal. The Australian kinetic and his teams worked round the clock. He never thought he would yearn for the six-hour shifts of Padrugoi Space Station. But he wasn’t working under the tactless, stifling personality of Barchenka and that made a difference. Kayankira, the head of the Delhi Parapsychic Center, had managed to get through by four-wheel-drive truck and now handled the emergency telepathic traffic.

The third day after they had controlled the worst of the flooding, local non-Talented relief personnel approached him to locate some of those listed as missing. That list was by no means complete. The drowned or fatally injured bodies—quickly buried or cremated—were slowly being registered. Among the missing were a civil engineer, Tony Bantam, his wife, Nadezhda, and their five-year-old daughter. They had not reached their
destination, Nawabganj, where Bantam had been assigned to survey the Tajhat Palace for possible restoration before the beautiful palace disintegrated. Nadezhda was a qualified architect and teammate. Their last known stop was Sirājganj, located at the confluence of the Tista and the Jamuna rivers. They had purchased fuel at the station there; Bantam had signed a Division chit the evening before the monsoon hit. He had probably heard the weather report, since he was prudent enough to fill his tank and several reserve containers, but what had happened the next day was anyone’s guess. Bantam had a sturdy four-wheel-drive vehicle with flotation capabilities, in case he had to ford rivers, so they should have been safe enough even in monsoon conditions. Tony was known to be a competent driver. His wife was equally able for most contingencies. There was no sign of the vehicle anywhere along the logical route they should have taken to reach Nawabganj, nor was the chassis number reported when the flooding receded enough to disclose abandoned cars and trucks.

“Look, if you have anything of theirs to give my ‘finder,’ Bahadur Rafi …” Kayankira asked hopefully of Bantam’s Bangladeshi supervisor. The man had come to the improvised office to find out if the missing family had been found. Kayan’s large eyes and expressive mouth conveyed the urgency of her request.

Lance had only one man in his group, Fred Kiersey, who had some “finding” ability in his mainly kinetic Talent. Kayankira, unfortunately, had no one stronger at her Center. Fred was already working longer than normal hours, shifting matériel kinetically to where it was urgently needed. In his “spare” time, he tried, with possessions of the missing, to find them. He was inordinately pleased with his success rate even if he was only finding those still alive.

“In Engineer Bantam’s office will be items he has been handling,” replied the man who had authorized Tony Bantam’s expedition. The Bahadur bowed humbly, hand to his forehead, and with great sadness in his large brown eyes. “I will be sending them to you as soon as may be.”

“More chance of finding a trace if we also have something of the wife and child,” Lance added, raising hopeful eyebrows.

“Their house was one of the many drowning,” and Rafi Siti sadly gestured to the northwest where the Jamuna had swamped low-lying lands.

“Oh,” Lance said, grimacing. Waterlogged items would not emanate sufficient traces of their owners to be useful to a limited finder like Fred.

“It will take a few days to—”Rafi Siti broke off when Lance raised his hand discouragingly. “
Accha!
That may be too many days?”

“No, the water. We have no strong finder available,” Kayankira said apologetically. “We were lucky enough to muster the kinetics,” and she gestured at Lance Baden, who had never explained exactly
how
he and his men had managed to land safely at monsoon-swept Zia Airport. She felt the Bahadur’s intense sorrow at his impotence and inwardly grimaced because she could offer no real assistance. The monsoon had claimed so many lives.

Lance was equally distressed. Had Barchenka not been so unreasonable in her demands on the Talents, the necessary teams would have been in place long before the flooding got out of hand. Lance clenched his fists. Well, he had to console himself that the telekinetics had gotten to Bangladesh at all—thanks to young Peter Reidinger, the “skeleteam” that Rhyssa Owen was training at the Center for Parapsychics in Jerhattan. “Bring anything Bantam had handled a lot. We’ll do what we can.”

The Bahadur brought his palms together and bowed his gratitude, slipping out of the Talents’ temporary office with sorrow and dignity.

“We will do what we may,” Kayankira said. “But first we need something to trace with.” She jotted a note down on her screen, adding to a list that was already many pages long.

“If we get hold of something traceable, Kayan,” Baden said, firmly resolving that he
would
do what he personally could, “we can send it to Carmen Stein in Jerhattan. She’s the best finder I know of. Or we could ask Rhyssa if we can borrow her.”

Kayankira gave a self-effacing grin. “I have already asked, for I know her reputation. Rhyssa said she is desperately needed on some Linear problem. Maybe later.”

They both turned to more immediate problems and all but forgot their resolve in the press of other emergencies.

The Bahadur had evidently delivered Tony Bantam’s journal at a time when both Lance and Kayankira were out of the office. Lance found it six days later, when he could no longer delay the return of all his kinetics to Padrugoi Station. Cursing under his breath at failing to find the missing couple, Lance was about to stuff the leather-bound book in his luggage when a picture fell out, one of the old flat type that had been largely replaced with tri-d’s. All three Bantams had posed for this, their daughter
sitting between her parents, looking straight at the camera, her expression solemn, her hands crossed in her lap. Tony Bantam—Lance vaguely remembered seeing him at some of the Southeast Asia conferences—and his exotic-looking wife were both looking down at their child, with such proud and doting expressions that Lance felt a sudden stab of anguish. Surely they hadn’t perished. They deserved to live long and happily together. He carefully slipped the photograph back into the journal, making sure it was secure before he closed the book, and wrapped it in a clean hand towel so that the “traces” of Tony Bantam would not be marred. He’d send the journal to Carmen Stein. She was good at finding lost people, especially families.

He must remember to mention getting the journal to Kayankira, who had already returned to Delhi where she was facing crises of her own. Meanwhile he had a shuttle to catch and the newly promoted General John Greene might be casual about many things, but not about being on time for a launch. As Lance took his seat in the rattletrap ground vehicle that would take him to Zia, he thought that the heat in Bangladesh had one great advantage: Bantam’s sweaty hands would have left very traceable marks on the leather cover of his journal. Carmen Stein would find the Bantams. He was sure of it.

W
eeks later, a report was forwarded from the Bahadur that the bodies of two Europeans, identified by their DNA as Tony and Nadezhda Bantam, had been found. They had been trapped by debris in one of the little inlets along the Jamuna, several kilometers south of Sirājganj. Their four-wheel-drive vehicle was discovered not far from their bodies. No trace of their daughter had been found. The theory was that such a small body had been flung free of the vehicle and the child had probably drowned.

That was when Lance Baden, so constantly plagued by Barchenka’s demands, recalled that he had not sent the leather journal to Carmen. He found it, still wrapped in its clean towel, at the very back of his personal storage space.

He found the photo, and now he knew why he had felt unaccountable anguish at seeing it. The Bantams were already dead. He touched each face
with a light finger of benediction for their deaths. Maybe … just maybe, the child had somehow survived. After all, her body had not been found.

He hesitated before rewrapping the journal; a clean towel was a treasure not lightly to be given away. Up on Padrugoi, clean clothes were a luxury, so he’d had all his clothes washed prior to leaving. With quick movements, he wrote a covering note to Carmen Stein, slipped it and the photograph back in the journal, relinquished the towel as a cover to protect whatever trace the leather might bear, put it all in one of the special Talent-locked envelopes, and sent it off with the next Talent shipment to go downside.

I
n her office in Beechwoods, the old Henner estate overlooking the Hudson River, Rhyssa Owen Lehardt had just got through her morning’s mail when three square white envelopes floated into the space she had just cleared.

Neatly done, Johnny
, she said, able to identify a well-known mind behind the kinesis. She heard a soft, smug chuckle. She opened the one addressed to her, noting that her husband, David, and Peter Reidinger were to be the recipients of the other two.