The Terrorists of Irustan (14 page)

“Tomas—do they need a driver? For the medicant, I mean?”

Tomas shook his head. “No, I guess Director IbSada drives himself. And the funeral was this morning, so they’re coming after lunch. Really, better scoot. Any minute now.”

Jin-Li couldn’t bear to let this opportunity escape, or to miss out on events. But how to be useful? What might Zahra need, or the general . . .

It was too late. Onani was emerging from his office, the three other men behind him. Tomas waved his hand at Jin-Li as he rose to take instructions. Jin-Li backed away and slipped as unobtrusively as possible from the office.

Chief Director IbSada and another man in a white formal shirt and trousers were already approaching from the far end of the corridor. Between them a tall, slender figure moved, graceful in layers of red silk. Her head was bowed. Not even her hands showed as she walked between her husband and the other man. But Jin-Li knew her, knew the elegant, fine-boned features hidden by her verge, the glorious eyes covered by her rill. She was Zahra IbSada.

thirteen

*   *   *

Disease is a warning to follow the laws of the One. He sends the remedy as a reward for obedience.

—Forty-second Homily,
The Book of the Second Prophet

Z
ahra kept
her head bent, but her eyes flashed around her, trying to observe everything through her veil. Through the haze of scarlet, she saw the outside of the two-storied building that was the port terminal, something she had only glimpsed from a distance before today. Abundant plantings surrounded it, thirsty Earth shrubs mixed with hardy met-olives and mock roses, everything neat and well-kept. She saw men in short pants and short-sleeved shirts, and then caught her breath when she realized she was looking at women, too, their faces bare, their arms and legs exposed! They walked freely in and out of the doors, down the white sidewalks. Dark glasses turned to watch her pass. Qadir and Diya walked protectively on either side of her, but they could not shield her eyes. She drank in everything she saw, as thirsty as the Earth plants.

They made their way up a staircase to the second floor of the terminal, then down a long corridor. A young woman with bizarrely colored lips rose from the reception desk and smiled at them, gesturing to the end of the hall. Her eyes were oddly wide. Zahra felt the girl’s curious gaze as she paced along between Qadir and Diya. Other people looked up from their desks, then looked away too quickly. Conversation lagged in their wake.

General Administrator Onani’s office was the last one in the corridor. Zahra tried to see everything, taking in the pictures, the signs, the furnishings, the people. Some had skin as white as Cook’s flatbread, some olive-dark. Many wore odd, confusing decorations. In some cases Zahra could not tell if they were male or female, and it was fascinating to think that perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps it made no difference at all.

Zahra was startled to see Jin-Li Chung standing in the corridor. Chung touched his heart with his hand and nodded to the three of them, but neither Qadir nor Diya responded.

In the general administrator’s office a large, colorful mg covered most of the floor. Surely it made the office hotter than it needed to be—but then, the windows were darkened to shut out the heat. Two men stood on the rug beside a broad desk, and behind the desk was the administrator himself. His skin was the darkest Zahra had ever seen, much darker than any Irustani’s. It was so black as to have a blue cast, and his eyes were the color of a moonless night sky. Like Qadir, his hair had mostly vanished. He was far shorter than Qadir, even than Zahra herself, but he was a powerful presence. He wore a suit of deep brown, with pencil-thin lapels, and a matching collarless shirt.

The administrator touched his heart with his hand, and then held his hand out to Qadir. “Chief Director IbSada,” he said courteously. “Thank you very much for coming.”

“Of course,” Qadir answered easily, taking the hand and shaking it briefly. “Administrator, it’s good to see you again.” He indicated Diya. “I believe you’ve met my secretary.”

Diya touched his breast, as did Onani. Neither offered to shake hands. Qadir added, “And this woman is the medicant. My wife.”

“Yes,” Onani said. “Please tell the medicant we are grateful to her for coming.” The administrator knew his Irustani manners. Too bad, Zahra thought. She would have liked to see how an Earther might have addressed her.

Qadir said, “Medicant, Mr. Onani thanks you.”

Zahra made no answer.

Chairs were arranged around the big desk. Qadir set one back, slightly outside the circle, for Zahra. He took the one to her right, and waved Diya into the one on her left. The Earthers took their seats, and Onani tapped the keypad of the large reader set into his desk. It was angled so he could glance at it without turning his head. He put his elbows on the desk, his hands together before him, palm to palm, fingertip to fingertip.

“We’re sorry about Irustan’s loss, Chief Director,” he began. Qadir nodded. “And we’re sorry to interrupt your day of mourning. But we felt there was no time to lose.”

“I understand,” Qadir said. “You felt this matter required immediate attention.”

“Exactly. This is Dr. Michael Sullivan,” Onani went on, indicating the man to his immediate right.

Zahras head snapped up, and through her veil she gazed at the man, rapt. A doctor. A real Earth doctor. A man.

Beside her she felt Diya squirm in distaste, and she felt a rebellious laugh bubble inside her. She quelled it firmly, biting her lip. She had not laughed in days, nor could she imagine a worse time.

“Doctor,” Qadir said calmly.

“Chief Director,” the man replied. He looked robust, ruddy-cheeked, with silvering dark hair. He, too, wore one of the dark suits, though his was blue, with lapels even narrower than Onani’s. His shirt was piped in silver at the neck.

Onani said, “Dr. Sullivan is the chief physician for Port Force. I’ve asked him to be here while we discuss this situation because my own understanding of medical matters is limited.”

“And mine,” Qadir said.

“Yes, of course.” Onani glanced at the reader. “Now. You will forgive me, I hope, if I speak bluntly. I’m told that Director IhMullah contracted the prion disease. Correct?”

Qadir murmured to Zahra, and she spoke back in a low tone. Diya shifted uneasily, but Qadir was managing to put aside his feelings. His voice, when he conveyed her answer, was even.

“The medicant says that your information is accurate. Although Director IhMullah was not on her clinic list, she performed the postmortem examination. . . .” At these words, even Qadir’s composure cracked slightly. He had to stop and swallow, and Zahra heard the dry click of his tongue against his palate. “Ah, because she is familiar with the disease, and because the director’s medicant doesn’t do such procedures. Medicant IbSada says that the examination revealed . . .” He paused again, and said in an undertone, “Zahra, what was that again?”

“Vacuoles,” she said, clearly enough for them all to hear. “Vacuoles in the brain tissue.”

Sullivan took a breath that whistled between his teeth.

Qadir set his jaw and said, “The medicant says there were vacuoles in the brain tissue.”

“Are you sure?” The doctor’s voice was harsh. It was tension, Zahra thought, that made it so. It was rather a light voice, but it rasped now like stone on stone.

Qadir did not bother to ask Zahra again. “Yes,” he said. “The medicant performed her exam the same day of the death.”

“What’s a vacuole?” Onani asked sharply of Sullivan. The veneer of courtesy was cracking, and Zahra watched all the men, seeing their various responses to the crisis. The two aides with Onani were frowning, hastily tapping in notes on portables.

Sullivan said, “It’s a hole, a bubble, like in a sponge.”

“What does it prove?” Onani pressed.

“It’s evidence of the prion disease,” the doctor said. He asked Qadir, “Did the medicant dispose of the waste safely? Contact can be serious, and ingestion almost certainly fatal!”

Qadir stiffened. Zahra murmured to him, and he said, “The medicant says she is well aware of the dangers. And I may add, on her behalf, that her training has been excellent.”

“Of course, of course,” the doctor said swiftly. “But there hasn’t been a case of prion disease on Irustan for over thirty years. Why now? And does it mean we have to fear an epidemic?"

Zahra touched Qadir’s arm and he bent to her.

“Qadir,” she murmured. “Tell them there could have been rhodium dust underground. Gadil might have breathed it there.”

Qadir relayed her information, adding, “The water pipes run under the streets and the building foundations. Director IhMullah may have conducted a personal inspection.”

“Without his mask?” Onani snapped. “Don’t you all know better than that?”

Qadir folded his arms. He didn’t answer immediately, and Zahra knew he was trying to control his temper. “I doubt very much that Director IhMullah would have been so rash,” he said after a moment. “I doubt it very much indeed.”

“Then how the hell could he have contracted the disease?” Sullivan demanded.

Zahra touched Qadir’s sleeve again, and he turned toward her. The skin around his eyes had gone white, his jaw muscles trembling with tension. “Qadir,” she murmured. “It would be better if I speak directly with the doctor.”

“No,” he grated. “Tell me what you want to say.”

“But you must calm yourself,” she breathed.

Qadir met her eyes through her rill. “1 will,” he said quietly. “Thank you, my dear. Now tell me.”

“Gadil worked in the mines a long time,” Zahra said. “And 1 often find evidence, even with the masks, of rhodium dust in the lungs and the bloodstream.”

Qadir conveyed that to Dr. Sullivan, and then leaned close to Zahra again. She continued, “1 suspect that very long exposure, even with precautions, causes a rise in the level of contamination. It may even be absorbed through the skin.”

There was another interruption while he repeated her words. She heard Sullivan shift impatiently, and she went on speaking to Qadir. “Gadil avoided his medicant; routine exams would have detected elevated levels of rhodium.” Zahra waited while Qadir repeated that to the Port Authority officials. She added, “Our men must be more conscientious about visiting their medicants. There’s no cause for alarm.”

When all of this had been relayed, the Earthers leaned their heads together, conferring. Zahra sat demurely, silent now, her long fingers linked in her lap.

“Chief Director,” Sullivan said, “could you ask the medicant if I may see her postmortem results?”

Qadir looked at Diya, and Diya took a sleeved disc from his pocket, holding it by one corner, and put it on the desk. “She prepared this for you,” Qadir told the doctor.

Onani looked at the disc with one narrow eyebrow arched. Sullivan picked up the sleeve, saying, “Thank you.”

Zahra murmured to Qadir again. He hesitated a moment, and then smiled at her. He told Sullivan, “The medicant says IhMullah’s body has not yet been interred. You’re welcome to repeat her exam if you like. She offers her surgery.”

Sullivan stared at them. “Why, no,” he said, after an uncomfortable moment. “I have every confidence in your—in the medicant’s ability. I’m curious, though. How did she know how to do an autopsy?”

Zahra murmured, “Tell Dr. Sullivan that I found a tutorial on postmortem exams in the files, and that I had a remote sampler in my equipment, so gross incisions were not necessary.”

Qadir had difficulty with some of that, but he managed to convey the information.

“Interesting, interesting. I’ll look over her results,” Sullivan said, “and I’ll give her a call if I have questions.”

Onani put out a hand. “The doctor means he’ll call you, Chief Director, or your secretary.”

Dr. Sullivan looked surprised, and then embarrassed. His face grew rosy. “I’m sorry. I forgot,” he stammered.

Qadir said graciously, “It’s all right, Doctor. We Irustani understand that our ways are somewhat different from yours.”

“But, look, Director,” Sullivan said quickly. “What if this IhMullah got the disease some other way? What if there’s danger to his family, or other Irustani—or Port Force? I’m responsible for the health of over a thousand people here.” The two aides looked up from their portables and exchanged an uneasy glance.

Diya had sat silent throughout the entire interview, but he now turned to Qadir. “Chief Director, I believe you have other duties this afternoon,” he said coolly.

“Indeed.” Qadir stood up, and gave his hand to Zahra. She stood beside him. “I think that’s all, Administrator.”

“We’ll see,” Onani answered, his midnight features grave. “If this is an outbreak, it could have serious implications.”

“The medicant is convinced it is not,” Qadir said. “I trust her judgment.” “Yes.” Onani’s was noncommittal. “I hope she’s right.”

“I’m concerned for my own people, of course,” Qadir said in a studied tone. “If I had any doubts, I would pursue them.”

A grim smile stole across Zahra’s veiled face. Her allies were fear and prejudice. Sullivan could redo the postmortem, or Qadir could inspect the water tunnels. Information was readily available. They would find a hundred reasons not to find it.

Ah, well,
she thought. She descended the stairs with Qadir and Diya, past the curious men and women of Port Force. She walked in silence to Qadir’s sleek car and took her seat in the back. Ah,
well. It
’
s over
now. She would answer to the Maker when her time came. But she was finished with Port Force.

fourteen

*   *   *

Let yesterday and tomorrow keep their own concerns; today we have the mines, the Doma, and our sons, in the mercy of the One.

—Seventeenth Homily,
The Book of the Second Prophet

I
shi rose
early on the Doma Day following Gadil’s funeral. Zahra slept on, her dark hair tumbled over her face. Ishi tiptoed about the bedroom, brushing her teeth, combing her hair, finding her dress and veil and sandals, almost holding her breath to keep from making a sound. She pulled on her veil, and kept her sandals in her hand until she went out. She put her sandals on in the hall before she hurried downstairs.

The circle was coming, and Ishi knew there was too much for Lili and Cook to do alone. Zahra—Zahra was just not herself these days. She claimed she was only tired, but that explanation didn’t satisfy Ishi. She couldn’t imagine why Gadil IhMullah’s death should upset anyone, but Zahra had been withdrawn ever since. Of course the leptokis disease was a shock to everyone, but Zahra had assured Ishi there was nothing to worry about.

Ishi wasn’t a bit concerned about the leptokis disease. She was worried about Zahra. She tried to find small things to do to make her days easier, changing the bedsheets in the surgeries without being asked, picking up scattered discs from Zahra’s desk. She wanted to ask outright what was wrong, but Zahra’s remote expression, her shadowed eyes, forestalled her.

Still, Ishi was not quite twelve years old. Even worried as she was, she tingled with excitement over the party ahead. Her favorite circle days were when the friends gathered at Qadir’s house, the women and girls and anahs trooping up the drive in silence, bursting into talk the moment they were within doors.

And Cook made such lovely things to eat, beautiful fruit and olive trays, fresh flatbread, the sweet cakes all the girls adored. Ishis mouth watered, thinking of it. She couldn’t wait until the company came to eat. She would have to grab some fruit or bread from the kitchen. It seemed she was always hungry!

She was growing fast. Lili complained over her clothes, always letting out the hems of her old dresses or measuring for new ones. Ishi thought about the growth as a medicant might; her cells dividing, her bones lengthening, her breasts just beginning to swell. She held up her hands before her sometimes, in awe at how her body was changing. Her fingers grew longer every week, her wrists narrowing, her arms stretching. A little ring she had received as a birthday gift from Qadir no longer fit her at all, and she wore it on a chain around her neck. She told herself she was growing to look more like Zahra every day. Of course that was silly; Zahra’s hair was black, and her eyes a dark violet. Ishi’s own hair was plain brown, and her eyes, too. But her face was almost the same shape, except for her pointed chin. One day she might even be as tall as Zahra!

Today would be a different kind of circle day. Rabi and her mother would be wearing their scarlet mourning dresses, and voices would be kept low, out of respect. If she and Rabi spoke of Gadil they would whisper, hiding their mouths behind folds of verge. Only Kalen, who spoke everything that came into her head, was likely to say anything out loud.

Ishi had keened as loudly as anyone as she knelt before Gadil’s coffin, but she had felt no grief. She had seen Rabi’s eyes through her veil, and Kalen’s. How could they be sad? It was a good thing Rabi’s father died when he did. Ishi had been surprised to see him in his coffin, so old and wrinkled, not like Qadir at all. It was a mercy, just like the Second Prophet said. Kalen could choose for Rabi now. Besides, Binya Maris no longer wanted her—Ishi had heard Cook and Marcus whisper that Binya Maris was afraid of the leptokis disease. As if he could catch it from Rabi! Men were so stupid sometimes.

“Ishi, are the chairs set?” Lili called from the kitchen.

Ishi put her head out of the dayroom door. “Yes,” she called happily. “Chairs for the circle, chairs for the anahs.”

“Good, good,” Lili answered. She came into Ishi’s view, bearing a wide wooden tray laden with glasses and cups. “Run to the kitchen then, and help Cook with the rest of these.”

Ishi trotted down the hall, grinning at the anah. Lili was neatly veiled as usual, only her rill open. Ishi’s blue veil was untidy, rill and verge still undone, drape tossed back over her shoulders. Lili clucked her tongue and shook her head.

Lili had been worrying about Zahra too. She fussed, urging Zahra to eat more, to lie down, to shorten her clinic hours. Zahra had been spending too much time at the clinic, going there at strange times, and alone.

One evening very late, Ishi had waked to see Zahra pulling on her medicant’s coat, tiptoeing out of their bedroom. Ishi rubbed her eyes and got out of bed, feeling anxious. It had been a strange day in the clinic, with Asa gone all morning and Diya sulking behind the screen in the surgery. Ishi, following Zahra through the dark house, found the door to the large surgery closed and locked. She knocked lightly, but received no answer. She stood outside the door, puzzled, her hand raised to knock again. Such a thing had never happened before in the three and a half years she had been Zahra’s apprentice.

A sound came from the surgery, and Ishi stood frowning, trying to think what it was. It sounded like scrubbing, the regular soapy scrape of a scrub brush on tiles, the way it sounded when the kitchen floor was being washed. Alarmed, Ishi stepped back from the door. Why would Zahra scrub the surgery? The maids did that for her! There was something odd, something frightening. . . . Suddenly, Ishi didn’t want to know. She felt small and confused and left out. She wrapped her arms tightly about herself and hurried back to their bedroom.

At least, Ishi reflected now as she hurried to the kitchen, Zahra hadn’t gone to the surgery alone since that night.

Cook met Ishi at the door with a platter to carry to the dayroom. Sweet cakes and sugared grapes were arranged in layers around the bloom of a mock rose Cook had candied with honey and citrus juice. The sweet scent of the flower mingled with the enticing vanilla and cinnamon of the cakes. Ishi smiled as she carried the platter carefully down the hall and laid it on the long table. Rabi and the others would love these. Cook came after her with another tray.

“No, this way, little sister,” Cook said, moving Ishi’s platter to one side. “You see how the pattern moves, leading from the citrus to the fish, and then to the sweets?”

Ishi followed Cooks hands and nodded. “You could have been a sculptor, Cook!”

“If I’d been a man, maybe,” Cook said.

Ishi would have loved to take just one of the sweet cakes, but she wouldn’t have disturbed Cook’s lovely design for anything. She sighed, and turned to survey the dayroom. Everything was beautiful. Huge vases overflowed with flowers and olive branches Asa had bought in the Medah. Big colorful cushions were scattered and ready for the girls to sit on, chairs for the women carefully arranged. And Rabi would be free to play and chatter with the girls, not forced to sit, veiled and polite and bored, with the married women! Anticipation made Ishi giddy, and she ran from the dayroom and charged up the stairs, taking two at a time, to see if Zahra was awake.

Very quietly, she opened the bedroom door.

She found Zahra leaning into the casing of her window, staring out across the city. She was still in her nightgown, her long, smooth arms bare, her hair a dusky tangle down her back.

“Zahra?” Ishi ventured. “It’s circle day!”

Zahra didn’t turn, but she put out her hand to draw Ishi close. With relief, Ishi snuggled against her, putting her arm around Zahra’s slender waist. She felt Zahra’s ribs beneath her fingers, almost no flesh to cover them.

“Look,” Zahra said, pointing. Ishi followed her gaze.

A shuttle was approaching the port. It appeared to hang suspended above the city, a wedge of silver against the pale blue of the sky. The rumble of its engines was almost inaudible at this distance. Its wings, sweeping back at a wide angle, blazed with reflected light, leaving its swollen underbelly in shadow. As they watched, the shuttle sank below the skyline, one final gleam glancing between the buildings. Zahra sighed, making the silky fabric of her nightdress slither under Ishi’s hand.

“Like a great bird,” Zahra muttered. “Imagine, Ishi—imagine being able to fly like that, to soar, land where you like—or leap into the air and just—just leave.”

“You mean, go to Earth?” Ishi asked.

Zahra turned away from the window. She patted Ishi’s cheek, and gave her a fragment of a smile. “No, not Earth,” she said. “The shuttles don’t go to Earth.”

“I know that! But you’d like to go, wouldn’t you?”

Zahra turned her head back to the window. Ishi was alarmed to see a glisten in her eyes. She had never, ever seen Zahra weep, not even when that poor woman, Maya B’Neeli, died.

No tears fell. Zahra sighed again, and moved away to her dressing table. “I just meant, away,” she said. “Away from everything. Fly, where no one can follow. Above the planet. Off among the stars.”

Ishi didn’t know how to answer, didn’t understand this mood. She stood rooted, feeling as if she had missed something. She hoped Zahra didn’t mean she wanted to fly away from her.

Zahra met her gaze in the mirror. She smiled again, but it was the same expression, a smile that curved her lips but brought no light to her eyes. “Never mind, Ishi,” she said. She picked up her brush and pulled it through her hair. “I’m being silly. Go down and get some breakfast. I’ll be along in a moment.”

*   *   *

The remorse Zahra felt—or perhaps not remorse, but at the least a vicious weight of responsibility—Kalen did not share. Kalen gripped her hand, hard, and hugged her close.

“Look, Zahra, look at Rabi!” she whispered fiercely.

Zahra turned slowly, finding Kalen’s daughter in the dayroom that was quickly filling with colorful dresses and floating veils. The mourning scarlet Rabi wore made her eyes sparkle. She glowed, smiling, looking even younger than her thirteen years. Ishi had drawn her to the cushions spread on the floor. Their heads bent together, the scarlet veil and the blue, and a froth of giggles rose about them.

“You see, Zahra!” Kalen exclaimed.

The others came, quiet Camilla, plump Idora, little Laila, their children in tow, their anahs snickering together in their own circle almost as freely as the little girls. Lili bustled about, moving chairs to more congenial places, offering drinks. Rills and verges were unfastened, and laughter and talk swirled, cheerful as ever. Zahra watched the scene, so normal, so ordinary. Yet everything was changed. The beauty of the scene, the delight in the company of friends, were like remembered pleasures, as if they had nothing to do with the present.

They sat down, the five friends, the circle. Laila smiled across at Kalen and said softly, “Praise to the One whose face is never veiled! Our prayers were answered.”

Idora patted Kalen’s hand. “Are you all right? And Rabi?”

Kalen tucked her fading red hair beneath the vivid scarlet of her cap and blew out her lips. “We’re fine!” she said with a toss of her head. “I tell you, widowhood suits me. No one orders me about, at least no one in my house. The houseboy has to ask me—me!—for decisions on things.”

“Oh,” Idora said, leaning toward Kalen. “Isn’t that hard? How do you know what to tell him?”Kalen chuckled. “1 just think of something. Sometimes I don’t know right away—I mean, what do you do with a car no one in the house can drive? But it works out. And the men from Water Supply came and cleared out Gadil’s desk and business things. All I had to do—” She stopped, and her lip curled. “All I had to do was get rid of his clothes.”

“What did you do with them?” Idora asked.

“I sent them to the Medah. In a big basket!” Kalen said. “I sent them down there for anyone who wanted them.”

“Oh, I could never have done that,” Idora declared. “I’d have to keep something, something to remember him by!”

“I don’t want to remember,” Kalen said. “It’s all gone.”

Laila said, “Kalen—where are you going to live now? You know, without Samir, I wouldn’t know what to do! I’d be completely lost . . . and so lonely.” Her mouth drooped.

“Really,” Idora said. “Where does a widow go if she doesn’t have married daughters?”

Kalen folded her arms and her cheeks flushed. “Our parents don’t talk about this. They marry us to old men who usually die before we do. Where are we supposed to go?”

Camilla said, “You can come to us, Kalen. I think Leman would agree, if I asked him.”

“Are you sure of that?”

Camilla made a wry face. “No, I can’t be sure, really. You know how he is, but . . . but I can at least ask him!”

Kalen leaned to pat Camilla’s hand. “Never mind,” she said. “It’s not necessary. Rabi and I—we’re going to go home. To my father’s house.”

“Oh, Kalen!” Idora cried. “Is that all you can do? Wouldn’t you like to marry again? Surely your father—”

Kalen laughed. “Oh, no! I’m not going to give him the opportunity! Besides, this is easier. My father’s very frail. My mother and I can work things out between us.”

“There must be money,” Zahra put in. “Gadil left you and Rabi everything, surely, since there’s no male heir?”

Kalen made a sour face. “Sure, there’s money. But what can I do with it? I can’t go to the bank and get it, can I, or go to the Medah and spend it. My father, or his man, has to do all that for me. It’s all well and good to say women receive their fair inheritance, but if they can’t use it . . .”

“Kalen!” Idora protested. Kalen only shrugged.

“And your beautiful house ...” Laila began.

Kalen shrugged again. “The new director will have the house. That’s the way it is for widows. But don’t worry about me,” she added tartly. “I don’t mind in the least.”

“But will we see you?” Laila said in a small voice. “Will this break up the circle?”

There was a little silence, and they all looked at each other, all but Camilla. Camilla sat with her head bowed, and when she looked up, her eyes glowed with unshed tears. “I envy you,” she whispered to Kalen.