The Terrorists of Irustan (8 page)

What must it be like inside? She imagined it cool and dark, the walls textured with different kinds of rock, glimmering under the lights. Did the weight of the planet above bother the miners as they worked? The boys about to go to the mines were often frightened, but they seemed to overcome their fear soon enough, to take pride in their teams, in their squads.

They came to the mines at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, with the expectation of twenty-five years of labor along the buried veins of dull raw rhodium. There were fifteen teams of a thousand or more men, divided into squads that worked together, lived together, usually spent even their free hours together. Squad leaders reported to team leaders, who reported in their turn to the director of mines. Qadir IbSada had been a squad leader, then a team leader, singled out early by the ESC for a directorship. Zahra was sure he had not disappointed the ExtraSolar Corporation.

Zahra looked around her with avid curiosity greedy for anything new. The circled star logo was everywhere, on the half doors of the mining machines they called rock wagons, on the coveralls of the miners, on the doors of the low sandrite building that housed the offices of Omikron Team. On the roof of the building the array of multispectral scanners flashed with the star’s light. Zahra kept her head bent but tipped slightly to the side to allow her to look up at the machinery. She was not permitted to ask its purpose, but she had no need. She frequently used ultrasound in her surgery. It was easy to surmise the way in which the scanners located the scattered veins and cast images to Omikron Team’s computers.

Zahra smiled to herself, but it was a bitter smile. When one of these miners was in pain, crying out, or stoically enduring some injury, did they ever think to be grateful that their medicant was well-versed in the technology that would help them? But then, when their hurts were mended,they snatched that knowledge away, held it to themselves as some sort of obscure proof of their worth, their strength—their maleness.

This was a familiar tumble of thoughts—brooding, futile. Zahra sighed and looked away, out over the scorched hills.

Qadir, misunderstanding, put his hand under her arm. “Don’t be nervous, my dear,” he murmured. “You just talk to me, as always, and I’ll give your message to the men. There’s nothing for you to worry about, I promise.”

Zahra had to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud.

*   *   *

The address by the chief director, with the medicant beside him, meant something of a holiday for Omikron Team. Behind the office building, in an open amphitheater between it and the processing plant, the miners filled rows of sandrite benches. Most of the benches were now shaded from the afternoon heat by the bulk of the building and a few scattered met-olives. Zahra, Qadir, and the Omikron Team leader walked around the side of the building as the men settled themselves with gusts of chatter and calls back and forth. In the back, where the benches were still in the light, the men stood; the stone was too hot to sit on.

Zahra scanned the miners from behind her veil. Above their heads, beyond the little amphitheater, the great disc of an enormous cooler revolved over the roof of the processing plant.

Dust powdered everything. The men’s faces were masked with it. Only their eyes and noses, which had been covered by the protective masks that now hung at their belts, were clean. The circles of paler skin around the eyes, contrasted with the dark dust of the mines, gave them an exotic look.

The men grew quiet as they caught sight of Zahra’s veiled figure. Qadir and the team leader stood with a secretary from the team leader’s office. Zahra stood at Qadir’s right hand, but a pace behind him, in his shadow. The team leader spoke first, introducing the chief director, making no reference whatsoever to Zahra. He leaned too close to the slender wand mike held by the secretary, and his voice boomed, echoing against the sandrite walls around them. When Qadir spoke into it, his voice was modulated, clear and carrying.

“Good afternoon, kiri,” he said. “All my staff have asked me to convey their congratulations to Omikron Team. Your production of pure metal in the last quarter topped eight thousand kilograms. Only one other team has a higher volume—Gamma Team—but Omikron also achieved the highest by-production of platinum of all fifteen teams. Every man of you . . .’’Qadir paused, smiling at the thousand faces turned his way. “Every man of Omikron Team will receive a fifty drakm bonus in his next pay.”

Qadir’s timing and delivery were perfect. A cheer went up, young men slapping each other on the back, standing briefly to raise open hands to Qadir. Qadir laughed into the wand mike, just a chuckle, but audible to everyone. “Now, men,” he said. “We expect you to save this bonus for some worthy purpose!”

There was general laughter. The Omikron Team leader watched Qadir with something like awe. Qadir waited, giving the men their moment, and spoke again just when the tide of laughter began to subside.

“Now, kiri,” he said. “I’ve come to speak to you on a serious subject.” The men fell silent, folding their arms, some leaning forward with their elbows on their knees. The shadows stretched farther over the stone benches, and some who were standing were able to take their seats. Still, the amphitheater was as hot as Cook’s kitchen before a great dinner. Zahra felt perspiration pooling under her drape, rolling in a slender stream down her back and over her ribs. Her verge seemed to stifle every breath. She blew it away from her lips, seeking fresher air.

Qadir spoke succinctly now, briskly. “The Second Prophet instructs us not to be diverted by matters of the body. I know you all study the Book, and follow your Simah in this. But the Second Prophet also reminds us that the mines are an Irustani’s sacred duty. You of Omikron Team are admirable in respecting that duty.”

Qadir let a small silence fall over the amphitheater. “It’s right and natural,” he said, “for a man to avoid the medicant’s surgery when he can. But to fulfill your duty to the mines, and to your team, you must—at least once every fourth quarter—take your inhalation therapy.”

The miners moved a little, shifting in their seats, not speaking. There was a rustle of coveralls against stone, a sliding of heavy boots on sand. Zahra fidgeted too. Perspiration dripped across her flanks.

Qadir spoke more quietly, with an air of intimacy. “Men, you know the rewards that wait for you when you complete your service. My own was marriage to a jewel of Irustan, a devoted wife, who is also a fine medicant respected by everyone in her care. Today she is with me, violating the seclusion that is her right, in order for us to emphasize the need for each of you to see your medicant on schedule.”

Zahra felt the pressure of a thousand pairs of eyes, looking at her, not seeing her, guessing at her face, her figure. Qadir turned to her, his brown face shiny with sweat, and murmured, “Ready.”

She took a half-step forward and tilted her head to Qadir’s. “Remind them of the maximum exposure.”

Qadir hesitated. “What is it?”

“The total of fumes and dust, measured by the mask, must not exceed one milligram per cubic meter. If there is exposure above that, extra treatment is necessary.”

Qadir turned back to the wand mike and repeated what she had said, word for word. When he added, “The medicant wishes you to remember that the therapy is not at all unpleasant,” there was a little uneasy sniggering among the miners.

Zahra murmured to Qadir, “The men in the processors should be particularly aware of the numbers.”

He turned to her, his brows raised.

“The platirig,” she said. “The evaporation releases more fumes. The mask calibration must be regularly checked, because heavy particulates disrupt the sensors.”

Qadir turned back to face the men. “The medicant is aware that men working in the processors must be especially careful. Watch the gauges on your masks, clear the dust from the filters, and adjust the calibration often.”

Two rows of miners looked at one another, and Qadir, sensing their discomfort, spoke quickly. “Any questions? Please feel free. We came just for this purpose.”

A man in the second row stood up. He was tall and strong-looking, clear-eyed. The large letters Theta Ro above the ESC logo on his coverall proclaimed him a squad leader. “I have a question, Chief Director,” he called in a firm voice.

Qadir nodded to him. “Squad Leader,” he said respectfully.

The Theta Ro leader gestured to the men seated around him. “We’ve been taught that there’s been no leptokis disease outbreak for more than thirty years,” the man said. “But if that’s the case, why do we still need treatment?”

Qadir said, “A moment, kir,” and bent his head to Zahra.

She whispered, “All humans, like all animals, carry the prion gene. It’s well-established that exposure to rhodium causes it to degenerate. The altered gene makes anyone, man or woman, fithi or fish, susceptible to the leptokis disease through inhalation.”

“Zahra, they prefer not hearing details,” Qadir murmured. “Can you simplify it?”

She paused. The eyes on her, on both of them, were expectant. There was so much she could teach them, so much these young and old men could know about themselves and the risks they faced. She could have seized the wand mike—a violation in itself—and explained the whole thing, as she had painstakingly learned it, as Ishi was learning it now. It was so clear in her mind: the thin, long string, a single molecule, that was the chromosome, the bright beads on the string that represented the genes. She could see the illustration in her mind as if she had reviewed it this morning, the locus shifting and darkening as the gene changed, making its bearer receptive to the prion, the proteinaceous infectious particle, produced by the small, dark leptokis that infested the mines, scuttling through the darkness.

The disease wasn’t unique to Irustan. Earth had several prion diseases in its past. One called kuru arose among aborigines who ceremonially ate bits of their own dead relatives. Earth sheep contracted a prion disease called scrapie from being fed supplements made of animal products. Zahra had read all the histories when she was no older than Ishi. The worst one, jovially dubbed Mad Cow disease, shocked scientists when they realized it had crossed the species barrier. That had been believed to be impossible. Now, of course, the leptokis disease, aided by rhodium degeneration, crossed the barrier unimpeded. It was a fascinating history, a challenging bit of study. And they didn’t want to hear it.

Zahra sighed. “Ask them, Qadir, if any of them have seen a leptokis in the tunnels.”

He did. At least half raised their hands and nodded.

“Then tell them," Zahra said, “that there have been isolated cases, some time ago, all caused by failure to wear the masks consistently, clean the filters, and take regular inhalation therapy. There has been no outbreak because the ESC has closely monitored these procedures.”

Qadir repeated her words. Zahra watched the Theta Ro squad leader listen to Qadir. He opened his mouth briefly as if to press for more information, but then evidently thought better of it. He touched his heart and called, “Thank you, Chief Director,” and sat down.

“Qadir,” Zahra murmured. “I know none of you wish to discuss it, but surely if they know the symptoms—the dementia, the discoordination— they’ll be more likely to follow the guidelines?”

Qadir’s lips twitched slightly, distastefully, but he nodded and turned back to the wand mike. “The medicant wishes each of you to understand how serious the leptokis disease can be. You’ve all heard rumors, of course.” He hesitated, and Zahra knew he was searching for the words—euphemisms—to express her message. “Whatever you’ve heard, men, remember— contracting the leptokis disease is the end of your work in the mines, the end of your dreams of rewards—it’s quick, and it’s fatal.”

Zahra folded her arms, feeling the dampness on the insides of her elbows, the prickling heat held close to her body by her drape. She had done her best, she told herself. If Qadir could not bring himself to use the words, then he couldn’t. He, as much as these other men, was a product of his upbringing.

There were one or two other questions for Qadir, none for Zahra. She stood silently, waiting, watching everything. Hot though she was, the outing, her brief freedom, was over too soon.

The car, at least, was cool. Diya drove once again, and Qadir sat with Zahra. She was still not at liberty to unbutton even her rill. Someone, some man, might see inside the car, and be diverted from his duty. And of course, Qadir IbSada’s honor would be compromised as well, should she show a sliver of flesh, a flash of eyes as the car passed by.

Qadir sat with his hands on his knees, his strong chin lifted as he watched the city glide past. He looked satisfied, content, safe in his shell of complacency. The urge to crack the shell was irresistible to Zahra.

“Qadir,” she said softly.

He turned to smile at her, eyebrows raised.

“Your men need to understand exactly what will happen if they ignore procedure.”

“But my dear,” Qadir said. “We made it quite clear to them, I think.”

“I don’t think so,” Zahra said mildly. “They should know what it’s like for the victims—falling down as if intoxicated, unable to recognize anyone, all muscle control gone ...”

Qadir stared at her. “Zahra, please! There’s no need to go over this!” She persisted. “In the end, a man loses control of his breathing, but even before that, his bowels.”

“Zahra!” Qadir exclaimed. His discomfort was palpable, and verged on anger. “That’s enough!”

She shrugged. “I’m sorry, Qadir, but it’s the truth.”

He turned away from her. His knuckles were white, and a muscle flexed convulsively under his jaw. Zahra was surprised by a twinge of remorse, and she put her hand over his and pressed it lightly. “Never mind,” she said. “I know you couldn’t say all those things to your men.”

He was silent for some moments. At length he turned his hand up to hers, and said, “You know, my dear, I thank the Maker for Ishi. You must sometimes need someone to talk with about . . . about such things.” He sat straighter, lifted his chin higher. “I have abundant responsibilities, Zahra, but tending to the body is not among them.”