Apprehensions and Other Delusions (22 page)

“Tonight?” His question was laconic, utilitarian.

“No rush. Not for a shithole like this. Tomorrow’s soon enough.” The indifference in his voice made Sister Maggie want to vomit.

Four villagers had been found and driven out of their shelters to provide the invaders with amusement. One was an elderly man, whose high, piping voice screeched with fear and wrath; one was a woman who wept constantly, begging for her life; one was a blind boy who used to play a hammered zither for coins but was now a beggar; the last was the retarded daughter of the last village leader, a sweet child who had no more reason than a puppy, and no recognition of danger.

“Make them run,” suggested one of the invaders who stood not far from Sister Maggie’s hiding place.

“Too easy,” said his companion. “Look at them. No sport in running these beasts.” He clapped his hands several times for attention. “Is this the best the village has to offer? Those wounded are useless to us.”

The old man hurled insults at the newcomers.

There was a short burst of automatic fire, and the unmistakable sound of a body falling. And then there was silence.

The retarded girl began to whimper.

“Think of something you can do to amuse us,” said the second man, and his boredom made this a fatal pronouncement.

It was all Sister Maggie could do not to scream, to run from her protected spot and flail at these proud men. It was too much to bear. She felt it shiver through her, the enormity of her burden. She folded her hands and pressed her forehead against her fingers, as if faith could blot out what was happening just four strides away from her. She made herself remain still, thinking of the work she had yet to do for the Rat. If she were discovered she would not be able to help any of the villagers, she would only be able to join them in suffering and the Rat would be cast onto the refuse heap; she had vows and promises to honor, a purpose beyond the momentary and futile satisfaction of naming these DRUY soldiers as the murderous outlaws they were.

By midafternoon the soldiers had almost exhausted their three victims; they had tormented and tortured the villagers through the heat of the day and were beginning to run out of ideas. The woman had stopped crying some time before and now did little more than scream softly when a soldier threw himself on her. The blind boy no longer struggled but knelt passively, lost in a darkness greater than his eyes.

“Too bad the girl’s dead,” Sister Maggie heard one of the soldiers say; he was close enough that she could have stretched out her arm and grabbed his ankle. “But that’s war, I guess.”

What his answer might have been was lost in a sudden eruption of gunfire from the east side of the village.

The blind boy, his face streaked with blood and semen, stared up blankly at the sound. Then an antitank shell struck next to him and he vanished in a ruddy haze.

The DRUY troops bolted for cover, most of them swearing as they searched for shelter that provided a place to shoot from. One of the troop carriers went out of control and slammed into the entrance of the battered building where Sister Maggie crouched with the Rat, dead, locked in rigor mortis on her back.

For an instant Sister Maggie feared the troop carrier would explode, and then that fear was replaced by a more insidious one as she realized that she was now trapped inside the building. The thirst she had been able to hold at bay flared afresh, and hunger, which she had denied, sank into her body like a burn.

There were three helicopters overhead now, and the firing was constant, a rage of noise like the overwhelming shriek of a hurricane. Bits of stucco and metal and masonry flew into the street. The remaining shards of glass splintered in windows, crumbling sharp as diamonds. The wreckage of the clinic was broken again as mortar fire struck the one remaining section of roof.

The old hotel where Sister Maggie had lived in her dovecote took four direct hits and broke apart.

Sister Maggie was weeping, but she did not know it. She tried to pray for the children buried in the lobby, but the words stuck in her throat. If she were not so thirsty, she thought, then she could pray. If the guns were quiet. If she were not alone. She coughed in the acrid fumes of battle and tried again to find the words to heal the souls of that human annihilation, but could not utter them. Her eyes stung, her skin prickled, and she realized how cramped her muscles were. “It’s too loud,” she shouted and could not hear herself against the clamor of battle. The helicopters swung over the village, circled twice in their task of demolition. The remaining two sound buildings were their most obvious victims, one sundered from its metal skeleton, the other burning, toxic smoke blackening the remaining walls like a body in the sun.

The DRUY soldiers were cut down, their troop carriers shot and shelled.

Very deliberately Sister Maggie began to repeat the prayers for grace with which she had accompanied Father Kenster when he administered extreme unction, begrudging the few tears she shed, for she was so thirsty that even tears seemed too much precious moisture to lose. Her hands shook as she crossed herself.

And then it was quiet again, the helicopters slipping away to the east, following the rutted road that led to the next village.

“Spirit of Christ, give me life. Body of Christ, be my salvation. Blood of Christ, quench my thirst—” Sister Maggie gagged, then made herself continue. “Water ... water from Christ’s side, cleanse me. Suffering of Christ, enable me to suffer courageously. Merciful Jesus, hear me. Keep me always close to You. From Satan’s wiles defend me. In death’s hour, call me. Summon me to Your presence, that forever with Your saints I may praise You. Amen. Spirit of Christ, give me life. Body of Christ, be my salvation ...” She did not know how many times she repeated the prayer; finally she realized it was nearly dark in the village, where the only brightness was the dying fire in the bombed buildings.

Insects had found the Rat’s body; several long lines of them made their way across the ruptured floor slab to the now-flaccid figure that no longer seemed quite human—bloated and sunken at once. The endless, relentless minuscule armies moved industriously over the swollen corpse, searching out his wounds, his nostrils, his eyes.

Sister Maggie wrestled the blanket knots loose and flung herself away from the body, brushing her clothes to rid them of the multi-legged vermin that bit and stung and wriggled on her flesh. As she clawed off her worn, filthy jacket she stared in horror at the ants and beetles and things she did not recognize making their way along the curve of her ribs, as if they did not know the difference between the living and the dead. She felt the raw and painful tokens the insects left for her; disgust, abhorrence went through her, leaving her retching and dizzy.

Thirst was the most overwhelming of her desires, a greed so pure that it filled her soul like prayer.

She dared not look back at the Rat, for fear of what she might do. The stench was thick in the air, and if she saw what she knew he had become she would be unable to pray for him, now or ever.

Water. Without that, she was no different from the Rat, just a little less ripe. Her body shuddered, in hurt or laughter she could not tell. There were no prayers left in her, no sworn duty to discharge. There was only water. Nothing else was real.

She approached the troop carrier blocking the entrance; it filled the doorway almost entirely, and what small areas it did not block could not provide sufficient room for escape. Sister Maggie shoved at it, trembling with the effort though it produced little force and no effect. Her vision muddied and blurred and she clung to the grille to remain upright. She had to find another way out, but she knew she would not be able to move much longer, and night was closing in.

There were stairs, but after the fifth one the treads were gone; Sister Maggie moaned with despair and felt her way along the hall, listening to the cluttering and scuffling in the dark, her need for water making them unimportant. She was too consumed by thirst to be frightened. What was the more dangerous to her than her thirst? She was haunted by the sound of water falling— faucet? rain? a river?—and it impelled her as nothing before had ever done. Water. Deep pools shimmered at the edge of her sight, brimming cups sloshed and squandered the precious stuff just out of reach. It was sacred. Her search went on though she was not able to think about what she was doing anymore.

The broken glass cut her hand, but she paid slight attention as she dragged herself out of the collapsed sliding door at the rear of the building. The ceiling showed gaping holes from the floor above, and occasionally there were bright eyes flickering in the darkness.

The storm was driven by high winds; lightning tore through the sky and thunder battered at it. Sister Maggie stumbled into the deluge, afraid that it was a continuation of her hallucinations. After her first shambling steps she fell, and the rain ran into her hair and ears. With the last of her strength she rolled onto her back and parted her cracked lips to the tumultuous sky.

By morning the rain was nothing more than a steady, pattering drizzle, likely to pass shortly as the day heated.

There were no more fires in the village. Nothing stirred. No voices called in greeting or warning or anguish. No screams or groans, no crying alarmed Sister Maggie. She sat on a fallen section of wall at what had been the jail when she had first arrived here to take up work at the new clinic, the hope of the region. Then the village was nothing more than the support to an old hotel where few tourists came. Her skin hurt, her eyes were hot in her head, her guts felt raw. The prospect of walking was hideous.

She made herself rise, then stood, wondering which way she ought to go. Which direction offered a haven? Where would she be safe? The sound she made was not laughter, though she had thought it would be.

Then she heard the crack of a rifle. She dropped into the mud and lay still, trusting she would be mistaken for dead.

The Jeep that lurched into the village was ancient, its engine grating. The three men clinging to it were scruffy, the guns they carried old-fashioned.

“They said there was a clinic here!” one of them protested as the Jeep wallowed down the main street.

“Where?” another asked in abiding cynicism.

“Shit,” said the first. “What good’s this place without a clinic?”

“Doesn’t look like it’s a place anymore,” said the third voice.

“We need a clinic!” the first insisted.

“Well, there isn’t one here,” said the third. “We might as well leave it alone.”

“God, look at it,” said the second.

“It happens,” said the third.

Then they were too far off and their faltering engine too loud for Sister Maggie to hear more. Within five minutes she heard the Jeep labor out of the village, leaving it to the dying rain.

Were they right? she wondered as she got unsteadily to her feet. Had the medical team brought disaster to the village? The clinic did give the village a prize, something others might want, but it had been there to help them, all of them. If the clinic had not come, the village would have sunk into decay unnoticed. And no one, she told herself inwardly, would have bothered the village. They would have been free of war but the prey of disease. Many of the villagers had resented the clinic, and Father Kenster. And her. And when Father Kenster and the other Sisters had been killed, the villagers had not mourned them. Had they been right all along?
Had she come here as an act of sacrifice or suicide?

She found a canteen and filled it with water. That was a beginning. She would have to eat soon or there would truly be another corpse in the village, one last—She pushed the thought out of her mind. Later, she told herself. Later.

In case there was someone listening—if only the Rat—she whispered, “Lord have mercy on us. Lord have mercy on us. Lord have mercy on us. Christ have mercy on us,” as she walked away.

About
Novena

No one in this story has a name except Sister Maggie. And it takes place some place jungular. Other than that, everything is undefined, with the intention that it could apply to many times and places. It was written for an anthology edited by Dennis Etchison; he had asked for something that was clearly horror but without any touch of the supernatural; I did my best to comply.

“I DON’T
know
what to do about Denny,” said his mother as she adjusted the angle of the ambience control so that the cool, scented air did not blow directly in her guest’s face.

“What is it, this time?” Ashe asked, accepting the tray of hybrid fruits Marris offered her. It was mid-morning and both women were taking time to relax before getting into the more arduous part of the day’s work. Neither was young but had that unstudied attractiveness that comes with, and from, experience.

“He isn’t listening to us anymore. You’d think he didn’t have any comprehension of the past, or our values. He’s got us worried, really worried. I don’t know what to do about it.” Marris sat down opposite her friend. “We’ve tried everything we can think of.”

“Parents have been saying that for ages and ages,” said Ashe, still awkward with her body modifications, and her maternity clothes; she did not really need them yet, but took great satisfaction in wearing them. “What makes you think you have to do anything? When he thinks about it, he’ll come around.”

“He’s ... he’s been saying he isn’t going to transfer when he and Londyl get married.” She could not keep the disapproval out of her voice, though she spoke of her own son.

“Then he and Londyl will have a hard time of it, if they want children,” said Ashe, not quite laughing. Everyone knew the reason to marry was for children—all the rest had domestic associate contracts. “Is Denny aware of that? Is Londyl?”

“They say they’re getting married,” Marris told Ashe, her mouth a narrow, disapproving line. “They’re both going to stay the way they are. No changes for either of them. Honestly, you’d think they were animals.” Now that this confession was out, Marris was eager to confide the rest, relieved to have the chance to have a little sympathy. “I’ve told him he’ll never bear his own child. I’ve told him he will never comprehend female nature; and Londyl won’t know what it is to be male. Their children will be biased, and they will all be out of place in the world—throwbacks to barbarism. I’ve told him, and
told
him, and ... it doesn’t do any good.”

“Denny’s young; he’s looking for something new in his life.” Ashe tried to keep herself from becoming distressed; that happened so easily now. She took the required deep breaths and steadied herself, focusing all her attention on her long-time friend. “Does he know that if you felt the way he does, he would never have been born?”

“Yes. I’ve told him and so has Brier, but no luck so far. He’s said to Brier he doesn’t think we should transfer when he marries, either. He says that we should remain as we are, too. It’s lunacy.” She drank some of her tisane, hoping this ordinary act would conceal her embarrassment. “Brier wants to have a second child. I think that’s a reasonable desire; we’ve almost finished taking care of Denny. I’m willing to transfer. In fact, I want to, for Brier as much as for me, not just because it’s traditional. But you should hear Denny.” She set her mug down.

“Why does Denny care what you do? He won’t be in the home with you. It’s not as if
you’d
be doing anything
wrong.
If you want another child ... Sounds to me as if Denny is trying to make sure you don’t have any more children. He may be jealous.” The more she thought about that, the more likely it seemed. “But you’ve provided for him as the law requires. Your second child will have the same protections. Not that that’s any of his concern. Now that he’s getting married, he will have his own affairs to occupy him, so even if he is jealous, he—” She cocked her head to the side. “Or is there more to it than that?” This shrewd question took Marris by surprise. She coughed.

“What makes you ask?” Marris replied evasively.

“I’ve known you—how many years? I think I can tell when you’re not saying everything that’s on your mind.” Ashe selected a golden-amber fruit with leathery skin concealing a delicious, custard-like interior.

There was a long pause. “You’ve heard about Hirra Almeini?” Marris asked with her voice lowered; she glanced over her shoulder toward the high, narrow window as if she supposed they might be overheard.

“Him? That crazy old man! No wonder you say it’s lunacy. Are you saying that Denny is listening to
him?”
Ashe was shocked. She could not conceal it as much as she wanted to. “That man is a menace. The graffiters make fun of him and his followers.”

“Denny says the graffiters are paid to do that,” Marris said, sounding a bit embarrassed.

“I think the graffiters go too easy on him,” Ashe said indignantly. “They can claim he’s harmless with only—well—lunatics for followers, but he frightens me.” She put the fruit down as if the succulent pulp had lost its flavor and texture.

“Yes.” Marris stared into her empty mug. “Yes. Denny has decided he wants to live the way Almeini is saying we all should.” She coughed again, and Ashe realized how tense her friend was.

“Well, no
wonder
he’s opposing another child for you and Brier.” She was upset on her friend’s behalf. “Would he object if you stayed female and carried the child?”

“I guess not,” said Marris unhappily. “Almeini would approve, so I suppose Denny would, as well.”

Ashe felt a rush of sympathy for her friend. “This must be just awful for you, Marris.”

Marris nodded numbly. “I can’t help thinking about what happened in Contanzbul last year. All those people killed, and the hospital in ruins.”

“Almeini praised the people who did it,” said Ashe, as if saying it aloud made it less dreadful. “I remember how shocked everyone was when he spoke out in support of the killing. How many died?”

“Four hundred twenty-seven,” said Marris dully. “I looked it up. Denny was talking about it last night, saying that it was too bad there were so many dead, but it was their own fault for being in such a place.” She blinked to keep from weeping.

“But doesn’t he
understand?”
Ashe demanded. “Doesn’t he know how important it is?”

“According to Almeini, it is unnatural,” said Marris, reciting what her son had told her. “Almeini preaches that changing is perverse, against natural law.”

“Nobody takes him seriously. Not the graffiters, not anyone.” Ashe flung out her hands as a sign of impatience. “Everyone starts out female, we know that. Embryonic development changes females to males. Transferring is the most natural thing about us; going from female to male and back again is built into our genes. Walking upright is unnatural,” scoffed Ashe. “Having artificial light is unnatural. Eating constructed hybrid food is unnatural. But we all do it. Including Denny. And Almeini.”

“Almeini says he won’t transfer again, and Denny is proud of Almeini’s position, holding him up as an example to his other followers. He says that we shouldn’t interfere with our genetic make-up. He says that once we’re out of the womb, we should stay as we emerged; it’s more of Almeini’s doctrine.” She sighed. “Denny ranted about it for more than an hour.”

“We’ve been interfering with our genetic make-up for centuries—for eons, in fact,” said Ashe, putting one hand on the slight swell in her abdomen. “Where would we be if we hadn’t?”

“Almeini says we would be in a better balance with nature than we are now, according to Denny,” said Marris, and broke out in tears. “I’m so ashamed of Denny. I don’t know what to do.”

“Nature!” Ashe scoffed. “Nature would have us digging for clams with a sharp stick. Nature would have us breed ourselves to extinction. Does Denny have anything to say about that?”

“Only what he hears Almeini say,” was Marris’s dispirited answer as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

“What does Brier think?” Ashe asked cautiously. She leaned over the table and put her hand on Marris’s arm. “This is probably as hard on him as it is on you.”

Marris took a deep, irregular breath. “Possibly harder; he is so proud of Denny, and to have everything we’ve hoped for held up to derision. Denny told him it was wrong of him to have a child. That he should father one on me again or have no more. Brier was furious; he said he was entitled to have a child just as I had. They both said some hurtful thing to one another. I ... I hope they didn’t go too far.”

“What does Londyl think about all this? Have you talked to her?” Ashe hoped that she could find a way to ease Marris’s distress. “Londyl
must
have some thoughts about all this if she’s going to go along with it.”

“Oh, yes. She’s the one who got Denny into it in the first place.” She shook her head. “Why she would, I can’t think. She kept going on about the essential female.”

“But we’re
all
essential females ...” Ashe drank her tisane. “Doesn’t she want that for Denny, too, if she thinks it is so unique?”

“She says that Almeini has declared that transference is wrong, that the fundamental human experience is destroyed when we have our three traditional transferences.” She looked up at the ceiling as if hoping to find the answers she sought there.

For a short time both women were silent. Then Marris said, “I’ve tried to get Denny to read about how things were before transference. It hasn’t done any good. According to him, all the records have been purged. The statistics on abuse and murder of spouses is nothing more than hearsay, a scare tactic to keep us from returning to the way we were. He says that making transferring possible ruined the way humans deal with one another. I asked him if he remembers anything from his domestic history class. He says it’s all propaganda. I can’t find a single argument he is willing to listen to about how things were. He says there would never be that kind of discrimination or oppression. I know he is only spouting what he hears Almeini say, but I—Almeini has explained that when we all remained the same sex all our life long, each sex respected the other and protected one another because anything else would have led to mistreatment of children, and no species is foolish enough to neglect its young. He says that by altering sex, the differences between the sexes becomes blurred. He says that fixed sexuality ends that.” The rote quality of this recitation made her sound more condemning than overt emotion would have done.

“I’ve heard about that; it’s one of the things everyone’s debating; the graffiters are making the most of it,” said Ashe. “And he isn’t the only one who thinks that sexual identity ought to be fixed. Have you looked over the graffiti recently? Not just the usual services?” She pointed to the huge, flat screen on the far wall.

Marris nodded, as if suddenly too tired to speak. She put her mug into the table aperture for a refill of tisane.

“I hate to think of nice kids like Denny being lured into Almeini’s clutches. And Denny, of all people. He’s always been so sensible. He’d be the last person I’d expect to get caught up in Almeini’s rhetoric. And if Londyl is already hooked, you might have a real situation on your hands.” She finished her tisane and held out her mug for a refill. “I was so happy when I transferred year before last. It isn’t as if I didn’t like being Wynen’s father. She’s a wonderful young woman, and when she transfers, she’ll be as fine a young man as anyone. I’m proud to be her father. I wouldn’t trade that for anything. But I don’t want to lose this chance to be a mother. I’m looking forward to giving birth. And you have a right to be a father, Marris.”

She nodded again, in the same automatic acceptance that so concerned Ashe. “I’ve told that to Denny. I’ve warned him that the time will come when he will want to have his own child, not just father one. He thinks it won’t happen, that he will be more like human beings are supposed to be, staying male all his life.”

“Just like any cow or rat or seahorse on the planet,” said Ashe with grim humor. “In your position, I’d be worried, too.” She had not wanted to admit so much, but she could not think of easy answers for her friend. “Can you imagine how difficult things would be with Yuki if we had not transferred when we separated? It is hard enough being former spouses, but if we had stayed in the sexes of our marriage, we would not have had such a clean break. Everyone knows how important it is to make clean breaks. Without transferring, that wouldn’t have been possible.” She glanced aside. “You and Brier are so lucky, remaining together as long as you have.”

“If this doesn’t cause so much disruption that we are shaken by it,” said Marris as she dabbed at her eyes. “Brier is scheduled to transfer in three weeks. I’ll have mine a week after, while she gets used to her body.” She bit her lower lip. “Unless Denny makes it impossible.”

“Could he do that?” Ashe asked, astonished at the defeatist attitude Marris showed.

“I don’t know. If enough of Almeini’s followers helped him, he might be able to make things ... difficult.” She rose and paced down her entertaining room. “I’m searching out as much information as I can on how things were, four hundred years ago. It’s not easy. There’s so much more recent material, and many of the old records are suspect—Almeini may be right about that.”

“Have you tried legal records?” Ashe recommended, liking her sudden inspiration. “They’re not easy to find, but they should help you make your point. One of the data services has a whole legal history section that goes back a long way.”