Heritage and Exile (72 page)

Perhaps it was my own growing exhaustion, the effort I was making to hold sleep at bay; it seemed for a minute that I could see them standing side by side, Linnell in her Festival gown, and somehow Linnell looked older, worn, and Kathie, by her side, somehow was wearing Darkovan clothing too . . . and behind them, it seemed, there was a wavering darkness. . . .

There was a soft sound and I turned to see the young nurse who looked so much like Linnell . . . yes, she
did
look like her, the resemblance was not an illusion; calling up Linnell's picture in my mind had made me surer than ever.

“Mr. Montray?”

I whirled. “What is it? Dio? The baby? Is everything all right?” I thought she looked subdued, deeply troubled; and she would not meet my eyes.

“Your wife is perfectly all right,” she said gently, “but Doctor DiVario wants to see you, about the baby.”

The young doctor was a woman; I was grateful for that, glad Dio had been spared the indignity of male attendance, Sometimes a strong telepath or empath can transcend the difference of gender, but here among the head-blind, I knew Dio would prefer a doctor of her own sex. The woman looked tired and strained, and I knew that, if she had not empathy, not in the strong sense of the Ridenow gift, she at least had that rudimentary awareness that differentiates the indifferent doctor from the good one.

“Mr. Montray-Lanart? Your wife is well; you can see her in a few minutes,” she said, and I whispered a prayer of thanks to the Mother Avarra, a prayer I had not known I remembered. Then I said, “Our child?”

She bent her head and already I knew—I thought, the worst. “Dead?”

“It was simply too soon,” she said, “and we could do nothing.”

“But,” I protested, like a fool, “the life-support, the artificial wombs—babies born even more prematurely than this have lived. . . .”

She waved that aside. She looked strained. She said, “We did not let your wife see. The minute we knew, we—drugged her. I am sorry, but I felt it the safest way; she was very agitated. She should be coming out of the anesthetic any moment, now, and you should be with her. But first—” she said, and looked at me with what I recognized, uncomfortably, as pity, “you must see. It is the law, so that you cannot accuse us of making away with a healthy child—” and I remembered there was a thriving market in adoptive children, for women who did not want to be bothered bearing their own. I sensed the young doctor's distress, and somehow it made me remember a dream—I could not remember the details, something about the doctor who had said to me here, a few days ago, that I should be prepared for some degree of deformity . . . something dreadful, blood, horror . . .

She took me into a small bare room, with cabinets and closed doors and sinks, and a tray lying covered with a white cloth. She said, “I am sorry,” and uncovered it.

But no sound escaped me this time. I shut my eyes, and felt the young doctor's compassionate hand on my shoulder. I think she knew I was glad our child lay there, lifeless, for I would surely—I could not have let it live. Not like that. But I was glad it was not my hand which had. . . .
. . . thrust through Dio's body and wrenched the child forth bloody, clawed, feathered, a horror past horror . . .

I drew a long breath and opened my eyes, looking stony-eyed at the dreadfully deformed thing lying lifeless before me.
My son. Had Kennard felt like this when he saw what Sharra had left of me?
For a moment I wished I could still take refuge in the darkness of insanity. But it was too late for that. I said meaninglessly, “Yes, yes, I see,” and turned away from the thing. So the damage, cell-deep, had gone deeper than I knew, into the very germ plasm of my seed.

No son of mine would ever sit on my shoulder and watch the horses at Armida. . . .
turned away, I still seemed to see the horror behind my eyes. Not even human. And yet, monstrously, it had been alive as recently as last night. . . .

“Does Dio know?”

“I think she knows it was—too deformed to live,” said the doctor gently, “but she does not know quite how, and if you are wise you will never tell her. Tell her some quite simple lie—she will believe you; women do not want to know, I think, beyond what they must. Tell her a simple truth, that the child's heart stopped.” She led me out of that room, away from the thing I would see again and again in nightmares. She touched me again compassionately on the shoulder and said, “We could have—re-started the heart. Would you have wanted that? Sometimes a doctor must make such decisions.”

I said, heartfelt, “I am very grateful to you.”

“Let me take you to your wife.”

 

Dio was lying in the bed where they had brought her, looking stunned and very small, like a child who had cried herself to sleep, with traces of tears still on her face. They had covered her hair with a white cap, and tucked her up warmly under blankets; one of her hands gripped the softness of the blanket like a child clutching a toy. I could smell the sharpness of the drug all around her; her skin smelled of it when I bent to kiss her.

She opened her eyes and started to cry again.

“Our baby's dead,” she whispered. “Oh, Lew, our baby, it couldn't live. . . .”

“You're safe, darling. That's all that matters to me,” I whispered, gathering her into my arms.

But behind my eyes it was still there, that thing, the horror, not human. . . .
She reached in her weakness for the comfort of rapport, she who had always been the stronger of us two, reached for my mind. . . .

I could feel her recoil from what she saw there, see it lying cold and impersonal in that cold bare room on a surgical tray, not human, terrible, nightmare. . . .

She screamed, struggling away from me; she screamed and screamed, as I had screamed when I saw what had taken the place of my hand, screamed and screamed and fought to be free of me when I would have comforted her, struggled away from the horror. . . .

They came and drugged her, afraid she would hurt herself again, and they sent me away from her. And when, having shaved and washed and eaten and made grotesque legal arrangements for the cremation of what should have been our son, I went back, resolved that if she wished to blame me I could bear it . . . she had lived with me through all of my horrors and nightmares. . . . I could be strong for her now. . . . She was not there.

“You wife checked out of the hospital hours ago,” the doctor told me, when I made a scene and demanded to know what they had done with my wife. “Her brother came, and took her away.”

“She could be anywhere,” I said, “anywhere in the Empire.”

My father sighed, leaning his head on his thin distorted hand. “She should not have done that to you.”

“I don't blame her. No man should do that to any woman. . . .” and I clenched my teeth against the flood of self-blame. If I had been able to barricade my thoughts. If I had had myself monitored to be sure there was no such damage to the germ plasm . . . I could have known; I
should
have known, seeing that my hand had not grown back as a hand, but as a nightmare—the pain in the arm was nightmarish now, distant, dreadful, welcome, blurring the pain of losing Dio. But I did not blame her. She had borne so much for me already, and then this . . . no. If I had been Dio I would not have stayed for a tenday, and I had had her presence, her comfort, for a year and a half. . . .

“We could have her found,” my father said. “There are detectives, people who specialize in tracing the lost; and citizens of Darkover do not find it exactly easy to blend into the general citizenry of the Empire. . . .”

But he had spoken diffidently, and I shook my head.

“No. She is free to come and go. She is not my prisoner or my slave.” If the love between us had crashed in the wake of tragedy, was she to blame? Even so I was grateful to her. Two years ago, something like this would have broken me, sent me into a tailspin of agony and despair and suicidal self-pity. Now I felt grief immeasurable, but what Dio had given me could not be destroyed by her absence. I was not healed—I might never heal—but I was alive again, and I could live with whatever happened. What she had given me was a part of me forever.

“She is free to go. Someday, perhaps, she may learn to live with it, and come back to me. If she does, I will be ready. But she is not my prisoner, and if she returns it must be because she wishes to return.”

My father looked a long time at me, perhaps expecting me to break again. But after a time, perhaps, he believed that I meant what I said, and began to talk of something else.

“There is no reason, now, why you should not come with me to Darkover, to settle what remains of the Alton heritage—”

I thought of Armida, lying in a fold of the Kilghard Hills. I had thought of going there with my son on my shoulder, showing him the horses, teaching him what I had been taught, watching him grow up there, do his first fire-watch duty at my side . . . no. That had been a mad hope. Marius was undamaged; it would be
his
sons that would carry on the Alton lineage, if there was one. I no longer cared; it no longer had anything to do with me. I was transplanted, cut off from my roots, exiled . . . and the pain of that was less than the pain of trying to return. I said, “No,” and my father did not try to persuade me. I think he knew I was at the end of endurance, that I had borne enough, had no further strength to struggle.

“You don't want to go back to the place you shared with Dio, not yet,” he said, and I wondered how he knew. It was too full of memories. Dio, curled in my arms, looking down with me at the lights of the city. Dio, her hair down her back, in her night-dress, gigglingly playing at a domesticity which was new and amusing to us both. Dio. . . .

“Stay here a few days,” he said.

“She will know where to find you,” he said. And as he spoke I knew she would not come back.

‘Stay here with me a few days. Then I will be taking ship for Darkover . . . and you can return to your own place, or come and stay here alone. I won't—” he looked at me with a pity he was too wise to speak aloud, and said, “I won't—intrude.” For the first time in my life, I felt my father spoke to me as to an equal, to another man, not to his child. I sighed and said, “Thank you, Father. I'd be glad to come.”

I did not think again of the Sharra matrix, wrapped and insulated and packed away in the farthest corner of the farthest closet of the apartment I had shared with Dio at the very outskirts of the city. Nor did either of us speak of it again, in those days, the final ten days we spent in that apartment. He was not on the first of the outbound ships. I think he wanted to spend that remaining time with me, that he would not leave me wholly alone on a planet which had become as strange to me as if I had not lived there for the best part of two years.

There were still five days to go before the second of the ships on which he had tentatively booked passage would depart from the Vainwal spaceport. Not many ships had a final destination at Cottman IV, as the Terrans called Darkover. But many ships touched down there; it was located between the upper and lower spiral arms of the Galaxy, a logical transfer point. Around midday, my father asked me, rather tentatively it is true, if I cared to accompany him to one of the great pleasure palaces of the city, one whose main attraction was a giant bath, modeled after that of some famous old Terran city which had raised bathing to a fine art.

My father had been crippled for years; one of my earliest memories was of the hot springs at Armida, and soaking, after an icy day in the saddle, neck-deep in the boiling water. It was not only the lame or infirm who enjoyed that. But all over the Empire, and more especially on pleasure-worlds where nothing is taboo, bathhouses serve as a gathering place for those whose interest is in something other than hot water and soothing mineral baths. Maybe the atmosphere of relaxed nudity contributes to the breakdown of inhibitions. Many sorts of entertainment are offered there which have little to do with bathing.