Meet Me at Infinity (24 page)

“I hope I will live to see them. I must. I
will.”
She sinks back, blue eyes brave with resolve.

She knows, all right.

Agonized, I watch her drift smiling into sleep. Donnia is nudging me, holding out the bowl of fish. I turn to my detested duty. I am very tired.

I wake to morning light.

Kamir is beside me. The monstrous baby-package is still there.

“Hello, my darling. How you slept! Do you know you fell asleep in the middle of feeding our babies? Fighting must be very tiring.”

“Yes.”

“I did some!” she tells me. “A goldskin came at me, and I burned him with the little weapon you gave me! But he was so strong. And falling down, he kicked me where the babies were. I was afraid he’d injured them. Then Agna came and helped me run away, to the men. And oh, I was so glad when you came back.”

“I was too.”

“Agna and Donnia have gone for more fish. See how the babies are stirring? That means they’re hungry.”

I see signs of movement within the fetus-package. Gods, what appetites!

“Tell me, darling. How long will they stay like that?”

“Oh, twenty, thirty, forty days, it varies. I think ours will come out sooner, because they were with me so long. That’s why I think I can live to see them.”

Twenty days?
Is that the span of our time?

“Don’t talk about dying. If you die, the sun of my life will go out.”

“Oh, don’t
you
say that, although it is beautiful. If things were the other way round, it’s how I would feel, too. When you were so long in coming, I feared the sun of my life had gone out.”

And we have more private things to say, until Kamir pushes me away, with “Friends come! I think it is that fierce boy, what’s his name—Sintana. And old Maoul.”

There is a knock on the hut wall. Even I can pick up Sintana’s mind.

“Greetings, all.”

They come in and sit on Agna’s log. I see that Maoul is actually carrying a spear.

I congratulate him again on having got the Mnerrin to form their circle.

“It
was
a task,” he admits. “I only wish Pavo had heeded.”

“People panic and forget. He thought the way looked clear—he forgot that goldskins can run faster than a man with children.”

“Listen, ‘Om Jhared,” Sintana interrupts. “We have got some news out of our captives. They say there are no more goldskins on this island, or nearby, but there are many, many more very far to the west. That sounds like your theory.”

“Yes. I was never more sorry to be right. Did you ask why they eat your children?”

“Yes. They say they had a group of somethings, and they ate them. But they died, from drowning I think. Animals about so high.” He put a hand about a meter from the ground. “And I think they have come on others like us and taken their children, too.”

“A flock or herd of meat animals… This is common on other worlds. It seems clear they don’t regard you as people, but as a sort of food animal. They might get the idea of taking a group of you captive and eating the young.”

Maoul’s face is a mask of fury, but he says nothing.

“We’re not people because we don’t fight, is that it?” Sintana asks.

“Something like that. Did you ask about their own children?”

“No, but he saw one of our women die and seemed to understand. He said their women do not die like that.”

“Hmm… a real mutation. That fits, too. A higher birthrate.”

“Mutation?” asks Maoul.

“A word we use when some of a group of beings become quite different. It usually starts with one or a very few, and the new form spreads because their offspring survive better.”

“This sounds interesting,” Maoul says. “I wish we had time to talk of it now.”

I laugh. “You are learning bad ways, friend. In the old days you would have gone ahead and discussed some topic no matter what practical matters called you.”

He laughs, too, somewhat sadly. “I feel I have aged ten years since the day before yesterday. But what must we do with these goldskins now? Kill them, as Sintana says?”

I’m glad he’s said it. “Yes, I’m afraid so. You can’t take them on the Long Swim, and if you let them go, they will certainly make their way back to the main goldskin group and lead others here. That way they gain chieftaincy.… If you are revolted by killing them, would you rather I did it?”

“No,” says Sintana.

“I am revolted,” says Maoul. “But I will do it. It is right.”

“Then will you let me give you one last lecture about this?”

“Speak on. Your last lectures saved our lives.”

Tm very glad. You know I feel one with you. Your pain is mine, too. Listen:
It is very hard to kill helpless men
—
or women
—
in cold blood.
And they will be talking, pleading, promising anything, to save their lives. They will promise not to bring others, to stay and wait for you, to work for you. They may claim they are not like the other goldskins, but that the others made them attack you. They may claim they can guide you to somewhere, that they have secret weapons. They may fall down and clutch your ankles and beg for mercy. They may tell you that they have young children to care for—anything! They may swear they never ate of the children’s meat. Remember, to them; a promise made to an enemy need not be kept, lies told to an enemy or an inferior do not count. They will be talking and acting solely to save their worthless lives. What you must keep in front of your minds is that they have eaten your children and got caught trying to kill more. Then strike! Close your ears completely, and strike! And beforehand, send away any softhearted one who might be fooled.”

The two men think this over for a moment.

“It seems very difficult,” says Maoul. “What if we took them by surprise, while they are sleeping?”

“No, that is not the best way. And
you
would be surprised at how quickly they woke up and read your intent—because this is what they themselves would do. No; you should be brave and tell them, and ask them if they have some supernatural entity they pray to. Tell them to do so now.”

“I have heard of such a thing,” says Maoul.

“If you need more, remember that it is as necessary to kill them as to stamp out sparks of fire nearing your hut. Do you think your resolve will hold?”

Maoul sighs, straightens up; Sintana takes a deep breath.

“Thank you for warning us, ‘Om Jhared. I think we can do this thing.”

“Good. It will be harder for you, Maoul. Sintana has already had a taste of it. But to you, maybe this saying from my land will help. We have had wars and fighting, too much, as I told you. And one of our wise men said, They who live by the sword must die by the sword. You have met Homo Ferox, who lives by the spear. That was their choice. Now they must die by it.”

“Yes.” Maoul nods gravely. “I see.”

Kamir has been listening wide-eyed. “How many evil things you know, dear ‘Om Jhared.” she says. “Oh, Agna and Donnia come.”

Then Maoul shakes his head, as if to chase out dreadful thoughts, and says in his normal tones, “But I have also come to tell you that we must leave soon for the Long Swim. Only two of the women yet live, and the star we call the Wind Bringer has appeared. The season of storms will be on us if we don’t go soon. So we will be leaving you, man from the skies. What will you do? Will you come with us?”

“I was expecting this,” I tell him. “I know you are late. I don’t dare come with you, the call from my ship may come at any time now. When it does, I must go with all speed back to the island where I left my camp and the little sky-ship that will take me up to them. I can take Kamir and the babies. But someone will have to come with me to take over the babies when I leave. Of course, I will give him the boat and anything else I have that would be useful to you.”

Agna and Donnia, who have come in with baskets of butterfish, join us in time to hear all this. Conscientious fathers, they are already chewing. Donnia speaks up.

“I can go with him, Maoul.”

“And I,” says Sintana unexpectedly. “Every day I am with him I learn. But I can’t make a swim alone, like this.” He taps his still nearly bald head.

“I wish I could stay with you, ‘Om Jhared and little sister,” says Agna. “But I must go to relieve the friends who are caring for my five little ones.”

“I shall be delighted at your company, companion-of-battles.”

“Well then, that is settled,” says Maoul, rising. “You will await your signal, while we leave, I think, on the second morning.”

“Are you taking the canoes?” I ask as they leave.

“We’re thinking about that. Right now I have this evil job to do,” says Maoul, and they depart.

We go back to feeding the baby-monster. Just as I have contributed my mouthful to the sweet-smelling sac, Agna pushes past me.

“Hold a moment, let me look.”

Gently he rocks the baby-sac until he can see beneath. I notice a bluish-black discoloration at the bottom, where the membrane joins with what had been Kamir’s skin.

“How long has this color been here?” he demands.

No one knows. Kamir has struggled up to look. “What is it, Agna? What’s wrong?”

“Trouble.” He tips the big bundle up so we can all see the bottom on which it has been resting. The evil-looking purplish color is heavy there, with yellowed streaks in it. “I think that is about where the gold-skin struck you.”

“Yes,” says Kamir. “Oh, I feared he had harmed them! We must get Mavru.”

“I go!” says Donnia, and ducks outside. We can hear him break into a splashing trot in the stream.

When Mavru comes and sees, he looks grave.

“One of the babies is, I fear, dead. I must cut it away lest the trouble spread to others. ‘Om Jhared, I need the sharpest possible knife. May I borrow yours?”

“Yes. And I’ll clean it as thoroughly as I can first.” My shark knife takes a keen edge and will stand heat.

Mavru calls for an armful of moss and washes his hands thoroughly in the stream outside. Then he produces a packet of long, slender thorns. “I have dipped these in your cleaning solution,” he tells me. “They are for sewing.”

He turns to the fetal package and carefully turns it over to show the discolored side. This had been the outside of Kamir’s belly; it looks eerie to see her navel there. Mavru is studying the stains, figuring where to make his cuts, as carefully as any surgeon of a technological culture. There are no magical passes, no shamanism.

When he is ready, he slices into the mass with delicacy and boldness, beyond the farthest stain of blue, and continues around to the side, folding back the skin. The characteristic sweet odor of the babies fills the hut, but it is mixed with the sickening smell of infection.

Kamir winces in sympathy as he cuts, but says nothing.

The exposed mass of flesh and organs looks a healthy pink. I can see a tiny pink foot through the membrane enclosing it. Mavru gropes deep into the sac with both hands now. I find myself feeling queasy, and quickly turn my head away. When I look back, Mavru has pulled out a nasty-looking length of stained purple and yellow gut. He drops it into the waste moss and reaches in again. Exposed now is a discolored fetal sac. He palps it carefully, and mutters, “Dead.” He sighs, and with one quick gesture pulls and flips the fetus out and onto the moss, its umbilical cord tight.

Mavru pays no more attention to it, but goes into the wound with his knife, cutting the cord far in, and cutting away all infected tissue. Very little of the dark purple blood flows. I notice he is careful not to contaminate the knife by cutting into infection. He seems to know the anatomy of the fetal sac well.

When he has finished, the hollow he has made where the dead baby was is clean-looking, with only the ends of a few thorn-sewn vessels sticking out. Mavru inspects it with care, then bends down and sniffs thoroughly. Satisfied, he asks me, “A dusting of your wonderful powder now?”

“I think so, yes.”

He takes the antibiotic flask out of his loincloth and dusts sparingly. Then he takes up clean moss and carefully packs the wound, pulling the skin back as far as it will go and fixing it with thorns.

No advanced surgeon could have done better with the tools at hand.

At last he turns away from his completed task and, with the point of his knife, slits the discolored membrane off the discarded dead fetus.

I gasp.

Lying there on the moss is what appears to be a Human baby boy, an infant almost ready to be born. There can be no doubt that I have fathered this child; it is no parthenogenetic alien, but Human in every way that I can see. My son. My almost-son… What about the other two?

Kamir is staring, too. “Oh, what that goldskin did,” she mutters through clenched teeth. “Oh, my little stranger baby! How beautiful! He is—was—just like you, dear ‘Om Jhared. What about the others? Are they all right?”

“I believe so,” says Mavru. “I think we caught this in time. And they are like us, by the way; Mnerrin, if that is to be our name. I had a good look at both their feet and they have our fins, as this poor little lad had not.” He touches the dead baby’s Human toes.

“Are they to be girls or men?” Kamir asks.

“Oh, I couldn’t tell. But one is decidedly larger.”

I have pulled myself together. “Healer Mavru, all our thanks. Now tell me: on most worlds, it is customary to pay healers, or give them a present. What may we do for you? Of course I will send you my good knife when I go, but there must be something else.”

He starts to wave me away, but checks. “Well, if you are serious, would it be improper to ask that you give me this dead baby to study? I want to compare it with our own. And it might help me if ever I have to deal with more Humans.”

“Gladly,” I say. “And you will, of course, bury him with a little marker or whatever is appropriate?”

“Yes. With a marker saying it is the first Human child born of Mnerrin.”

“But—” says Kamir. “Oh, but…” Then she seems to reconsider. “I guess it’s all right, Father Mavru. Only…”

“I know,” says Mavru compassionately. “I know. I thank you very much. And this will solve what might be a problem for you.”

It would indeed. I had been thinking that.