Nest of Worlds (25 page)

Jaspers walked the hall with the regulation spring in his step that he had successfully made a habit. He smacked his black-gloved hand with his stick. He liked to accentuate his presence in this way. The rhythmic smacking could be heard over the roar of the machines, if one was listening for it. Jaspers noted that for a while now the workers, seeing him, appeared to exert less effort, as if slacking. There were half smiles. Or at least he received this impression.

One worker in particular, young and slender, had a sharp look that seemed to unmask Jaspers, to see through the mesh that covered his face and held the sewn microphone, and through the dummy polyurethane muscles as well. Jaspers didn’t like him. The man was sitting at the conveyor belt now with his back to Jaspers, screwing lids on jars as if his hands were two clubs of wood. Jaspers was certain the slacker—safe in the belief that there was no guard nearby—was ridiculing the discipline of the task, feeling not the least respect.

In an instant he was at his side. The others were unable, or didn’t dare, to warn the worker. In one well-trained motion Jaspers dealt the required blow to the small of the back. The man groaned and slid to the ground gasping. His mouth foamed, and he began to twitch convulsively. The other workers murmured, and some even stopped what they were doing.

Jaspers didn’t lose his composure. Calmly, speaking into the microphone of his mask, he summoned medical assistance for the damaged worker.

Because the murmuring continued, he spread his legs per regulations and took a deep breath.

“Attention!” he bellowed.

They all stood at attention. The situation was under control.

“Back to your seats! Back to work!” The commands sealed his victory.

“Have a seat, Mr. Jaspers.” Hullic was unexpectedly friendly and direct. “Do you smoke?”

Jaspers declined. The recent events flew through his head. What had happened was an accident, his striking the worker too hard in the hall, the man now permanently paralyzed. The first time he struck a worker, and it was too hard. He wouldn’t do that again. He would practice carefully to get the force of the blow right. Yes, this would be the only line to take against the chief’s anger.

“As you know, I’m moving to Lauhl,” Hullic began.

Too bad, thought Jaspers. For all his faults, he’s been a good chief.

“I must choose a successor,” Hullic went on. “Which puts me in some difficulty . . .”

True, thought Jaspers. Lasaille would be the best, but he’s moving too. It’s the old man’s problem, though, not mine . . . But he was flattered that the commandant was soliciting his advice.

“. . . and the candidates I might consider, they are also all leaving Taayh in the near future. It makes no sense to appoint someone for a few months.”

Jaspers swallowed.

“So I have decided that you are the best choice. Your excellent reports, your intelligence. And you will be in Taayh for another two and a half years. What do you think?”

“Well, first of all, I’m too young,” said Jaspers, managing to collect himself. He wasn’t eager to advance so quickly. It would antagonize his colleagues. “Secondly, you must be aware of that incident in the hall . . . I unintentionally crippled a worker. He’s in the hospital because of me.”

Hullic waved that away. “Cedar?” he said. “I inquired about him. He can move his arms now. He’ll be able to work in a sitting position. It was an accident. And your age is not important. Do you agree to take over my duties as commandant?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jaspers, hesitating no longer, but in his heart he wasn’t sure he had made the right decision.

Jaspers was extremely busy. The duties of commandant, it turned out, were difficult and exhausting. He sat at his desk until late. The operation of the food factory, responsible for feeding many thousands of people, was of the utmost importance to Taayh. This fact kept him going, was sufficient reward for his efforts. He recalled the time (though less often now) when he was a simple guard concerned only about rules and regulations. From his current perspective, all other posts seemed superficial.

He noted how quickly he was aging. Every time he ran his fingers through his hair, some hair came out in his hand. According to the registry he was the youngest commandant of the factory in 123 years, which was flattering, and yet he counted the days until his move to Lauhl.

By noon he had taken care of personnel matters: complaints, conflicts, requests for transfer. He thought with irony that at noon the guards could eat something, gossip a little, rest. Only members of the high command kept working.

Today Jesse, a guard for several years, had made an appointment to see him. Jesse was the type who moved from Land to Land, secure in the knowledge that he would never fall in rank. A paper pusher. Jaspers could fall into that rut too, since he had become a guard so early.

“In barracks B3,” Jesse reported in a drawl, “we have this individual named Macura. An older worker, strong as an ox.”

Barracks B3 . . . That was his, Jaspers thought. Where in the dim light of a night lamp he once read a book about a dying world.

At what point had he left off reading? In what place had he stopped the flow of time for those two good but bickering sisters, Ozza and Hobeth?

I should return to that book someday, he thought, making himself a promise that he knew he wouldn’t keep.

“Macura has a sadistic streak; he likes to torment his fellow workers,” said Jesse. “Because of him there are many bruises, injuries. I don’t know what to do with him.”

“Haven’t you read
Methodology of Social Work for Guards
?”

“Of course . . .”

He obviously didn’t read it, Jaspers thought.

“That kind of worker is indispensable to the collective,” he said. “He substitutes for you at work. He keeps the hall obedient. Intervention by a guard becomes unnecessary when the workers keep themselves in line. You could reward Macura, but you don’t need to.”

“He is an animal, so primitive.”

“That is also the rule. Primitive, but clever. Such a worker will never advance. He is content with the sense of his momentary power over others. He knows whom to bow to, and whom he can use his fists on.”

Jesse had no more questions, so Jaspers made a wave of dismissal, indicating that he had other matters to attend to.

The intellectual level of this Macura character, what did it matter? If he were smarter, he would occupy a higher rung on the ladder. It was obvious that a guard had more brains than a worker. What was Jesse’s problem? If the man had done his homework and read the textbook, Jaspers thought, I wouldn’t have to spend my time giving him instruction.

Daphne dragged herself off the settee. The part about Heather changed her mind about Jaspers: she disliked him. Around the driver’s seat were empty beer cans, Lone Sail. They rattled whenever the truck hit a bump. Gary was driving, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the road. He was pale, covered with sweat. He’d had a lot of beer. Fuzzy-headed, he drove slowly, with care.

There was the Tolz tollgate already: the barrier made of bent metal pipe. It was in three colors once, but now the paint had fallen off and the color was only rust. Behind the barrier stood a small, concrete building with a slanted
Tolz
on a wooden sign.

The truck stopped. From the building came a border guard and turned a winch to raise the barrier. Gary pulled into a parking area, where a trailer waited, with the colors of Emigrant, emptied of someone’s possessions. It didn’t take long for the crew there to unhitch the trailer that contained the Bolyas’ belongings and attach the empty trailer.

He didn’t see Spig. He had thought the man would come to say good-bye, but there was no sign of him. Probably too caught up with the entry red tape.

The truck turned and took the road back.

Gary, eyes shut, sat slumped in the passenger’s seat. Daphne drove.

“That whole story, it shows how a guy can become a shit when he gets too caught up in his career. He abandoned that woman.” She glanced at her colleague, who was trying to sleep. “Did you get that far in the book?”

“Abandoned? As a guard, he can’t have such a union. Besides he was stationed in another hall.”

“But that was the reason . . .” Daphne needed to discuss this. “He takes off her clothes, screws her, and then she no longer pleases him.”

“That wasn’t in the book. He was just sweet on her.”

“It first showed when they met after work and she dressed differently.”

“After work? That’s impossible. People go back to the barracks and hit the sack.”

“They arranged to get off early a few hours and went to the canteen. And she put on a skirt instead of her worker’s slacks. Then he saw that although the rest of her was thin, she was big in the hips, and her rear stuck out. That broke the bubble. Also, she didn’t have breasts, and her legs were too muscular. Her neck was all right, but the back of it was getting thick, and the features of her face were too big for her head. She had nice eyes, but her nostrils . . .”

“They didn’t meet after he became a guard.”

“It happened while he was still a Monitor. And her voice, it was like a sheep bleating. So Jaspers decided she was an idiot.” Daphne was incensed, as if Gary had to answer for the character’s behavior.

“What Jaspers? What are you talking about, woman?” Gary looked at her in amazement. “Cedar. The guy’s name is Cedar.”

Daphne turned, confused.

“Better watch the road,” he said. “There’s fog up ahead. And on the left, a new blot.”

She steered away from the attraction of the black smear.

“Jaspers,” he went on, “is a common criminal. Pathologically aggressive. He permanently crippled his barracks mate, Crooks. Broke his shins. Out of envy for his rank of Monitor, they decided. Jaspers is rotting in some penal division of the factory. Cedar was the one who became a guard.”

“And Heather, what will happen to her?” Daphne felt close to the heroine. Curiously, they had similar builds, similar problems with their builds.

“There’s been no Heather yet.”

“She works on the assembly line.”

“It’s Cynthia who works on the assembly line. She’s tall, graceful, has thick, curly hair. You have to like Cynthia.” He spoke with grim satisfaction. “Cedar is trying to figure out a way to make her Secretary of the barracks, then a guard. I don’t think he has a chance with her. Anyway she’s moving to Lauhl soon.”

Zef’s next note:

Playing with the numbers. Let’s take the Significant Names. There are, in this order, 144, 1,728, 20,736, and 248,832, and they come in groups of 9, 27, 81, and 243. Too much, right? You see no pattern, not at first.

But all you need is a handheld calculator.

The number of Names = 144 x 12
(n-1)
, where n is the degree of the world’s nestedness.

Behind this relation may lie something fundamental. A pity I can’t talk to Dave.

Zef’s notes, Gavein realized, contained an element of theater. The young man liked to telescope the account of his reasoning, give his conclusions abruptly, then hold forth on them like a philosopher.

That morning, Gavein demanded that Dr. Nott operate on Ra Mahleiné immediately.

“Your wife has only a few days to live.”

“She can rise from her chair, her hair has stopped falling out, and she even has a tan.”

“It’s a blip on the screen of nature, Dave, a fluctuation. If you could look inside her”—Nott’s wattle wagged—” you’d find few organs free of metastases. It makes no sense, none, to operate.”

“But you haven’t looked inside her yourself,” he argued. “You haven’t opened her up.”

Nott was implacable. “I’ve seen. Two days ago we did an MRI. One hundred and forty-four sections. Do you know how much that cost the government of Davabel?”

“Less than to arm one soldier.”

“A little less. But that’s beside the point.” She waved a hand. “In practically every section you can see the damned things growing . . .”

They stopped, because Ra Mahleiné entered. In a flannel blouse and sleek slacks, and with her tan, she was in good form, not looking like a woman terminally ill. True, she walked slowly and tried not to bend, so it wouldn’t get dark before her eyes.

“You see, Dave,” Dr. Nott whispered.

Ra Mahleiné said, “Some official type has come with the supply van. He claims to be the attorney general. Do you want to talk to him?”

“It’s Fernandez,” said Dr. Nott. “He’s conducting an investigation into the matter of those guardsmen.”

Is an epidemic of death in Davabel necessary, Gavein wondered, for Ra Mahleiné to live? To preserve some kind of balance in nature, has one fluctuation given rise to an equal but opposite fluctuation . . . ? If so, she has every right to live. I don’t regret the thousands—they died natural deaths, didn’t they, fulfilling a condition of nature, however unusual. Davabel murdered Ra Mahleiné on its ship, so let it now redeem her life.

He chuckled. “The attorney general himself asks if I will see him? Being Death has its advantages.”

Fernandez was a fairly young man, with a large, heavy head that dipped forward. He looked at you from under his brows with the mournful gaze of an ox. The wide skull showed a glistening bald spot framed with short dark hair combed back. His thick features were accented by a closely trimmed mustache. In greeting, he held out a large, sweaty hand.

Gavein shook his hand, discreetly wiped his hand on his pants, and nodded for everyone to sit, but Fernandez remained standing. He had an unpleasant way of speaking, positioning himself behind you and observing you over your shoulder. Gavein supposed this was out of professional habit.

“You can guess why I came . . . ,” Fernandez began, shifting the burden of the conversation to him, the other person, also a tactic of the trade. He spoke quietly and clearly, perhaps because his words were off the record.

“You tell me,” returned Gavein. He hated these police ploys. Let the man go to a little trouble.

Fernandez hesitated. “All right. It concerns the murder of the residents of this house. That is . . .” From a transparent attaché case he took out one of the documents. “Edda Eisler, R, the owner; Myrna Patricks, R; Anabel de Grouvert, B; Fatima and Massmoudieh Hougassian, no category; and Brenda Wilcox, also no category.”

“And?” Gavein gave him a searching look.

“Our investigation is also looking into the death of Dr. Yullius Saalstein, B, an employee of the DS,” the attorney read. “But you can see for yourself.” He handed Gavein the document. Where Fernandez had touched the attaché case, it was wet and slippery, like the skin of a carp. He held the case in a different place, but the sides bent and the zipper stuck. He put it on the sofa and pulled out one of the pages. It was a list of names of the Guard’s brigade: Sergeant Gavril Kurys, B; Corporal Hans Jura, R; and privates Benter Crain, G; Manuelo Bobrov, G; Frank Kratz, R; Eberhardt Ziaia, G; Constantine Dell, R. Someone was missing.

“In that brigade there was another man, short, pudgy . . . They called him Olsen.”

“You’re sure that a person of that name was in the brigade?”

“I’m sure.”

“In the Guard there is only one man with that name, Private Vandy Olsen, distinguished with a medal for saving a burning armed transporter and its badly injured crew. We have reason to believe that he didn’t take part in the massacre.”

“But he belongs to the brigade?”

“Yes.”

“All you need to do is check Kurys’s morning report.”

“It wasn’t made. They left without it.”

“That’s a breach.”

“You are right. But we cannot place the dead under arrest.”

“And the statements of the accused?”

“There are no statements. The men all burned before they could give a deposition. Kurys survived, true, but has not regained consciousness. He’s in a neurological clinic now. His injuries are serious and probably permanent.”

“Olsen lives, and you are protecting him? The others are outside your jurisdiction now.”

“You insult me,” said Fernandez quietly.

The remark was part of the game, and that is how Gavein took it.

“I state in front of witnesses”—Gavein indicated Dr. Nott and Ra Mahleiné with a nod—“that among the murderers was a man named Olsen. One of the soldiers spoke his name. And the brigade numbered eight men, not seven. Both Lorraine and my wife have testified to that.”

This concluded the interview with the attorney general.

How many more pointless exchanges will there be? Gavein wondered.

Every morning the ritual was the same: trucks leaving with lights flashing, then a Davabel breakfast: cottage cheese, an egg, ham, ketchup.

Ra Mahleiné, heavily medicated by Dr. Nott, felt no pain. After breakfast, she would sit in the armchair in front of the house and do a little knitting; Lorraine hunkered next to her. Gavein brought out another armchair and set it on the sidewalk. The days were almost balmy now. All was still and pleasant on the deserted street. Overhead, the exploding helicopter cast shadows. A ball of fire speckled with dozens of fragments, it paled slowly in the sky. Its crew was long dead.

Gavein opened the book.