The Judas Rose (23 page)

And this one, this particular chip, was okay. Praise God—his mind was still his own.

He sat and let it play, while the cold sweat dried on his forehead and the pounding of his heart subsided. It was a perfectly ordinary message chip; it would play, and as it played it would erase itself, and an hour from now it would have been absorbed by the mucus membranes inside his nose. It was unquestionably a miracle of technology, by comparison with the memo on fiche that he would stupidly have preferred—there were too many opportunities for security leaks with a fiche.

First there was the formula that identified it as a clean chip, and then the coder introduced himself and the message began.

“EMANYEW BYDORE, PH.D. here, Director Clete. Full professor, Multiversity of California; Colonel, United States Air Force, confidential rank. I am scientific supervisor here in El Centro in that section of the Cetacean project which is making neuron-by-neuron alterations in the brains of decanted tubies according to a computer-generated systematic sequence. As you know, these altered infants are being prepared for Interfacing with nonhumanoid Aliens, and our work is aimed at restructuring their language acquisition processes in such a way that they will be able to undergo Interfacing without the unfortunate consequences experienced in past series. PARAGRAPH. This work has gone very slowly—through no fault of the personnel. As noted in the last report from this site, the supply of captive nonhumanoid Aliens available for Interfacing has been so unreliable and so inadequate in recent years that most of our time has had to be devoted to simply altering the infants and storing them for later use; it
goes without saying that this is a boring way to pass one's time, although the knowledge of the brain's structure that we are acquiring will undoubtedly prove valuable in the future. We have been somewhat restless here. PARAGRAPH. I am therefore delighted to report that two days ago we took delivery of a shipment genuinely promising for our research; I refer to the three specimens brought in from the last GW sweep. I can most quickly describe them as approximately the size and shape of our largest Earth dolphins, with similar brain/body ratio. Amazing that they were unable to escape from the Scoop, frankly, considering their strength and agility—but a stroke of good luck for us. Unlike the dolphins, their bodies are encased in shells; given the pressures to which they were subjected in their native atmospheres, this is to be anticipated. PARAGRAPH. PLEASE NOTE: AT THE END OF THIS MESSAGE YOU WILL BE PROVIDED WITH A VISUAL IMAGE OF ONE OF THE SPECIMENS, OF APPROXIMATELY TWENTY-SEVEN SECONDS DURATION. THERE WILL BE MINOR DISCOMFORT ASSOCIATED WITH THE TRANSMISSION OF THE IMAGE DUE TO THE CLUMSINESS OF STIMULATION OF THE OPTIC CENTERS IN THIS FASHION. MY APOLOGIES. PARAGRAPH. Until now, we have not felt justified in requesting anything more than the minimal budget necessary for maintenance of this facility and for life support of the altered infants. But this new development changes the situation. These are specimens that can plausibly be assumed to be sentient and to have a system of communication—and we have a
group
of them. It is plausible to assume that they will interact; we have seen no indications to the contrary in their behavior. Furthermore, their biological needs appear to be such that we can keep them not just alive, but reasonably comfortable. We have an abundant supply of altered tubies ready to be put into service, and we have a superbly equipped Interface ready to be activated. All systems—as the old saying goes, Director Clete—are go. PARAGRAPH. In view of these new circumstances, we request your approval for a stepped-up timetable on this project. We would like to move ahead at the fastest rate compatible with the safety of the specimens. If you have no objection to the expenditure, our budget officer advises me that the deposit of a twenty percent increase in our accounts would be sufficient for implementation of the accelerated program. We look forward to notification of the fund transfer, and will of course keep you
informed of progress here. END OF MESSAGE; E.B., PH.D. [STAND BY FOR VISUAL IMAGE TRANSMISSION!!!]”

Minor discomfort. Heykus smiled to himself. . . . It was like “seeing stars” after being whacked over the head with a club. A substantial club, with a substantial nail in the end of it. It was enough like what Heykus assumed an electric shock to one nostril would be like to qualify in his mind as a good deal more than “minor discomfort.” It was also far too delicate a process to make it through either the violent shake he gave his head or the swift rap he gave to his nose directly over the cognisocket. The point of giving you the standby message was so that you'd stay absolutely motionless while the nervebridge was done, instead of leaping three feet into the air when the jolt hit you; Heykus didn't intend to inform Professor Bydore that the warning also gave the knowledgeable individual time to dodge the whole thing. Their “visual image” was superfluous; the statement that the specimens were about the size and shape of dolphins, but with a shell, was graphic enough for his purposes.

Now, while the tingle in his nostril gradually faded, he opened his eyes and began scanning budget displays on the comset screen. Thinking it over. Not because there was any question in his mind about whether or not the request for funds should be granted. But he had to decide which of the slush funds he had access to would be the proper one to stash it in. Once he had made his choice, there was no further delay. It took him exactly four minutes to move the funds to the El Centro account, arrange three interlocking transactions to cover the transfer, and hide the program back inside the larger dummy one.

Members of Heykus' staff with sufficiently high clearance to know about the existence of the program considered its name an excellent joke. Putting a dependent program to launder slush monies inside a sedate file named “All Souls Mission” was, they thought, a stroke of genuine wit; it showed that although Heykus talked the approved Christian line, as was only prudent for any government official, he had a sense of humor. And he was always willing to agree with them that it was a fine joke, on those rare occasions when the subject came up.

For Heykus, however, it was not a joke. One of the things that he knew for certain was that one God,
his
God, had created everything there was, no matter where it might be located. Another thing he knew for certain was that on this planet Earth anything that spoke a language had a soul that could be saved for the greater glory of God. And until he also knew for certain that
any given living creature found on any other planet was
without
such a soul, he was taking no chances. First you learned how to talk to them; then you told them the Good News about the Son of God; that was what his life was about. Come the time he was convinced that the primates or the whales had true languages, Heykus was prepared to see that
they
were told the Good News, just in case; this was a situation in which he would always choose to make his errors on the broad side of the line. And “All Souls Mission” was the one and the only and the
perfect
name for that computer program.

II

Jessamin was at her post in the corner, behind the tall five-paneled screen that left her a full view of the girldorm's rows of narrow beds and cribs but kept the small light of her reading lamp from waking the sleeping children. She was staring at a fiche that introduced an entire new set of lexical items . . . the vocabulary she would need, day after tomorrow. The Jeelods were offering to set up an entirely new kind of agricultural station, like a giant clothesline, with protein sheets hung out on it to be—She frowned at the data before her; what
was
it exactly that they were claiming you did? Protein sheets, hung on lines in geosynchronous orbits, that you—rolled up? Rolled up on what? The word was either an entirely new root, or it had an affix she'd never seen before, she couldn't decide which. And she would have to know before she could begin interpreting.

She was staring so fiercely at the baffling words on the fiche that she didn't hear Nizhona come padding across the room to her, barefooted. When the girl grabbed her hand, her own hands like ice, Jessamin jumped; the noise she made was almost a whispered shriek.

“Nizhona Maria Chornyak!” she fussed, as well as she could fuss without disturbing the sleepers. “
Please
, child—don't ever grab like that, out of the air! What have I done to deserve such treatment at your hands—
literally
at your hands? Poor Jessamin, struggling all her life long with the Jeelods, does she deserve such a shockingly abrupt icy greeting from you, eh? And dearlove, how have your hands gotten so
cold?
”

“Jessamin, Jessamin, guess what!” the girl whispered, her voice urgent with excitement. “Oh, Jessamin,
guess!
”

Jessamin put her work aside, drew the youngster inside the shelter of the screen where she could see her a little better, and
took the young face between her hands to study it, thinking that the skin was like velvet; she looked closely and carefully, and she thought hard. Nizhona's eyes were bright, almost aglow, certainly dancing; she was terribly
pleased
about something. Her body was trembling with excitement. Twelve years old . . . three o'clock in the morning of an ordinary day, long before dawn . . . and here she was, saying, “Oh, Jessamin,
guess!
”

There was only one single thing it could be.

“
Báa nahosháana ne?
” she whispered, watching. And saw at once that she was right.

“I woke up just now, Jessamin, and I discovered it! It's not just a cut finger, there are little spots of blood on my nightgown!” Nizhona giggled, so very pleased with herself. “And on the floor, too, Jessa . . . I left a trail to you!”

“Oh, Nizhona,” Jessamin breathed, “bless you, darling!” And she gathered her into her arms and rocked her, till the joyous trembling quieted and the girl relaxed against her to be stroked and patted, murmuring all the usual words suitable to the occasion.

“I'll bet I'm still leaving a trail,” Nizhona whispered, lazily, calm again. “I'll bet I'm making a horrible
mess
, Jessa.”

“Brag, brag, brag,” Jessamin teased. “One little quarter teaspoon of blood, and you think you're an instrument of vast and splendid havoc!”

“Yep,” said Nizhona, smug and content. “That is exactly right. Splendid scarlet havoc. Jessamin, shall I go sneak through the house like this? Maybe write my name on the floor in the diningroom?”

Jessamin laughed, and gave the outrageous child a swift hug. “Would you accept a compromise?” she asked. “One that wouldn't be quite so exotic?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure I would. This happens only one time, you know, in my whole life. Why should I compromise?”

“All right, then,” Jessamin told her. “You go up and see how long it takes you, dearlove, one little drop at a time, to write your whole name in menstrual blood on the diningroom floor. I can't go with you, because I'm on duty; but I'll come by in—oh, three hours, say, you should have it done by then—and I'll put a coat of Permaglass over it so it will be preserved for all of time.”

“Would it take that long?”

“I expect so. The very first period you have? What do you think there'll be, child, quarts and buckets and bathtubs full of blood? The very first time?”

Nizhona sighed. “Shoot. . . . Maybe I'll just. . . .” Her voice
trailed off before she could outline her next plan, and she smiled. “Maybe I'll just move to
Woman
house,” she proposed. “Right now!”

“That,” Jessamin agreed, hugging her some more, “you may surely do, with my blessing. Most certainly. I'll call Belle-Anne and tell her to go over to the Womanhouse kitchen and meet you for hot tea and something celebratory; she'll be up, for sure, she always is. Pack quietly, though—the rest of the girls have nearly two hours' sleep coming to them still, if you don't crash and clank and lumber around hooting and thumping.”

“I'll only
splash!
” Nizhona declared. “I shall make small soft splashes, as I go.”

Jessamin watched her fondly as she headed back across the room, moving as silently as she had come; for all her mischievous talk, she would not have stolen one minute of sleep from the others. And she punched in the call for Belle-Anne on her wrist computer. “Nizhona's coming over,” she typed, “and she's headed for the kitchen fit to burst . . . her first period woke her up and she is moving
this very minute
. A good thing she is, too—you should have heard the alternatives she was proposing! Can you go meet her, Belle-Anne?”

“I'm on my way,” came the answer, and not a word from Belle-Anne about the project she would have to set aside. “I'll be there before she is, Jessamin, and we'll plan an Osháana Rejoicing to remember, I promise.”

“She'll talk you to death—she's wound up like a top.”

“Well, of course she is! Weren't
you?
”

Belle-Anne didn't wait for the answer that any woman of the Lines could have supplied. The privilege of moving to the Womanhouse, out of the girldorms to join the women; the festivities of the Osháana Rejoicing party that would be fit into the hours of the coming day no matter
what
extraordinary reschedulings and cancelings and rearrangements had to be accomplished. Those were things you treasured forever. Jessamin remembered her own Rejoicing, and her eyes filled with the tears of memory joyfully welcomed; she knew now that her first period had arrived on as impossible a day for a celebration as could ever have been imagined, with almost every woman in Chornyak Household already scheduled for every last moment the whole day long. But they had held her Rejoicing, and they had never let on for an instant that heaven and earth and all the planets and asteroids had had to be moved about to fit it in.