The Saga of the Renunciates (39 page)

“I know you’re working under Lorne,” the man went on, “but she got away with it because, working in the Boss’s office as much as she did, she could pull rank.” Lorne, of course, was the name Magda used in the HQ, she knew, but none of the rest of it was intelligible except that for some strange reason, perhaps a superstitious ritual, she must wear the uniform to keep from touching off alarms within the building. It probably wasn’t worth arguing about.

“It’s all right for today, your first day,” the man added, “but tomorrow, show up in uniform, all right? And wear the badge at all times. It identifies your department and your face.”

Jaelle asked, “Why should I have to wear my face, when I am already wearing my face?”

“So that we can see that your badge matches your face, and no unauthorized person gets into Security areas,” the man said, and Jaelle, who was already confused, decided it was not worthwhile to go on asking why should anyone want to go where they had no business? It wasn’t as if there was anything interesting in here to see.

“Take her on up to Medic, Beth, we’re finished with her,” said the man. “Good luck, Mrs. Haldane—Jaelle, I mean. Where are they going to put her, Beth? They can’t put her in the Boss’s office. He tends to make—” the man hesitated, “rude remarks. About certain people’s—backgrounds.”

Jaelle wondered if the man thought she was deaf, or feebleminded; she had met Montray, and no one with a scrap of telepathic ability could possibly be in doubt that he disliked Darkover and all the Darkovans. But it was polite of the man to try and spare her feelings; the first politeness she had encountered from Terrans, who were often friendly, but seldom polite. Not, anyhow, as she understood it; they seemed to have different standards of courtesy. Only after they were in the hallway did she realize that while she had answered a great many questions about herself, no one had bothered to introduce him to her and she still did not know his name.

“Next stop, Medic,” remarked Bethany, and Jaelle, who knew the Terran word by now, after the long debates about allowing Renunciates to become Medical technicians, protested, “But I’m not sick!”

“Just routine,” said Bethany, an answer Jaelle had heard so often that day that she recognized it, though she did not yet know what it meant, as a ritual answer which was supposed to cut off discussion. Well, she had been told it was rude to inquire about the religious rituals of others, and Terrans must have some really strange ones.

They went up farther, this time, than ever before, and Jaelle catching a random glance out a window, shivered involuntarily they must be as high as they had been in the Pass of Scaravel and she clung, feeling dizzy, to a handrail. Was this some form of testing her courage? Well, a woman who had faced blizzards in the Hellers and banshees in the mountain passes would not quail at mere height. Anyhow, Bethany seemed unconcerned.

There was a different kind of uniform on this floor, and since she was to participate in whatever curious ritual was being done this time, she did not complain when they took away her woolen and leather Amazon outfit and dressed her in a white tunic made of paper. The workers here all had the same sign on their tunics, an upright staff with what looked like two snakes coiled arounc it, and she wondered if work emblems replaced clan or family blazonings here. She waited on benches for peculiar processes, was touched or prodded with strange machines, and they pricked her finger with needles. She shrank back at this, and Bethany explained, “They wish to look at your blood under a—” she used a strange word, and at Jaelle’s blank look, elaborated, “A special glass to see the cells in your blood—to see if it is healthy blood.” They stuck a glass plate in her mouth, and draped her from breasts to knees with a metal-treated heavy cloth, then left her alone with the machine, which made a curious humming noise, at which she startled and jumped. The young technician, a girl about Jaelle’s own age with curly fair hair, swore angrily, and again Bethany explained hastily that they were only taking a picture of her teeth to see if they had holes or damaged roots.

“They could ask me,” Jaelle said crossly, but when they tried it again, she held her breath and stayed as still as she could. The technician looked at the plate with pictured teeth and said to Bethany that she had never seen anything like it.

“She says your teeth are perfect,” Bethany translated, and Jaelle said, with a sense of injury, that she could have told them that in the first place.

Then there was a room filled with machines, and the technician in charge of them, a man who spoke somewhat better Darkovan than anyone except the man who had questioned her so long in the photographing place, said, “Go in behind those curtains, and take off all your clothes. Right down to the skin.: Then come out that end, and walk directly down that line, along the painted white stripe. Understand?” tamed chervine doing tricks. “Now turn again—lower arm— see? Machine no hurt—”

When she was dressing again, she asked Bethany, “What did those machines
do
!”

“Pictures of your insides, I told you. Tells them you’re healthy.”

“And as I told
you
, I could have told them that already,” said Jaelle. Except for one or two wounds in battle—during her first years as an Amazon, she had fought as a mercenary at Kindra’s side—and a broken wrist when she had fallen from a horse at sixteen, she had always been perfectly healthy.

Then they took her and put her into a contoured lounge and pasted gooey flat plates to her head, and pushed her down in the chair. She must have fallen asleep, and when she woke up she had a splitting headache, not unlike the headache she had had when Lady Alida had forced her, at fifteen, to look into a matrix jewel.

“She’s very resistant,” said one man, as she woke up, and another man answered, “That’s normal for the indigenous population. Not used to technological environment. Beth said she spooked at the fluoroscopy machines. Hey—pipe down, she’s awake already. Can you understand us, Miss?”

“Yes, perfectly—oh, I see. A language-teaching machine.” That was nothing; the Comyn could have done that with a matrix and a well-trained telepath.

“Head ache?” Without waiting for her answer, the Medic handed her a small paper cup with a spoonful or so of pale green liquid in the bottom. “Drink this.”

She did. He took the cup from her, crushed it in his hand and tossed it into a waste collector. She watched in amazement as it turned into pale slime and flowed out the drain. One moment it had been a cup; then, the next instant, without transition, it was a bit of pale slimy stuff, deliberately discarded and destroyed. Yet it was not old, or outworn, the new crisp feel of it was still in her hand, the
reality
of it. She could still feel it, but the thing itself was gone.
Why
? A few minutes later, changing back into her own clothes, Bethany told her to throw her paper tunic into the same kind of collector. It confused her still, to see the things dissolve and flow down the drain and exist no longer. The man who had worked the language machine—she heard him call it a D-Alpha corticator, which left her no wiser than before—handed her a neat packet of disks.

“Here are your language lessons in Standard for the rest of the week,” he said. “Tell your husband to show you how to use the sleeplearner, and you can go ahead on your own.”

Another machine
! This man had not been introduced to her either, but she was accustomed to rudeness by now, and was not surprised when Bethany told her to hurry or they would be late to lunch. She had been hurrying all morning, but Terrans were always in a hurry, driven by the chronometer faces she saw everywhere, and she supposed there were some good reasons to serve meals on time; it was rude to keep the cooks waiting. There were no cooks visible, only machines, and it confused her to have to press buttons to get food, but she did what Bethany did. The food was all unfamiliar anyhow, thick porridges and hot drinks and bland textured messes. Sticking a fork in one peculiarly colored red mess, she asked what it was, and Bethany shrugged.

“Ration for the day; some kind of synthetic carbo-protein, I imagine. Whatever it is, it’s supposed to be good for you.” She ate up her portion with appetite, though, and so Jaelle tried to choke some of it down.

“The food in the Main Cafeteria is better than this,” Bethany said, “this is just a quick place to eat and run. I know this was a boring morning, but it’s always like this on a new job.”

Boring
? Jaelle thought of the last job she had undertaken; with her partner Rafaella, organizing a trade caravan to Dalereuth. They had spent the first day talking to their employer, finding out what men he had and how many animals, inspecting pack-beasts and making up their loads, visiting harness-makers to have proper packs made up. While Rafi had gone off to organize the hiring of extra animals, Jaelle had questioned the men about their food preferences and gone to purchase supplies and arrange their delivery. Monotonous, perhaps, and hard work, but certainly not boring!

The food was too strange to eat much; she could not have gotten it down at all had she not been ravenous after her breakfastless morning. The textures were too smooth, the tastes too sweet or too salty, with one fiery bitterness that made her splutter. At least Bethany was trying to be friendly.

Searching her mind, she realized she was still angry about the moment when she had walked naked between the rows of machines. None of the men had been offensive, they had not noticed that she was female. But they should have noticed. Noticed; not looked at her offensively, but noticed that she
was
in fact female and would have feelings about displaying herself before strange men. Possibly they should have had the machines entirely staffed by women, just to indicate that they understood her natural feelings. She hated the idea that they considered her just a nothing, another machine that happened to be living and breathing, a machine no one would have noticed except that it was not wearing the proper uniform!
A lot of bones and organs
, Bethany had said. She felt depersonalized, as if by treating her like a machine they had made her into one.

“Don’t try to eat that stuff if you don’t like it,” Bethany said, noticing her struggle with the food. “Sooner or later, you’ll find out which things you like and which ones you don’t, and you can get native food—oh, I’m sorry, I mean naturally cooked food, things more like what you’re accustomed to eating—in quarters. Some people prefer synthetics, that’s all—the Alphans, for instance, have religious objections to eating anything that’s ever been alive or growing, so we have to provide complete synthetic diets for them, and it’s cheaper and easier to package them for the staff up here. They’re not so bad when you’re used to them,” she rattled on, while Jaelle blinked, thinking of a world where everybody ate this kind of thing, not for convenience or cheapness but because they had religious scruples about eating anything which had once contained life. She supposed it showed, after all, a very elevated ethical sense. Anyway, there was nothing she could do about it.

By now she was numb to shocks and flung her half-emptied plate into the ubiquitous disposal bins, watching it flow away into slime and swirl away down the drain. Small loss, she thought. Upstairs again, in one of the large windowless offices, she felt the unease of incipient claustrophobia—it was unsettling not to be sure whether she was on the fourth floor or the twenty-fourth. She told herself that she could not expect to have everything familiar, among Terrans, and that at least it was a new kind of experience. But the strange sounds and background machine noises scraped away at her nerves. Bethany located a desk for her.

“This is Lorne’s place; even when she’s here she doesn’t use it much, she worked mostly in Montray’s office upstairs, but when I heard you were coming in, I had it cleaned out and set up for you. You wouldn’t want to work under Montray, he’s a—” She used an idiom Jaelle did not understand, comparing him with some unfamiliar animal, but the disapproving tone conveyed her meaning perfectly well. She remembered what she had heard in the Medic office, too… Montray, then, was the one who could not be trusted to treat Darkovans with ordinary courtesy. How, she wondered, had this man come to be in a position of authority if his character faults were so extreme that even his own staff felt free to comment on them? She resolved to ask Peter; she literally did not know how to frame the question for Bethany’s ears without implying all kinds of insulting things about Terrans in general.

Bethany was explaining, in rapid-fire, how to use the voice-scriber, the throat-mike, the clearing key for erasure, the way in which the words would print on the screen before her. “You don’t have to speak out loud, just subvocalize.” She struck a key, and said, “Here, like this—watch.”

On the screen, printed in luminous pale letters, the words appeared: HERE. LIKE THIS—WATCH. Jaelle swallowed as she slowly spelled them out.

“Wouldn’t it be simpler if I just told this to the person who needs to know this?”

Bethany shrugged. “I suppose it could be done that way, but we need it for records—then the next Director of Operations, and the one beyond him, will be able to get it in your own words, years from now.”

“Why should anyone be interested, say, fifty years from now, when we are no longer here and Rumal di Scarp is dead?”

“Well, it goes into the record,” said Bethany, sorely puzzled herself.
That word again
. “Even by next week, your memory will have distorted what happened… you really should have been debriefed, as Magda should have been, right after it happened, though I understand why it wasn’t possible—you all spent the winter snowed in at Ardais, didn’t you? But we have to get all this into the record, as clearly as we can. Then other Heads of Departments, or even people on other Empire planets, will have access to the information, even a hundred years from now. It all goes into the permanent record.”

But that, Jaelle thought, was impossible; for anyone to report anything with that kind of permanent, frozen, once-for-all objectivity. She said, choosing her words to try and convey her distress, “But the truth I tell now about what happened at Sain Scarp is not the truth I would have told then. And what I tell now will not be the truth fifty years from now. I will have to recall all of it, fifty years from now, to see what the truth is then, because the only truth then will be what we remember—and not just me, but what Margali—Magda remembers, and what Peter remembers, and even what Lady Rohana and Rumal di Scarp himself remembers.”