The Terrorists of Irustan (5 page)

Maya simply shook her head,

“Is there anyone to read them to you?”

Maya shook her head again. It was pointless to ask B’Neeli to read them to her. He wouldn’t do it, maybe couldn’t do it. In any case, the Second Prophet had said he shouldn’t.

An Irustani works the mines; the care of the body is his wife’s portion.

—Eleventh Homily,
The Book of the Second Prophet

Zahra sighed. “All right, then, Maya, I’m going to tell you what to do. Can you remember?”

In detail, and at length, Zahra outlined the use of the pills and the ointment that would speed the healing of the surgical wound. She said everything twice. When she was done, she went into the storage closet for the wheeled chair, and helped Maya into it. She assisted her with her veil, buttoning the layers. When they went out into the dispensary, she could see that a hired car waited at the corner of the narrow street. The package of medicines she placed in Maya’s lap, and the girl’s white fingers clutched it.

Zahra watched from the window as B’Neeli lifted Maya’s veiled figure from the wheeled chair and settled her onto the wide seat of the passenger compartment of the hired car. He shut the door and got in next to the driver before they pulled away, turning toward the Medah, the heart of the city, where vendors and tradesmen and clerks and laborers lived. Asa limped out to retrieve the chair. Zahra leaned her forehead against the window, watching the car disappear.

“Can I do anything else for you, Medicant?” Asa asked.

“No,” she replied.

Asa replaced the chair, and went into the house while Zahra set about putting the clinic to rights.

She was about to leave the dispensary, to go back to her room for a shower and a change of clothes, when the bell beside the outer door rang. Zahra glanced about her. Asa had gone, and Lili was with Ishi. She was alone. “Damn!” she said softly.

Beyond the sheer curtains that masked the waiting room from the street, she saw that a Port Force cart was drawn up in front of the clinic. It was the driver ringing the bell. She needed her delivery, too, since the medicator had run out of accelerant three days before. Miners would be coming for their inhalation therapy, and the accelerated protease was the most essential part of that. It was hard enough to get them to come without asking them to reschedule.

Exhaustion dragged at Zahra’s body. Her arms and legs felt heavy, as if she were walking through deep water, and her thoughts fumbled wearily around the problem. “Damn,” she said again. She buttoned her rill, then went to the door and opened it just enough to see the man on the doorstep.

“Morning,” was the cheerful greeting of the man on the step. “Medicant IbSada? Longshoreman Chung, Port Force. Stuff for your surgery in my cart.” He touched his heart politely.

The man was almost exactly Zahra’s height, with square slender shoulders and lean, bare legs. His hair was cropped into a glistening black brush beneath his beige cap.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I have a problem.”

“No escort, Medicant?”

Zahra lifted her brows in surprise. No Port Forceman she had met before had been conversant with Irustani custom. This one had not only observed the formal greeting, but instantly appreciated her situation.

“Exactly,” she said, observing the man more closely through her veil. He pulled off the wide dark glasses all the Earthers wore, and she saw that his eyes were long and narrow, a deep brown beneath a sleepy epicanthic fold.

“Easy,” he said. His voice was light and rather pleasant, she thought, much like the voices of the young miners who came to see her, the ones still in their teens. This Chung looked older than that, though, closer to her own age. Traceries of lines followed the folds of his eyelids, exaggerating their sleepy quality. When he smiled, the lines deepened.

Zahra caught herself wandering, and tried to focus her weary mind on the difficulty. “I beg your pardon? What did you say?”

Chung held up a hand. “It’s easy, Medicant. I’ll bring the stuff in,” he said quickly. “No help needed. Don’t go, though, wait in your surgery, and when I’m done I’ll call. CA barrels here, need refrigeration right away.”

“Thank you, Kir Chung,” Zahra said. She was too tired to think of another solution. She swung the door wide, and stepped back out of the light as the Port Forceman turned to his cart.

Zahra went into the small surgery as the longshoreman had suggested, and closed the door behind her. The exam bed was freshly made, and she sat on its edge, looking down at the white, smooth pillow. Perhaps if she lay down for just a moment ... it would be cool against her cheek. What a blessing this polite, remarkable longshoreman turned out to be . . . she could just undo her veil, close her eyes for a bit, only a few moments . . . “Medicant?”

Zahra startled awake at the light tap on the door of the surgery. She sat up quickly, alarm flooding her, but the Port Forceman—Chung—didn’t offer to open the door. He called again, softly, but clearly. He was being careful not to attract anyone else’s attention. When had a Port Forceman ever been so considerate? More often, they caused terrible trouble for the medicants or any other Irustani women they encountered.

“Medicant?” he called again. “All finished here. Barrels need the fridge.” “Yes, yes, thank you very much, Kir Chung.” Zahra scrambled off the bed and went to the door, opening it a few inches.

In the dispensary, Chung had stacked the barrels and the dry cartons neatly beside the desk. He waved his arm at them, and then touched his breast once again, the fingers opening in her direction in a perfect version of the Irustani salute.

“Bye, Medicant.” On the way out, Chung tapped one of the barrels with long brown fingers, not looking back. “Accelerant’s right here!”

Zahra heard the click of the lock falling into place as Chung closed the outer door. Again she went to stand behind the curtain, fatigue forgotten for the moment in her curiosity. She watched Chung jump nimbly into the driver’s compartment of the cart. He spun away with one arm dangling in the breeze, palm out, using the other to guide the machine.

Zahra’s fatigue returned as she shelved the medicines in the CA cabinet in the large surgery. She yawned as she turned away toward her own room, and her bed, then smiled, thinking of the longshoreman. There were always surprises, it seemed. And the Maker had seen to it that men, like women, came in all types.

five

*   *   *

Why should a man who is well and strong concern himself with illness? The Maker has given him health to work and worship, to dedicate himself to the unending glory of the One.

—Twelfth Homily,
The Book of the Second Prophet

“Z
ahra, what
happened to Asa’s foot?” Ishi sat cross-legged, unveiled, on Zahra’s big bed, her reader glowing in her lap.

Zahra was also unveiled, the work day finished. She bent over her own reader, her chin in her hand, her elbow on the desk. She kept one finger poised over the scroller as she glanced up at Ishi. Lili sat nearby, a basket of sewing at her feet, one of Ishi’s dresses in her hands.

“Asa’s foot was like that when he was born," Zahra said.

“But couldn’t his medicant fix it?”

“Ishi, the medicator can’t do surgery, and many medicants don’t use the surgical dome. It’s too late now for Asa’s foot. As we get older, our bones set and harden.”

“Could the medicants on Earth fix it?”

Zahra took her finger off the scroller. She leaned back in her chair and regarded Ishi.

A new and satisfying plumpness rounded the child’s face. Ishi had been theirs for three months now. She rarely cried at night anymore. Her shyness had faded, at least with Zahra and with Lili, and she bombarded them both with endless questions. Zahra encouraged her by answering as many as she could.

“On Earth, Ishi, they don’t have medicants. They have doctors and surgeons and geneticists and transplanters—they do wonderful things. Yes, I’m sure they could repair Asa’s foot on Earth—they would replace the bones. But here, and in the other directorates, people must make do with what Earth sends them.”

“But if you had been Asa’s medicant—when he was born, 1 mean—you could have fixed his foot, couldn’t you!” It was more statement than question.

Zahra chuckled. “Perhaps you overestimate me.”

“No, I don’t,” Ishi declared.

Lili put down her sewing and smoothed her veil. Zahra sometimes suspected Lili even slept fully veiled—just in case the Prophet came for her! Lili folded her arms as she said, “It isn’t for us to question the Makers plans, Ishi. Perhaps Asa was meant to be here, sent just for us. If it were not for his—condition—he would have gone to the mines, like other men.”

Zahra had recently treated just such a deformity as Asa’s. An infant boy, delivered at home with only an anah to help, had been brought to her with one tiny foot bent and twisted. It wasn’t so difficult to rearrange the ligaments and tendons and inject the ankle with regenerators so the tender bones of babyhood could grow straight. His own medicant had known Zahra’s work, and sent him to her. Under Nura’s guidance Zahra had tackled everything that came her way. She had learned how to use tutorials like the one she was studying now. She had never asked Asa why his own foot had been left as it was, so twisted that he was forced almost to walk on his ankle, but she was sure Lili had the right explanation, if not the right reason. There were few ways to keep an Irustani boy from the mines; disability was one that was certain.

Ishi tapped the scroller on her reader impatiently. “These lessons are stupid,” she complained. “How is all this going to teach me to be a medicant?”

Zahra leaned to look. Ishi’s screen was alive with strange colors and shapes, things no Irustani had seen. Beasts with stripes, with spots, with hooves, with huge ears or armored hides, marched across the page as she watched. Some lumbered, some flew, some loped with unbelievable grace, some chewed stolidly, seeming to stare back at her. “They’re beautiful,” Zahra said mildly.

“Not as pretty as a patapat, or a puffer!” Ishi cried.

“No, nor as scary as fithi, or hellbirds either!” Lili said. Zahra hid her smile. Lili had probably never seen either.

Ishi flung a glance at the anah. “I don’t see why I have to learn Earth animals,” she said stoutly. “Most of them are gone, anyway! Do you think Earth children have to learn them?”

“I’m sure they do,” Zahra said. She reached to cup Ishi’s cheek with herpalm. “My Ishi. Be patient. They assure us that you are studying the same lessons as Earth students. You just pay special attention when you get to the math and the biology. You’re going to need them.”

“Soon?” Ishi pressed her. Her eyes curved into long dark crescents as she smiled, and her little pointed chin dimpled. “Really soon?”

“Soon,” Zahra promised.

“And when I’m a medicant,” Ishi bubbled, scrolling the reader briskly through the panoply of creatures, “I’m going to learn how to fix Asa’s foot!” Lili stalked to the bed and bent over Ishi’s reader to press a finger firmly to the keypad. “Now you go back and learn what you’re supposed to learn,” she said sternly. “No skipping. And be grateful! There are girls all over the Medah who would love to have these lessons.”

Ishi sighed and pulled the reader away from Lili’s hand. “All right, Lili! I’ll study them. But maths next!”

Zahra smiled behind her hand as she returned to the tutorial. She had not forgotten the pure joy of discovery, the thrill of fresh knowledge, the deep satisfaction of putting bits of intelligence together. It was possible to do a medicant’s work by rote, not even telling the medicator what to do, allowing its programs to take responsibility. Zahra had never been content with that, and she was sure Ishi wouldn’t either. Ishi’s eagerness was as refreshing as a night breeze from the reservoir.

Just the same, Ishi would never be allowed to do all she planned; their medicines, their tools, their techniques were all such a remote distance from Earth. How long was the flight now, Zahra wondered. It had been shrinking all her life, but it still remained a matter of years rather than months. Research results came quickly, borne on the wings of the r-waves, the hyperwaves that flashed over the reaches; but the equipment, the hardware, took much, much longer, and was too often obsolete by the time it arrived. Obsolete by Earth standards, she reminded herself, and perhaps by her own as well. Not by the standards of the directorate. The directorate of Irustan was content, even proud, to be as primitive as any colony of any age.

The text and the demos on her reader wavered and blurred, and she rubbed her eyes and pushed it away. “Ishi, I’m tired, aren’t you? Let’s get ready for bed.”

Lili came to help Ishi with her dress. Zahra closed her reader and stood, stretching her long arms with a soft crack of tired joints. It had been a full day. She unbuttoned the high neckline of her dress and slipped off her sandals. Lili turned back the sheets of the beds and fluffed the pillows. Zahra and Ishi yawned together and then smiled at each other.

A soft tap sounded at the door. Lili fastened her verge before she opened the door just far enough to exchange whispers with someone. She closed the door again, and came back to say, with obvious satisfaction, “Asa says the director would like to see you. In his rooms.” She avoided Zahra’s eyes, bustling Ishi off into the bathroom for tooth-brushing and washing. Zahra stood, her own preparations arrested.

For three months, since Ishi’s arrival, she had not been alone with Qadir. She had supposed—no, that wasn’t true, she hadn’t supposed. She had given it no thought at all. But this was one summons she was not at liberty to refuse.

She snatched her veil off the bed and drew it roughly over her hair. She thrust her feet back into her sandals and marched to the door, rill and verge dangling. Lili put her head out of the bathroom.

“Medicant,” she urged. “Don’t you want ... I can wash Ishi later if you’d like to shower. . . .”

“No, it’s fine, Lili,” Zahra said. “Tell Ishi I’ll kiss her goodnight when I get back.”

Still the anah came to her, rearranging her untidy veil, buttoning the verge, straightening the hem of her dress.

“Lili, that’s hardly necessary,” Zahra said. She pulled free and went to the door.

Lili shook her head, clicking her tongue.

Asa had already gone when Zahra emerged. She walked alone down the wide, tiled hallway, past the stairs that led to the clinic, past the elegant staircase that curved down into the foyer. The lights had been dimmed for the night and her shadow preceded her and then trailed her, long and thin, wavering. She reached the far stairs and went down.

Qadir slept in a suite of rooms that was as much office as bedroom. A wavephone was close at hand in every room, at the head of his bed, on the long desk where he frequently worked or held meetings, and in the next bedroom, which was Diya’s.

In the years of their marriage, Zahra had not gone often to Qadir’s rooms. Any business conducted there was his, whether official or personal, and no proper Irustani wife would concern herself with it. When Qadir wanted her, he came to her bedroom. But now, with Ishi there, that was no longer possible.

Zahra didn’t hesitate. When she reached his door, she rapped twice, rather hard, making her knuckles sting.

Qadir himself slid the door aside. “Zahra, at last,” he murmured. He pulled her inside with a firm grip on her wrist. “Mmm, you look wonderful. How long has it been?”

Zahra didn’t answer. She saw that Qadir had made an effort. A bottle of nab’t was opened and waiting on the table, glasses sparkling beside it in the muted light. Qadir was dressed in a loose silk robe, sashed around his thin waist, and he smelled of spicy scent. He drew her against him, caressing her shoulders beneath the drape of her veil. She bent her head.

“Come, Zahra, take this thing off,” he said impatiently.

She unbuttoned the verge and lifted the veil from her head, her heavy hair falling unclipped down her back. Qadir took the veil to lay it on the table, and he picked up the bottle. His teeth gleamed white in the half-darkness. “Bring the glasses,” he said huskily.

He led the way into his bedroom. Zahra followed, still in silence, picking up the two glasses in one hand. She closed the door behind her, and turned to see Qadir already dropping his robe onto a chair. Naked, unself-conscious, he carried the bottle to the bed. His bed was large and deep, framed by a whitewood bedstead with shelves and a reading lamp at its head. He put the bottle on one of the shelves and turned, holding out his hand.

“Come on, my Zahra,” he said thickly. “It’s been forever.”

“I could do with a glass of nab’t, Qadir,” she said. It was a rare indulgence, provided to women only at the whim of their husbands. Zahra wasn’t truly fond of it, but she thought it might help.

“After,” he murmured, and took hold of the neckline of her dress. As he undid the buttons, she reached behind him to press the switch on the lamp, casting the room into darkness.

The first of the tiny moons was just swimming up over the horizon. Qadir’s bare shoulders and back were visible in its vague light as he drew off Zahra’s dress and then turned to throw back the quilt on the bed. He sat and pulled her into his lap. His skin felt hot against hers.

“Zahra,” he whispered, his lips against her neck. He ran his hands over her body, her small breasts, her narrow hips. He put his hand between her legs and she pulled away before she could catch herself. “What’s wrong, my Zahra?” Qadir breathed.

She only shook her head. It was a physical reaction. Involuntary. She wouldn’t let it happen again.

His hands were insistent. He lay back, pulling her beneath the sheets with him, touching, stroking, first gently, then with urgency.

“Come on, Zahra,” he groaned. She bit her lip and tried to relax against him. It was so hard to acquiesce, to relinquish control. Few husbands, she knew, would have been as patient with her as Qadir had always been.

Soon he was pressing her down into the soft bed, his mouth on her breast, her neck, then, patience gone, fastened with hungry determination on her lips. He pulled her hips to his, and she turned her face up, into the pale moonlight shining past the gauze curtains at his window. Her hands lay slack beside her.

When, shuddering, Qadir finished, Zahra tasted sour bile in her mouth. She swallowed and turned her head away, fearful she would be sick. He was breathing hard, close to her ear. He murmured an endearment. But it was Lili’s voice she heard, Lili’s words:

Just another leg of the journey, little sister . . . another leg of the journey.