Ironically, it was this very lack of independent action that had gotten him selected for this mission. The government liked that he was a known and reliable entity. But others had urged him to apply. Then, having been chosen, the rest had also been well-marked and easy paths. Learn the language, study what little was known on Terra about Kindred culture, follow the leadership of Ambassador Gonzalez. It seemed to Salah that the last independent decision he had made, the last self-chosen action, had been Aisha, twenty-five years ago.
And look how that had turned out.
Bile rose in his gorge, and he turned to vomit into the metal bucket by his platform bed.
Austin woke in the middle of the night and bolted upright on his sleeping mat. He had the best idea of his life!
All around him, his lahk slept, each person in his own tiny private room: Isabelle-kal, Austin’s mother, Steven-kal and Joshua-kal, who both were leaving tomorrow for their manufacturies. Noah was not here; he’d gone to Llaa^moh¡’s lahk but would be back tomorrow.
The velvety darkness smelled of spicy pika¡ in the garden below. A white moth—that’s what his mother called them—beat its wings against the screen in Austin’s window. The moth almost got through; the threads of the screen needed tightening again. Austin was supposed to do that tomorrow, as well as harvest culab. And turn the compost heap and bring a lot of stuff to Isabelle’s studio for her sculptures. Well, he had more important things to do than lahk chores!
Tony needed a biologist. He had planned on Llaa^moh¡ because she knew the most about the spores. But now there were new Terran doctors on World! Tony didn’t know that because the radio hadn’t described what the Terrans did, but Austin knew. And all three doctors lay sick and helpless in the clinic. One would not be hard to kidnap.
Although there were soldiers here, too, with guns. Austin tasted both unfamiliar words on his tongue: Soldiers. Guns. Of course, Kindred had police, but they weren’t really soldiers, and they didn’t carry guns, only tanglefoam and water cannons and tasers. Still, the soldiers were sick and helpless, too, getting their insides changed so they could live on World.
Which doctor? Not Marianne Jenner. Too old, and she would probably be lahk mother when she got well again. (Would Isabelle mind not being mother anymore? Austin didn’t know, but it was clear that the new Terrans belonged to this lahk and that Marianne-kal was the oldest woman.) So: Salah Bourgiba or the pretty little woman with the dark skin, Claire Patel. She might be easiest to kidnap, but Tony would decide that.
But it was Austin who’d had the idea! He lay back down on his mat, enormously pleased with himself.
Above him, the white moth squeezed through the sagging window screen and flapped around the room, trying to get out again.
CHAPTER 7
Isabelle stood with Llaa^moh¡ in the lobby of the clinic when a Ranger, Leo Somebody, walked shakily in. No, not a Ranger, his uniform had lacked the Ranger tab; this was the Army sniper somehow attached to Lieutenant Lamont’s unit. He had recovered faster than everybody else. Barefoot, Leo wore only a clinic shift, in which his muscular body looked ridiculous. “I greet you,” she said.
“Hi. Ms. Rhinehart—”
“Isabelle is fine.”
“Isabelle, where are my unit’s weapons? I checked on the lieutenant and the three others and they’re still really sick and don’t know much. Where are the weapons?”
“This is Noah’s wife, Llaa^moh¡. Private… uh, Leo.”
“I greet you, Leo.”
“Hi. The weapons?”
“Locked up,” Isabelle said, and stood. This was going to be a confrontation.
“Unlock them.” Leo’s eyes were cold.
“I don’t have the authority to do that.”
“Who does?”
“The Mother of… of this governmental region ordered it. We don’t have weapons, Leo. Not on Kindred.”
“I do. Send for this mother person. Or whoever is in charge of your army.”
“We don’t have an army, either.”
He stared at her. Isabelle wasn’t frightened of him, but the steady gaze from those blue eyes was disconcerting. She said, “If you’ll excuse us, we’re busy. And you should probably be back in bed.”
To her surprise, he left. Llaa^moh¡, who had some English but not much since Noah preferred to talk in World, said, “What did the soldier say?”
“He wants their weapons back.”
“He may not have them.”
“No.”
They bent again over the table. On it stood Marianne Jenner’s laptop. Before Marianne’s fecal transplant, she’d told Isabelle that she had downloaded pertinent data onto it from dee-bees on the Friendship. Isabelle hadn’t seen a computer for years. The previous expedition to Earth had brought back several, but had not succeeded in manufacturing them. Not only too complex, but also too far beyond the level of technology permitted on World. Isabelle understood how necessary that level was; World had only one continent, rich but limited in size. Worlders could not afford to exploit resources beyond sustainability. Everyone knew this, since it made a large section of schooling for the young, part of bu^ka^tel. Above all, respect and care for Mother World. Control population. Mine with care. Hand-make whatever did not require a manufactury. Even the transistors that Steve and Josh made, the transistors that earned the entire lahk its living, had taken two years to be approved.
The computers from the original expedition had been usable as stand-alones, once the voltages of World electricity had been adjusted. So had the gene sequencer and other equipment brought from Earth. But over time, the equipment had broken. Some had been repaired, but for the computers, no sophisticated parts were available, or could be made. As much vital data as possible had been printed, which mostly meant data on spores and on the progress made toward a vaccine before the original expedition had been forced to leave Terra hours ahead of the spore cloud. The data had not been enough. No vaccine.
But this was new data, on a new computer. Isabelle didn’t know how to adapt it to World voltage; that might have been done in the destroyed capital. For now, the laptop was running on its limited battery. Isabelle translated the files Marianne had marked from English into World, and Llaa^moh¡ recorded the data. Most of the time, Isabelle didn’t know what the medical words meant, or what their equivalent would be in World, but Llaa^moh¡ was a scientist capable of making accurate guesses, and they were doing the best they could until Marianne recovered. The spore cloud would be here in another ten weeks, and the biologist and two doctors all lay in bed with fever and vomiting and diarrhea.
“Turn on the radio,” Llaa^moh¡ said.
Isabelle did, and for a few moments they both listened. No new attacks anywhere. Llaa^moh¡ was, of course, worried about her daughter.
Isabelle said, “I think the first reports were right. That Russian ship went back to Terra.”
“They came all this way just to kill us!”
Isabelle looked away from the anguish in Llaa^moh¡’s dark eyes. Llaa^moh¡ didn’t understand, of course she didn’t. There were no wars on cooperative World, only the occasional murder over money or sex or just pure human craziness—and not very many of those. Nationality and patriotism, with its large-scale us–them duality, was unknown when there was only “us.”