by Eric Flint
"Or he could be straight up, and we could save millions of lives. Ed, I know the hurry looks suspicious, but I understand it. Time costs lives, a lot of them."
Father Kircher cleared his throat. "I agree. While I cannot speak for the father general, I do know that your people and ours share many goals, and I truly believe that if these seeds are to be used in this manner, this beneficence, then it will not divide us. But the risk is serious, and we must be certain. The goals of the long term take precedence."
"As they just did in South America?"
"I have given this some thought, Doctor. From the account, and reports I have seen, the upriver missions in Uruguay have become impossible to defend against slaving raids. In your time, support was given by the king of Portugal that helped to drive off the attacks, make the region safe for more than a century. Here, it will not be given."
"You could have tried," said Nichols.
"We did." Kircher smiled slightly at Nichols' surprise, and turned to the governor. "The will was the same as in your time, although with 'foresight' we moved a little faster . . . King Philip—or, more to the point, the conde de Olivares who 'advises' him—has refused any aid to a society that follows the laws of communism. He has read of this monstrous force of history, and it terrifies him." Kircher met Nichols' eye. "In your time, it was Father Montoya himself who made the successful appeal as procurator to Philip, some years from now. It would be a terrible irony if his own choice to leave the Company has deprived it of such a convincing voice."
"Never mind that. From the sound of it, nobody could persuade him. Was he really that frightened?"
"Every ruler is frightened, James," said Piazza. "But if they lose to us, they retire. If they lose to revolution, they'll get hanged. Or worse. Our histories are their horror stories . . . Father, since you can't get support, what is the Company's intention?"
"If we continue to develop the upriver missions," said Kircher relentlessly, "we will only stock the larder for hungry slave-raiders, by bringing together many Guarani where they may easily be attacked. And God is patient. We must be so as well. If, instead, we make efforts to resist the slave trade from outside—perhaps, in time, with Philip's help, and with that of the USE—we can do far more good in the long term." He folded his hands. "Father Montoya became too entangled in his own situation to understand this larger need."
"I can understand his take on it," rasped Nichols. "Look. I'm not a Jesuit either, and I don't care shit for politics. This is a way to fight disease, and I will be damned if I don't make use—"
Governor Piazza lifted a hand. "Okay, hold it. Didn't one private expedition already go off to another continent last year, looking for rubber and pitching malaria treatments on the side?"
Nichols blew out a hard breath. "Dieter was carrying artemisia. Different drug, different cultivation, different economics—if artemisinin production gears up here, it's not likely people in Africa can afford it, just like in our time. If we had an opportunity to make another cheap antibiotic, would you tell me to just be happy with chloramphenicol?"
"It works," said Pizza neutrally.
"Until something becomes resistant to it, yes. Monocultures are vulnerable. Ask Willie Ray."
Piazza nodded. Willie Ray had been a small farmer through much of the twentieth century—which meant that he'd lost a biological war that Cargill and Monsanto Inc. had won. "Point taken. But that bunch also gave us time to think it over properly. Ten days? I'm responsible to my council; there's no secret budget I can tap. Mike could, or Rebecca, but they're not here."
"No black funds. Huh. Kind of ironic." Nichols tried to match Piazza's coolness. "There's a lot at stake here. You've heard me rant on epidemics before, but this could be a big, big leverage against slavery in the New World—more than making nice with kings and counts. A lethal place means you send disposable people there—it's not cruelty, just, just fucking economics. Hell, we've got German people poor and desperate enough to emigrate to the West Indies and cut sugar cane for pay—if it's not a death sentence."
"I understand Mike's position on the slave trade very well," said Piazza. "It's already under way, but the big numbers aren't happening yet, and we can't project power very far. Yet. When we're ready, we are going to destroy it, though—no question. There aren't many things we could feel good about exterminating, but this is one . . . And I hardly need to ask your position, James."
"Ah. Well. It's not really that simple, for me."
Piazza showed actual surprise. "How can you say that?"
"I'm a complicated man, Ed. Y'know, like Shaft." Nichols grinned emptily as he finally hit a cultural reference that Father Kircher drew a blank upon. "I hate disease. I hate pain and suffering and what human beings do to each other when they're allowed to own people. But who I am, what I am, it isn't going to happen anymore. I'm so glad, some ways, thinking that Sharon will grow up where people who look like us don't get shot forty-one times reaching for our wallets . . . but part of what America was came from Africa. Good parts. Mbandi won't be the first black Jesuit, but an American would've been. Blood typing. Heh—blood, all right. One hell of a lot of Purple Hearts, from Fort Wagner to the Gulf. It meant something.
"The whole civil rights struggle that made Melissa what she is—King, Malcolm X. Won't happen. Sojourner Truth won't happen. Gospel. Jazz. Half the music of the twentieth century won't. Who's gonna inspire Elvis, for God's sake?"
"I could live without rap," offered Piazza.
"Don't dis yo' timeline . . . Hell, even the language won't be the same. We'll all sound like ruddy Englishmen or something." Nichols sobered. "It gets worse. Look where they sent me as a Marine. Like you said, soon we can 'project power.' I got projected into Khe Sanh because we had a medical corps that could keep me from catching the galloping crud. Everyone'll get quinine in a while, and learn how to dig latrines properly. English redcoats in India? Richelieu's musketeers in China? The world won't play nice because we tell it to."
"I understand. But we may not always play nice ourselves. My apologies, Father, if I speak a little bluntly here?" Kircher nodded. "Well, this gift of seeds is . . . Generous isn't the word. It could be worth, what, billions in the long run. And Montoya may be a defecting Jesuit, but he's still thinking like one. That's one hell of a bribe, James, and if I take it, that will oblige Mike to honor it when he gets back—oblige the USE to do something, and you bet Montoya knows it. And that's a long way off to send anyone to do something, not just up some river in Europe . . .
"I'm an honest politician—have to stay bribed. I need to know, James, I need your final word on this."
Nichols swallowed. "How soon?"
"Can you get any information over the next ten days that you don't already have?"
". . . No."
"Then very soon."
"I am sorry that he will not speak to me," said Father Kircher as he wrapped his cloak against the outside chill. "I suppose it is best if I do not accompany you back. You do understand, Doctor—the seeds are yours to make use of."
Nichols huffed out a cloud of breath. "You're sure of that?"
"I am certain of it. Are you certain of what to do with them?"
Kircher's eyes were mild, but it was an effort to meet them, and too great an effort to lie. "No."
"I believe you know your heart in the matter, though."
"I don't practice medicine with my heart, Father. There's no room for that. But to lose a year . . ." He trailed off, looking down the street at a running figure. It waved jerkily.
"Herr Doctor!"
"And to think I was about to run into her arms," murmured Kircher; then he stiffened. "Something is wrong."
Margritte all but staggered up to them. "Herr Doctor, the traveler! He is sick, he is very sick! You must come!"
"Shit." Nichols looked around, but no one was nearby enough to overhear. "Come on, and keep your voice down. Could—"
Father Kircher touched his arm, halting him. "I will come, if I may."
"James!"
He turned. Piazza stood in the doorway. "Don't run. People will see you."
"Ah. Right. Thanks, Ed—I'll call you when I find out what's going on."
Colder now than the air could make him, Nichols marched stiffly back to his house with Kircher and Margritte a step behind, nodding at the few passers-by; waved the others in, slammed the door.
"In here!" cried Margritte from the study. The atlas lay splayed on the desk; Mbandi sprawled in the armchair by the fire, shivering violently enough to see from across the room.
Nichols examined him with hasty care; dry skin, obvious chills. "He has not been sick of the stomach?"
"No, Herr Doctor."
Pulse fast and thready. No blue tinge under the fingernails—Wait. "You said you were ill in Lisbon. On the journey. You were ill again two weeks after that, weren't you?'
Mbandi nodded through the shivering. "It began this way, as well. The cold, such cold—then the heat. Dry, then wet."
Nichols counted backward for incubation. "About a month to cross the Atlantic . . . Buenos Aires, then. You were infected there by an insect bite, a mosquito. God damn it, you already have malaria!"
He choked off self-directed anger at missing the signs. The hell with thousand-yard stares; he'd not noticed the jaundiced yellow of the eyes themselves. "We cannot bring you to Leahy Center. They will see a strange man with a disease, and . . ." Belatedly realizing something, he turned.
Margritte had flattened herself against the wall, her face slumped white with shock. "Malaria," she said. "The air-fever, Jesus God in Heaven. I touched him, I touched his belongings."
Father Kircher gestured toward her. "Calm yourself—"
Nichols overrode him. "Margritte, listen. Listen, please! You have nothing to fear. This disease only moves from one person to another by the, ah, the bite of an insect that cannot live in cold air, or in clothing. It cannot hurt you. Look." He reached and took a fistful of coarse brown robe, gripped it—tried not to think of typhus, or another parasite that any traveler might really be carrying. "He is badly sick, but he cannot make you sick, or anyone else. I promise you this." He stared at Margritte, holding her gaze.
"Very well, Herr Doctor." Margritte straightened, swallowed hard, then nodded. "If you say it is safe, then I know it is so."
Nichols glanced back to Kircher. The Jesuit met his eye, tilted his own head silently. Nichols could read the gesture easily enough: Yes, the reputation works.
"Good," he said absently. "Then you may care for him, here, to help me. Please put at least two pots of water on to boil . . . Father, if you could drag that couch over here." Don't need to quarantine Mbandi, but we sure-hell need to quarantine any gossip.
"Herr Doctor?" said Margritte on a rising note; but she smoothed her dress and strode into the hallway, only slightly veering her step around the traveler; the patient, now. Once her shock wore off and Margritte reclassified him as such, she'd be safe to return to her desk and its telephone.
"Is that necessary?" asked Kircher quietly as he crossed the room.
"No. It never is. Although usually it is the men who need to be kept occupied . . ." He turned to the traveler beside him. "We will make for you in comfort here, until you are again well. Do not be afraid. I do not have any way to treat the malaria itself, but there are powerful medicines to cool your fever, and we can give you water through a small tube, to . . . what is it?"
He followed Mbandi's eyes to the satchel on his desk. "Oh, no. That is not tested—"
"It is my only test left," hissed Mbandi through chattering teeth. "My only proof. No letters, no sig—signet ring, no Father Gustav to, to, to speak for me. Let this speak for me, then. It is the true cinchona roja; it will cure me."
"But if you are wrong, and I do not treat you as I should with my medicines, you could die." Falciparium, by the recurrence period. Twenty percent mortality in healthy adults, let alone in him. Jesus.
"All men die." Mbandi's eyes clenched shut. "Father Gustav will die, in my place, because Father Montoya sent me away instead. I know this. I cannot fail him."
"I took an oath . . ." whispered Nichols. Furniture groaned over the floor behind him, almost silencing his voice.
"All the fathers took oath as well. To the pope himself, in person, to obey his word. Those who saw what must be done, t-they broke it. I ask you, break yours this one time. Let me prove myself and my task. Please."
Nichols rose slowly, walked to his desk. He looked from the telephone to the satchel, and back; from the twentieth century to the seventeenth, aspirin and IVs to unknown quinine. The atlas was crumpled across Central Africa, he saw as he picked it up; sighed, and slammed it shut.
"Help me get him on the couch," he rasped to Kircher. "Then we need to grind up a handful of this bark he has brought, and make an infusion."
The dry chills lasted for five hours; the first infusion, cautiously gauged at thirty grains of an unknown powder's strength, did nothing. As the windows darkened, Mbandi's shudders faded to lassitude—and his temperature began to rise.
"I don't know how long this crap takes to work," muttered Nichols, as Father Kircher poured another cup infused from sixty grains. "Or if it works at all." He slipped the thermometer from Mbandi's slack jaws. "One-oh-three and a bit. God damn it . . ."
"Keep trying," mumbled the traveler. His skin was as glossy and hot as a kettle. "Remember, I have lived through this before."
"Yes, and each time it's been tearing up your liver." Nichols had to steady his head as he drank. He'd doused the study lights long before; firelight and lamplight were gentler.
Two more hours. One-oh-four. Nichols picked up the phone, gripped it tightly; set it down. "Everything I do does harm," he muttered. "Always did. Come on, you fucking lunatic, you better be right or I'll kill you myself."
One-oh-five, and Mbandi began to babble snatches of words, his eyes no longer tracking. German. "Loreto, it's fallen." Spanish. "Paulista, este non hombre—este perro." Fragments of African dialects. His hands fretted at the blanket's edges, as though they could piece the words into sense. Sometimes, when he glimpsed Nichols' face above his own, he cried out in joy, spoke rapid tongues that sounded a continent away. "Malanje—"
Still the fever did not break. For another hour, Nichols sat slump-armed in the armchair, listening to garbled pain and joy and history. Is this how they saw us, these glimpses? Prester John's balloon, all right. But the fever did not break, did not break . . .
"A hundred and twenty grains, Father. This is the last try."
Kircher's thick fingers rasped the bark into powder, timeless in the firelight; steeped it into a glass of hot water. "It is no easy thing to clash with an oath, for some men," he said as the red tinge spread through the liquid. "I still believe—aside from my duty—that Father-Provincial Montoya was wrong in his choice. But I would not wish to have been in his place."
"Do you think I'm breaking mine? Because I'm afraid to decide?"
"I think," said Kircher slowly, "that man is making a very brave choice, and you are the instrument of it . . . and this too requires courage. You will know soon enough. Come, this is ready, is it not?"
Mbandi focused long enough to gulp the liquid, sighed "Cinchona roja, Mamani," and closed his eyes in sunken sockets.
Old in the ways of healing, Nichols took a meal in the kitchen, exchanged quiet words with an equally tired Kircher, and rested a while. He'd matched his strength against disease before, knew to husband it. In a weary predawn hour, he walked back into the dimness, the frail form on the couch; cradled the fire-hot head for the thermometer's test.
One-oh-three.
"Well," said Nichols softly. Beside him, Father Kircher murmured something—not English, not German, but Latin. He laid his own hand upon Mbandi's forehead a moment, and withdrew it. "Go, then," he said more strongly in German. "And may God go with you."
H
e turned away without another word.
Mbandi's eyes flickered, opened, fixed on Nichols' own. "Malungu. Kamerade," he said in a slur of German and—Kimbundu, was it? "Malungu, there is for us, no home behind. Only ahead. Seeds, across oceans. Malungu seeds."
Thin new-fallen snow crackled under Nichols' steps, frozen grass beneath. The knife-edged arc of the Ring of Fire had eroded to a gentle slope here, a good walk southeast of Grantville, a displaced circle knitting slowly with its surroundings. He looked back over fallow fields and thought of hoof prints leading west, toward Lisbon and a long voyage south. "Do you think it'll work?" he asked.
