The Alton Gift

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Where did you get it?” Her hand reached for the bottle with a will of its own. She snatched it back.

  He set the bottle down on the work surface. “Never mind where I got it. I’m here to help.”

  Help? What could he possibly do except get in the way? If Francisco were still alive, she would suspect this offer was some nefarious scheme of his. No, not even Francisco at his most devious would think to bribe her with coffee!

  Jeram drew up a second chair beside Marguerida’s. For the first time, she realized what an interesting face he had. It was not a simple face, but it was a strangely attractive one, with guarded eyes, strong bones, and a small triangular scar over one cheek. Under other circumstances, she would have wanted him as a friend.

  “I am here with the knowledge and permission of the Acting Regent of the Comyn and your own father,” he said, looking at her with a disconcerting directness. “People are dying out there—in the city, in the encampment. People I care about, and I assume you do, too. This thing is bigger than either of us. Separately, I do not believe we have a chance to stop it.”

  Marguerida thought of Marilla, pale and utterly still when they laid her out. The two women had not been close, but she had known Marilla since her first year on Darkover. When Marguerida had fallen ill from threshold sickness on the trail, Marilla had offered her hospitality. There, in Marilla’s house, Marguerida had first set eyes upon Mikhail. With Marilla’s passing, she lost not only a fellow Comynara but yet another tie to the man she loved.

  “I do not see what you can do,” she said. “Katherine and I are both knowledgeable about computers. We’ve combed the files and found nothing of any use.”

  “You could look from now until doomsday, and still you won’t find it,” Jeram said. “You are looking in the wrong place.”

  “Good heavens!” Marguerida’s chin jerked upward. “Is there another, independent database? How can that be? You’re supposed to be able to access everything from Medical.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find information on trailmen’s fever, the vaccine, or even the expedition that brought back the immune serum, not in any unsecured system.” Jeram’s voice took on a new, steely edge.

  He got to his feet and held out one hand to her. “Come with me, and I’ll show you where we will find it.”

  Refusing his help, she got up. “And where is that?”

  “Military HQ. To be specific, the Bioweapons Archives.”

  “There,” Jeram said, pointing to screen. “That’s the virus the Allison team isolated.”

  Marguerida peered at the fuzzy electron-microscopic images and shivered. She was still in awe at the skill with which Jeram had maneuvered through the security systems of the military computers. It had not occurred to her that this system might be entirely independent of the civilian databases; she had had no idea it even existed.

  “So that’s what it looks like,” she murmured. “A twist of fluffy yarn. What now?”

  “See those codes?” he pointed to the side bar, where triplets of letters filled the space. “That’s the genetic sequencing. And here,” he tapped in a few instructions, and a different code appeared, “is the analysis of the protein coat. That determines, among other things, how the virus is transmitted, whether it can survive outside a host cell, and the severity of the illness it causes.”

  He shook his head. “This is one nasty bug. Normally, it’s mild, like the common cold, but tinker with the receptors here and here—” he pointed to the diagram, “and, wham! it goes virulent.”

  Marguerida stared at Jeram. In a surprisingly short time, he had located the records of the expedition and the manufacture of the vaccine, as well as the exhaustive analyses of the virus.

  “What next?” she asked.

  He raked his hair back from his forehead in a gesture that reminded her of Domenic when he was thinking hard. “The beauty of this organism is that we don’t need to vaccinate the entire population. The immune serum developed by the Allison team caused the fever virus to revert to its benign form. That will be our goal, too. The hard part will be making enough of it before we enter the terminal phase of its cycle.”

  At least, we’ve made a start, Marguerida thought. We have something to work with.

  “What equipment will you need?” Marguerida asked.

  “I can sequence the proteins from here, but to synthesize the serum in quantity, we’ll need a lab and some pretty sophisticated equipment. This place isn’t set up for anything that complex. I hope the facilities in Biochemistry are. I have to tell you, though, that my lab skills are seriously out of date. Is there anybody here with protein sequencing experience?”

  “You mean, anybody still on Darkover? I don’t think there ever was. I know a few dozen people who can read Terran Standard and operate a computer. I doubt any of them has so much as held a test tube.”

  He picked up the opened bottle of coffee, looked into its empty interior, and sniffed. “Then I’ll have to come up with more of the good stuff.”

  Marguerida’s curiosity finally got the better of her. “Where did you find it?”

  Jeram’s grin turned rakish, making him look years younger. “You’ve never been in Special Forces, have you? The first thing we do in a new port is to find a local source of coffee. Sometimes it’s less than legal, but my conscience is clear in this case. This coffee came from a fellow with the Pan-Darkovan League. He made a small fortune selling it to us. Once the Federation left, so did his customers. He’ll be thrilled to get the rest of his stock off his hands.”

  “Not as thrilled as I’ll be to help drink it!”

  Lew Alton rode out from Comyn Castle and through the gates of Thendara shortly after dawn the next day. Illona, looking pale but strong in the manner of Keepers, went with him. At Domenic’s insistence, a pair Guardsmen accompanied them. They carried packs of food, skins of clean water, and rolls of blankets as well as swords. The night had been mild, with only a light drizzle. Raindrops dotted every blade of grass along the road. The air was moist and rich, the sun warm as it burned off the damp.

  Already, men and beasts and carts filled with summer’s bounty—crates of fresh greens and root vegetables, bushels of summer-pears and early apples, sacks of nuts and flour—had begun entering the city.

  Beyond the gates, Lew nudged his horse off the main road and between the clusters of tents, past picketed chervines and cooking fires. The shanty encampment was larger and more orderly than he remembered. Crudely constructed sheds clustered around a rough dirt road leading to a pavilion cobbled together from smaller tents and blankets.

  “It’s Lord Alton and the vai leronis!” A cry went up.

  A handful of men came out to meet them. Lew recognized the black-haired youth who had challenged them on their return to Thendara.

  “We are here,” Lew said, “to do what we can for those who are already ill. Kindly lead us to them.”

  The youth’s face hardened. He stepped forward in an aggressive stance. “Liar and tyrant! Do you come to view our misery for your amusement? Or are you here to collect taxes for the air we breathe?”

  One of the other men grabbed the young man’s shoulder. “Don’t be a fool, Rannirl! Talk like that will get your right hand chopped off! Besides, your father’s beyond any medicine we have. His only hope is laran healing, and for that we need the good will of the leronis.”

  Face suddenly pale, Rannirl dropped to one knee. “I beg you, do not punish my father, who is old and sick, for the foolishness of his son. If there is anything—if only you can save him, then I will—I have nothing to give—”

  Lew swung down from his mount during the boy’s speech. He moved stiffly, for his joints did not bend easily this early in the morning. With a touch, he silenced the torrent of words and lifted Rannirl to his feet.

  “Whatever talents I have were not granted to me for my own glorification but for the benefit of others. So let us hear no more of this, but bring us speedily to him.”

  The c
entral pavilion had been set up as a hospital, with improvised pallets of straw and rough-spun sacking. Inside, three or four dozen beds were crammed together around narrow aisles, all of them occupied. Scattered coughs came from the men who lay there. Several Renunciates moved among them, pausing to speak with a patient here and there.

  Illona followed Rannirl down the aisles. Lew ordered the Guards to bring in the blankets, waterskins, and hampers of food. One of the Renunciates supervised their distribution.

  A short time later, Illona finished her examination and rejoined the two men. Her starstone hung unwrapped on its chain between her breasts. Blue fire sparkled within its crystalline depths as she tucked it under the neckline of her gray Tower robe. “Your father is indeed ill, but he is still strong. I have done what I can for him for the moment.”

  Lew refrained from mentioning that laran healing had not saved Marilla or that poor man at Nevarsin.

  “Your father’s name is Ulm,” Illona said to Rannirl. “Was he the one who went in search of our friend, Jeram of Nevarsin?”

  She had an exceptional memory for names, Lew thought. Whether this was due to her natural quick wit, early years performing memorized plays with the travelers, or her training as a Keeper, he did not know. The more he saw of her, the greater his appreciation for Domenic’s attachment to her. The two lovers had behaved with perfect propriety since returning to Thendara, but they could not disguise the depth of their longing for one another. Lew’s heart ached for them. He hoped matters would work out, that Alanna herself would come to see that her own best hope for happiness lay elsewhere.

  Rannirl looked surprised at Illona’s question. “The very same, to his cost if he contracted the fever in the city.”

  “It makes no more sense to blame city folk for carrying the disease than to blame those from the country,” Lew said.

  “It should ease your mind, as well as his, to know that by the order of the Acting Regent, Jeram is well and free among us,” Illona said. “Even now, he is using his Terran science to help find a cure.”

  “Truly?” Rannirl breathed. “Magic from the stars?”

  Illona bit her lip and simply nodded, for to common people, laran was magic as well.

  When Lew returned to the city, Illona stayed behind to work with the patients. In the Castle, Alanna was waiting in her usual place beside Lew’s fireplace. After settling him with a hot drink, she plied him with one question after another about conditions in the shanty camp.

  “Why, then,” she said when he had finished relating the events of the morning, “I must go down to those poor people, like Illona. I have no skill with a starstone, but surely, there is need for a willing nurse.”

  “Alanna, think carefully. There is no need for you to go, and the work will be difficult, the conditions stark.” Lew wondered whether he was right to oppose her wish. The girl had spoken from an earnest desire to do good. She would benefit from both hard work and a sense of usefulness.

  She faced him, a fierce light in her eyes. “How can I sit here, in ease and idleness, when I might be of use? Why should Illona have meaningful work and not me? Am I to pass my life like a plaything, some doll, fit only for displaying fine dresses?” She held up her hands, spreading her soft, perfectly manicured fingers. “Was I not given two good hands, like everyone else? Why should I not be allowed to use them?”

  “Calm yourself, child.” Lew could not resist smiling. “You have convinced me!”

  “And,” she said, with a last triumphant lift of her chin, “in the company of the Renunciate healers, no one can question whether it is proper for me to be there! Not even Auntie Marguerida could object!”

  The plague had changed everything. Domenic felt the shift in the ambient texture of laran throughout Comyn Castle, in the very air he breathed. He had been too young when Regis Hastur died to appreciate how irrevocably his world had shifted. Now he was older, a participant as well as witness. Now he knew the difference.

  He arrived early for a meeting of his advisory council in the Grand Hall that now functioned as the coordination center. A cold meal had been laid out on the tables along one side, nut-bread, cheese, and sliced roasted meat, with platters of buttery pastries and baskets of tawny Lowland peaches. Guardsmen, matrix mechanics, Renunciate healers, and crafters sat side by side, eating a quick meal and exchanging news.

  Whether we find a way to stop this thing or limp on, our ranks decimated and our society in disarray, things will never be the same.

  Marguerida walked through the arched doorway leading to the interior of the Castle, closely followed by Lew and Danilo. To Domenic, she appeared on the ragged edge of exhaustion. Shadows surrounded her golden eyes, and her lids were puffy from lack of sleep. Her skin had lost its glow, and her body seemed fragile rather than slender.

  Domenic found himself irrationally angry with her. How dare she go without sleep or food, as she so obviously had, when so much depended upon her?

  Marguerida flinched, clearly having caught his flash of emotion. She set her lips into a thin, defiant line, but Lew said to Domenic, “Let it be, chiyu, and do not add your own worry to her troubles.”

  “None of us has the right to render ourselves unfit,” Domenic said. “We belong not only to ourselves but to the people we are trying to save. If, through pride or simple carelessness, we push ourselves to collapse, how can we help them?”

  “Say no more on my behalf, Father,” Marguerida said. “Nico, you are right to chide me. Work can become an obsession, like anything else. I must remind myself that our problems will not be solved in a single sleepless night.”

  Before Domenic could say anything more, the last two members of his informal council, Donal and Danilo, arrived. When they had all supplied themselves with jaco and settled in their places around the table, Domenic asked each of them to report any progress.

  “Well, you want to know how we are getting on in the laboratory,” Marguerida said, “and the answer is, not nearly well enough. Jeram’s analyzed the viral DNA from the current fever and compared it to records of the old one.” She rubbed the fingers of one hand over her temple. “As we suspected, they’re not identical. We are definitely dealing with a new strain.”

  “So those who received the vaccine years ago have no immunity.” Danilo’s shoulders tensed, as if bracing for battle. He relaxed them forcibly, but his dark eyes lost none of their grim expression “That’s right,” she said. “And the worst of it is, we can’t use the antibodies in their blood, either. Jeram says there’s something in the enzyme receptor sites on the protein coat, or something like that, that make this one particularly tricky. So far, nothing he has tried has worked in a test tube. It could be months—years, even—before he hits on the right one.”

  “By then, there may not be anyone left to save,” Donal muttered.

  “Try to be a bit less hopeful, will you?” Marguerida said with unwonted sarcasm.

  “I’m only saying what we’re all thinking—” Donal gulped and lowered his gaze. “Forgive me, vai domna. I had no right to speak to you in such a manner.”

  “And I was unkind and impatient for my part,” she answered, more gently.

  “We’re all tired and frightened,” Domenic said. Or if we are not, we soon will be. “Let us not quarrel among ourselves. We have enemies enough.”

  “Yes,” Marguerida said with a tiny sigh, “several trillions of them.”

  Donal inclined his head in agreement.

  “Our best hope is to find someone who has survived this current strain,” Marguerida said, briskly returning to the topic, “and use the antibodies in his blood to create a new immune serum.”

  Domenic shivered inside. Donal had reason to be pessimistic, even though it was tactless to speak those fears aloud. The figures from the Medical Center had put the mortality rate at an extremely high percentage when the disease reached its final cycle. The numbers of the dead kept climbing as more of the sick succumbed.

  Marguerida wrapped her arms acr
oss her chest. Even without mental contact, Domenic knew what she was thinking, the heart-wrenching despair of watching those she loved slip away into darkness and being able to do nothing. In his mind, he saw her sitting at her husband’s bedside, Mikhail’s limp hand between hers, unshed tears glimmering in her eyes.

  All the powers I have, my skills, my training, the shadow matrix, and still I cannot save him…

  Another, darker, image rose up behind Domenic’s eyes, and it seemed that he walked alone through Thendara’s streets. Dusk had fallen, pooling like molten charcoal against the deserted buildings. Bodies the color of clay lay tumbled in doorways.

  Alanna’s vision…oh, gods, let it not come to that!

  BOOK IV

  36

  The funeral for Marilla Lindir-Aillard took place a few days later, when she was laid to rest in an unmarked grave beside the Lake of Hali. Domenic attended in his capacity as Acting Regent of the Comyn and Hastur, along with Kennard-Dyan and his two sons. Illona insisted on coming, too.

  “Although I never knew her, she was my grandmother and deserving of my respect,” Illona said, forestalling Domenic’s objections. “There are no Federation soldiers lying in ambush this time.”

  Marguerida and Lew had stayed behind in Thendara, continuing their search for a cure for the fever and dealing with the increasing numbers of its victims. Although she made no complaint, Domenic sensed that his mother would have liked to attend. The fever, and the fear it generated, shredded the very fabric of their society. Rituals like this funeral helped to bring them together.

  The traditional ceremony was brief, with each person sharing aloud a memory of the dead woman. Marilla had not been an easy person, or openly loving, and yet each mourner drew out something positive about her. Perhaps, Domenic thought, she was more beloved in remembrance than in life. It was a sad thing to think about anyone.

  Now whatever had tormented Marilla in life was over. She would lie in the earth, and the seasons would pass, snow and rain and flowers, each in its proper time.