Pawn's Gambit: And Other Stratagems

by Timothy Zahn

  She knew she would never know.

  Behind the Dawnsent, the star receded toward negative infinity, its light red-shifted to invisibility. With mixed feelings Orofan watched its shrinking image on the screen. Beside him, Pliij looked up from the helmboard. “We’re all set, Shipmaster. The deviation’s been calculated; we can correct course anytime in the next hundred aarns.” He paused, and in a more personal tone said, “You did what was necessary, Orofan. Your honor is unblemished.”

  Orofan signed agreement, but it was an automatic gesture. The assault gun, he noticed, was still in his tentacle, and he slipped it back into its sheath.

  A tentacle touched his. “Pliij is right,” Lassarr said gently. “Whatever craft that was, its inhabitants had almost certainly been killed by our scoop before we detected it. You could have done nothing to help them. Refusing to accept the ship’s mass at that point would have been dishonorable. You did well; your decisions and judgments have been proved correct.”

  “I know,” Orofan sighed. It was true; fate had combined with his decisions to save the system from destruction without adding appreciable time to the Dawnsent’s own journey. He should be satisfied.

  And yet … the analyzers reported significant numbers of silicon, carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, and nitrogen atoms among the metals of the spacecraft the Dawnsent had unintentionally run down. Which of those atoms had once belonged to living creatures? … And how many of those beings had died so that the Sk’cee might reach their new home?

  He knew he would never know.

  The Giftie Gie Us

  The sun was barely up as I left the cabin that morning, but it was already promising to be a beautiful day. Some freak of nature had blown away the usual cloud cover and was treating the world—or at least the middle Appalachians—to an absolutely clear blue sky, the first I’d seen in months. I admired the sky and the budding April greenery around me as I made my way down the wooded slope, long practice enabling me to avoid trees and other obstructions with minimal effort. It was finally spring, I decided, smiling my half-smile at the blazing sun which was already starting to drive the chill from the morning air. Had it not been for the oppressive silence in the forest, it would almost be possible to convince myself that the Last War had been only a bad dream. But the absence of birds, which for some reason had been particularly hard hit by the Soviet nuke bac barrage, was a continual reminder to me. I had hoped that, by now, nearly five years after the holocaust, they would have made a comeback. Clearly, they had not, and I could only hope that enough had survived the missiles to eventually repopulate the continent. Somehow, it seemed the height of injustice for birds to die in a war over oil.

  The sun was barely up as I left the cabin that morning, but it was already promising to be a beautiful day. Some freak of nature had blown away the usual cloud cover and was treating the world—or at least the middle Appalachians—to an absolutely clear blue sky, the first I’d seen in months. I admired the sky and the budding April greenery around me as I made my way down the wooded slope, long practice enabling me to avoid trees and other obstructions with minimal effort. It was finally spring, I decided, smiling my half-smile at the blazing sun which was already starting to drive the chill from the morning air. Had it not been for the oppressive silence in the forest, it would almost be possible to convince myself that the Last War had been only a bad dream. But the absence of birds, which for some reason had been particularly hard hit by the Soviet nuke bac barrage, was a continual reminder to me. I had hoped that, by now, nearly five years after the holocaust, they would have made a comeback. Clearly, they had not, and I could only hope that enough had survived the missiles to eventually repopulate the continent. Somehow, it seemed the height of injustice for birds to die in a war over oil.

  I had reached the weed-overgrown gravel road that lay southwest of my cabin and had started to cross it when a bit of color caught my eye. About fifty yards down the road, off to the side, was something that looked like a pile of old laundry. But I knew better; no one threw away clothes these days. Almost undoubtedly it was a body.

  I regarded it, feeling my jaw tightening. I’d looked at far too many bodies in my lifetime, and my natural impulse was to continue across the road and forget what I’d seen. But someone had to check this out—find out whether it was a stranger or someone local, find out whether it had been a natural death or otherwise—and that someone might just as well be me. Aside from anything else, if there was a murderer running around loose, I wanted to know about it. I took a step toward the form, and as I did so my foot hit a small pile of gravel, scattering it noisily.

  The “body” twitched and sat up abruptly, and I suddenly found myself looking at a strikingly lovely woman wrapped up to her chin in a blanket. “Who’s there?” she called timidly, staring in my direction.

  I froze in panic, waiting for her inevitable reaction to my face, and silently cursed myself for being so careless. It was far too late to run or even turn my head; she was looking straight at me.

  But the expected look of horror never materialized. “Who’s there?” she repeated, and only then did I notice that her gaze was actually a little to my right. Then I understood.

  She was blind.

  It says a lot for my sense of priorities that my first reaction was one of relief that she couldn’t see me. Only then did it occur to me how cruelly rough postwar life must be for her with such a handicap. “It’s all right,” I called out, starting forward again. “I won’t hurt you.”

  She turned slightly so that she was facing me—keying on my voice and footsteps, I presume—and waited until I had reached her before speaking again. “Can you tell me where I am? I’m trying to find a town called Hemlock.”

  “You’ve got another five miles to go,” I told her. Up close, she wasn’t as beautiful as I’d first thought. Her nose was a little too long and her face too angular; her figure—what I could see of it beneath the blanket and mismatched clothing—was thin instead of slender. But she was still nice-looking, and I felt emotions stirring within me which I thought had died years ago.

  “Are there any doctors there?”

  “Only a vet, but he does reasonably well with people, too.” I frowned, studying the fatigue in her face, something I’d assumed was just from her journey. Now I wasn’t so sure. “Do you feel sick?”

  “A little, maybe. But I mostly need the doctor for a friend who’s up the road a few miles. We were traveling from Chilhowie and he came down with something.” A chill shook her body and she tightened her grip on the blanket.

  I touched her forehead. She felt a little warm. “What were his symptoms?”

  “Headache, fever, and a little nausea at first. That lasted about a day. Then his muscles started to hurt and he began to get dizzy spells. It wasn’t more than an hour before he couldn’t even stand up anymore. He told me to keep on going and see if I could find a doctor in Hemlock.”

  “When did you leave him?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. I walked most of the night, I think.”

  I nodded grimly. “I’m afraid your friend is probably dead by now. I’m sorry.”

  She looked stricken. “How do you know?”

  “It sounds like a variant of one of the bacterial diseases the Russians hit us with in the war. It’s kind of rare now, but it’s still possible to catch it. And it works fast.”

  Her whole body seemed to sag, and she closed her eyes. “I have to be sure. You might be wrong.”

  “I’ll go and check on him after we get you settled,” I assured her. “Come on.”

  She let me help her to her feet, draping the blanket sari-style around her head and torso and retrieving the small satchel that seemed to be her only luggage. “Where are you taking me?”

  That was a very good question, come to think of it. She wasn’t going to make it to Hemlock without a lot more rest, and I sure wasn’t going to carry her there.
Besides, if she was carrying a Russian bug, I didn’t want her going into the town anyway. Theoretically, she could wipe the place out. That left me exactly one alternative. “My cabin.”

  “I see.”

  I had never realized that two words, spoken in such a neutral tone, could hold that much information. “It’s not what you think,” I assured her hastily, feeling an irrational urge to explain my motives. “If you’re contagious, I can’t let you go into town.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve already been exposed to you, so I’ve got nothing to lose. But I’m probably not in danger anyway—I’ve been immunized against a lot of these diseases.”

  “Very handy. How’d you manage it?”

  “I was in the second wave into Iran,” I explained, gently pulling her toward the slope leading to my cabin. She came passively. “They had us pretty well doped up against the stuff the Russians had hit the first wave with.”

  We reached the edge of the road and started up. “Is it uphill all the way?” she asked tiredly.

  “It’s only a quarter mile,” I told her. “You can make it.”

  We did, but just barely, and I had to half-carry her the last few yards. I put her on the old couch in the living room and then went and got the medical kit I’d taken when I cleared out of Atlanta just hours before the missiles started falling. She had a slight fever and a rapid pulse, but I couldn’t tell whether or not that was from our climb. But if she’d really been exposed to one of those Sidewinder strains, I couldn’t take any chances, so I gave her one of my last few broad-spectrum pills and told her to get some rest. She was obviously more fatigued than I’d realized, and was asleep almost before the pill reached her stomach.

  I covered her with her blanket and then stood there looking at her for a moment, wondering why I was doing all this. I had long ago made the decision to isolate myself as much as possible from what was left of humanity, and up till now I’d done a pretty good job of it. I wasn’t about to change that policy, either. This was only a temporary aberration, I told myself firmly; get her well and then send her to Hemlock where she could get a job. Picking up the medical kit, I went quietly out.

  It was late afternoon when I returned with the single rabbit my assorted snares had caught. The girl was still asleep, but as I passed her on my way to the kitchen she stirred. “Hello?”

  “Its just me,” I called back to her. I tossed the rabbit on the kitchen counter and returned through the swinging door to the living room. “How do you feel?”

  “Very tired,” she said. “I woke up a couple of times while you were gone, but fell asleep again.”

  “Any muscle aches or dizziness?”

  “My leg muscles hurt some, but that’s not surprising. Nothing else feels bad.” She sat up and shook her head experimentally. “I’m not dizzy, either.”

  “Good. The tiredness is just a side effect of the medicine I gave you.” I sat down next to her, glad to get off my feet. “I think that you’re going to be all right.”

  She inhaled sharply. “Don! I almost forgot—did you get to him in time?”

  I shook my head, forgetting how useless that gesture was. “I’m sorry. He was already dead when I found him. I buried him at the side of the road.”

  Her sightless eyes closed, and a tear welled up under each eyelid. I wanted to put my arm around her and comfort her, but a part of me was still too nervous to try that. So I contented myself with resting my hand gently on her arm. “Was he your husband?” I asked after a moment.

  She sniffed and shook her head. “He’d been my friend for the last three years. Sort of a protector and employer. I’ll miss him.” She swallowed and took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll be okay. Can I help you with anything?”

  “No. All I want you to do right now is rest. I’ll get dinner ready—I hope you like rabbit. Uh, by the way, my name’s Neil Cameron.”

  “I’m Heather Davis.”

  “Nice to meet you. Look, why don’t you lie down again. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

  Supper was a short, quiet affair. Heather was too groggy and depressed to say or eat much, and I was far too out of practice at dinner conversation to make up for it. So we ate roast rabbit and a couple of carrots from last summer’s crop, and then, as the sun disappeared behind the Appalachians, I led her to my bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed, a puzzled and wary look on her face, as I rummaged in my footlocker for another blanket. “You’ll be more comfortable here,” I told her.

  “I don’t mind the couch,” she murmured in that neutral tone she’d used on me before.

  “I insist.” I found the blanket and turned to face her. She was still sitting on the bed, her hands exploring the size and feel of the queen-size mattress. There was plenty of room there for two, and for a moment I was tempted. Instead, I took a step toward the door. “I’ve got another hour’s worth of work to do,” I said. “Uh, the bathrooms out the door to the left—the faucets and toilet work, but easy on the water and don’t flush unless it’s necessary. If you need me tonight, just call. I’ll be on the couch.”

  Her face was lifted toward mine, and for a second I had the weird feeling she was studying my face. An illusion, of course. But whatever she heard in my voice apparently satisfied her, because she nodded wearily and climbed under the blanket.

  Leaving the bedroom door open so I could hear her, I headed for the kitchen, tossing my blanket onto the couch as I passed it. I lit a candle against the growing darkness and, using the water from the solar-heated tank sparingly, I began to clean up the dinner dishes. And as I worked, not surprisingly, I thought about Heather Davis.

  All the standard questions went through my mind—who was she, where did she come from, how had she survived for five years—but none of them was really uppermost in my mind. Five years of primitive hardship and self-imposed solitude should have pretty well wiped out my sex urge, or so I would have thought. But it was all coming back in a rush, and as my lust grew my thoughts became increasingly turbulent. I knew she would accept me into her bed—if not willingly, at least passively. In her position, she couldn’t risk refusing me. Besides, I’d given her food and shelter and maybe saved her life. She owed me.

  And then I glanced up, and all the passion left me like someone had pulled a plug. Reflecting dimly back at me from the kitchen window, framed by the bars I’d installed for security, was my face. I’d lived with it for over five years now, ever since the Soviet nerve gas barrage near Abadan that had somehow seeped through my mask, but it still made me shudder. The reactions of other people were even worse, ranging from wide-eyed stares to gasps of horror, the latter especially common among women and children. Frozen by some trick of the gas into a tortured grimace, the left side of my face looked more like a fright mask than like anything human; the right side, normal except for three parallel scars from a mortar fragment, only made the other half look worse. My hair and beard followed the same pattern: a normal chestnut brown on the right, pure white on the left. And if all that weren’t enough, there was my left eye; mobile and still with perfect vision, it had turned from brown to a pale yellow, and sometimes seemed to glow in the dark.

  I stared at my reflection for a long minute before returning to my work. No, I couldn’t take advantage of Heather’s blindness that way. It would be unfair of me to go to bed with her when she couldn’t tell how horrible I looked. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was aware that this was the same argument, in reverse, that I used to avoid approaching any of the sighted girls in Hemlock, but that was irrelevant. The discussion was closed.

  I finished the dishes in a subdued frame of mind and then headed toward the front door. As I reached it, I heard a muffled sound from the bedroom and tiptoed in to investigate.

  Curled into a fetal position under the blanket, her back to the door, Heather was crying. I stood irresolutely for a moment, then went in and sat
down by her on the bed. She flinched as I touched her shoulder. “It’s all right,” I whispered to her. “You’re safe now. It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.”

  Eventually, the sobs ceased and the tenseness went out of her body, and a few minutes later the rhythm of her breathing changed as she fell asleep. Careful not to wake her, I got up and went back to the doorway. There I stopped and looked at her for a moment, ashamed of my earlier thoughts. Heather wasn’t just a warm female body put here for my amusement. She was another human being, and whether she stayed here an hour or a week she was entitled to courtesy and respect. It was the least I could do for her in the face of the barbarism out there. For that matter, it was the least I could do for me. There were enough savages in the world today; I had no desire to add to their number.

  I closed the bedroom door halfway as a gesture to her privacy and went to finish my chores.

  I stayed close to the cabin for the next couple of days, tending my garden and doing needed repairs and odd jobs. Heather’s fever disappeared, and she recovered quickly from the effects of her journey and the medicine I’d given her. By the third morning after her arrival, I felt it was safe to leave her and go check on my snares. They were empty; but after a few hours of hunting with my bow and arrows I bagged a small squirrel, so at least we wouldn’t go hungry. I swung by my “refrigerator” to pick up some vegetables and then returned to the cabin. Once there, I went straight to the bedroom to check on Heather.

  She was gone.

  I stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. The damn girl had cleared out, sure enough—and probably helped herself to everything she could get her hands on. I’d been a naïve fool to leave her here alone. “Heather!” I barked, the name tasting like a curse.