Vale of Stars

by Sean O'Brien

  The living room clock chimed fourteen. All three adults turned to look at it. They were in timeslip now for the next eight minutes. New Earth’s day was twenty-eight hours and eight minutes long—the extra eight minutes were wedged between days, starting at midnight. For eight minutes, human time stood still.

  “She wasn’t altered,” Kuarta said softly.

  “You mean now you think it’s just a fluke or something?”

  “No, Dolen. She wasn’t altered. I was.”

  “What?”

  Kuarta sighed. “The retrovirus couldn’t have been tailored to affect the recipient—just the offspring. The gene was deposited in my DNA so that when I passed it on to my child, she would have the trait.”

  Jene nodded. “Yes. That makes sense.”

  Dolen looked from his wife to his mother-in-law. “Makes sense? Do you realize you are saying that the government purposefully did this so that Yallia would be a mutant? Why?”

  The women were not listening to him. “The only injection I can remember getting at the hands of the government was my initial battery of vaccines and booster shots when we first arrived.”

  “Yes. But we all got those,” Jene said. Her eyes widened. “Do you think…?”

  Dolen’s voice lowered in utter disbelief. “You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying. Now you think the government did this to every immigrant some twelve years ago?”

  “Twenty years ago,” Jene said. “Ship years, I mean. And yes, Dolen, I find it not only possible, but plausible.”

  Kuarta nodded and rose. “I agree with Ma—the government did this to us and therefore to Yallia.”

  Now Dolen raised his voice. “This is madness. I have sat here listening to the two of you concoct your theories without a shred of empirical evidence. You call yourselves scientists? Everything you have said is conjecture, speculation, and unsupported by facts. Why would the government infect its own citizens? You say ‘the government did this’ as if the government is some kind of living, breathing entity instead of a body of separate individuals. You of all people ought to know how government works, Jene.”

  “I know very well how it works. I’ve been on both sides of it. Yes, government is made up of individuals. But I’ve seen the act of governing turn moral, ethical people into unprincipled monsters more times than I care to count. Government has the potential to do great good—or great evil.” She paused and looked at Dolen, then softened her tone. “You said something in that little speech of yours that betrays your thinking. You asked why the government would infect its own citizens. Dolen, haven’t you realized by now that there are many of you people who do not think of us as citizens?”

  “It sounds more like you are doing the dividing, Jene. You people?”

  They looked at each other for a while across the table before Dolen said, “You disapprove of my union with your daughter, don’t you, Jene?”

  “That’s enough!’ Kuarta slammed her fist down on the table. “Dolen, this isn’t the time for that. And Ma,” she turned to face her mother, “shut up. I’m sick to death of all your anarchist’s talk. You can’t let go of what Arnson did to Dad twenty years ago, and now you’re putting all your hate towards the argies. I say this with all love, Mother, but get over it!”

  Jene stared at her daughter for a long moment. Jene had unpacked the memory of Renold Halfner during the wirebus ride earlier, but that had been different somehow. She had wallowed selfishly in memory and nostalgia while talking to Kuarta about him, and now her daughter was asking her to do something quite different. She was not asking her to forget Renold, but to release the anger and bitterness that had welled in her for twenty years and now manifested in a hatred of government.

  Then why have I become a part of it? Jene wondered.

  Kuarta spoke again, dissolving Jene’s unasked question. “Yallia is in there, mutated, different, and someone did this to her. Let’s try to remember that.”

  The silence that followed was broken by the soft chiming of the living room clock. Timeslip was over.

  “I say we were all injected during our initial quarantine,” Kuarta said.

  “Maybe,” Jene said.

  “I wish to point out,” Dolen said with noticeable formality, “that there were approximately eight thousand immigrants twelve years ago. You are suggesting that the government had eight thousand samples of this mystery retrovirus prepared, tested, and ready to deliver, and all of this was done in secret. The conspiracy involved is so massive as to be impossible.”

  Jene and Kuarta were silent. Dolen continued. “There is another factor to consider. I am not a medical expert”—this with considerable disdain—“but if all immigrants were infected with the virus, why is Yallia the only child to exhibit tendencies? There have been thousands of children born in the past twelve years. And why are the changes not reflected in her face or body?”

  Kuarta answered with eyes glazed in thought. “I see no reason for an outward physiological change. Her ability to metabolize chlorine is a biochemical one. I’m sure her insides look quite different, if one knows what to look for—probably she has some kind of protective coating in her mouth, trachea, bronchial passages, and so on.”

  “That still doesn’t answer my other question. Why weren’t other children affected?”

  “She’s one of the few children so far born of an argie father and a shippie mother,” Jene said.

  Dolen rose slowly, trying to keep his rage in check. “I’ve already been accused of racism twice tonight. Are you now implicating me in this bizarre plot to turn my daughter into some kind of freak?”

  “Mommy?”

  The three adults whirled to see Yallia, her eyes half opened and face half-turned from the light of the living room lamp, standing in the hallway.

  “Oh, Yallia,” Kuarta said, advancing on her daughter, “what are you doing up?”

  “I heard you and Daddy and Gram talking. Did Daddy call me a freak?”

  “He—” Kuarta stopped, trying to control herself lest she burst into sobbing in front of her daughter.

  “Because that’s what the other kids at school and in the Crèche called me.”

  “Oh, honey child,” Jene said, getting up from her chair in turn and coming to comfort her granddaughter, “we talked about that. Those people at school and in the Crèche are just…well, they’re just dummies. That’s all.”

  Yallia shook her head. “No. They’re right. I am a freak. And I killed that boy. Pem.” Yallia’s eyes, still red and swollen form a night’s crying, started to tear up again.

  Kuarta held her daughter close, blinking back tears herself as the pungent smell of chlorine from Yallia’s tears filled the apartment.

  * * *

  “You’re sure they went home?” Tann asked the lantern-jawed face that floated in front of him in holographic representation.

  “That’s what the officer at the scene said he was told. But, Mr. Tann, even if they didn’t, we can find them. They can’t hide.” Police Captain Dunbarston was not happy at the prospect of talking with him, Tann knew. His ugliness was particularly effective against the burly, handsome police captain.

  “I realize that, Captain. But I don’t want every dome turned upside-down in a search. I want to contain this. Your officers are ready?”

  “We can go to the house at any time.”

  Tann looked at his desk clock. It was only a few minutes past timeslip.

  “All right. I’ll be at your constabulary in one hour. We’ll go from there. And Captain,” he added before Dunbarston could disconnect, “your orders come directly from the Commissar-General. Should you meet Commissar Halfner there, you are to politely but firmly refer her to my office. Understood?”

  “Yes,” Dunbarston said, and switched off.

  Tann stared at the air where the policeman’s face had been for a moment, then called Onizaka on a secure line.

  Onizaka appeared haggard when she turned from her work to answer the call. “Oh, Carll. I’m
really busy right now. Can you call back?”

  “This will only take a moment,” he said, settling back in his chair in contradiction. “You didn’t tell me about the more…incendiary aspects of the mutation, doctor.”

  “Carll, look, I have no idea what happened. I’m still looking into it now. And I’m doing it alone, of course, so I’m—”

  “Rather an important trait, wouldn’t you say?” He did not need to manufacture anger.

  “It’s something to do with the way she can manipulate sodium, hydrogen, and chlorine. Chlorine gas is very reactive to light. I’ve looked at the data, but.…”

  “A little argie boy died, Doctor. And from what I’ve been told, died rather painfully.”

  Onizaka lowered her head. “I know. I’m sorry, Carll. I just had no idea—”

  Tann stared at her head, waiting for her to look up. When she did, he met her frightened gaze with his furious one, then slowly allowed it to soften. “Well. I know you meant well. You should know that the mutant is, for the moment, at her residence. Dome police have been dispatched to collect her.”

  “Did you send them in with environment suits? She could burn them, too.”

  “No. I think she will refrain. Besides, I cannot tell the police to take extra precautions without revealing too much of what we have done. Afterwards, when she is in our care, we can release some data on her mutation.”

  Tann considered the dead boy. His death was a tragedy, to be sure, but one which Tann could use to his advantage. Tann sympathized with the parents and felt for them, but at the same time he knew he would be a fool not to exploit the situation. He was an able and experienced politician. capable of divorcing his personal feelings from his work.

  “I have one more question: why haven’t the six or seven other hybrid children shown signs?”

  “I’m not sure. We have sketchy, anecdotal data only. The one difference I can find is that the Verdafner child was exposed to high concentrations of chlorine. That might have acted as a catalyst for the mutation.”

  “So the others may never manifest themselves?”

  “Carll,” Onizaka said in an exasperated tone, “what I’ve told you is pure speculation. I don’t really know what happened, or if it will happen again. But I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as I have more. Okay?”

  “Very well. Go back to work, Doctor,” Tann said, and switched off. He got up from his desk and headed for the door. Before he reached it, he stopped, turned, and went back to his desk. He withdrew a small, slim weapon from his desk drawer and pocketed it before leaving the office.

  He arrived in New Chicago with plenty of time to spare. He was the only passenger on the wirebus at this late hour; there were, of course, vital colonial functions and services that had to be maintained twenty-eight hours a day, but by and large, the colony slept at night and was active in the day.

  Captain Dunbarston was waiting for him in the nearly-deserted lobby of the constabulary wing, which made up one part of the administrative and medical center of the Dome. Tann nodded curtly at the blocky peace officer, noting his nervousness. “Are your men ready, Captain?”

  “Yes. I’ve got myself and four others.” Dunbarston indicated the young officers, two men and two women, who stood nearby. The only other officer in sight was the desk clerk, who watched the affair with interest.

  “Then let’s go.” Tann commanded.

  Dunbarston cleared his throat and headed towards the motor pool area, his officers and Tann in tow. The six piled into a police transport, used primarily to shuttle large numbers of officers to disturbances, and headed toward the Verdafner’s building.

  Dunbarston spoke to his men. “All right, let’s go over this again. We are to secure a young shippie girl named Yallia Verdafner and take her to Valhalla Dome where she will be turned over to Valhalla constables. There may be one or more adults present—her mother, Kuarta Verdafner; her father, Dolen Verdafner; and possibly Jene Halfner, the Commissar from New Chicago.”

  The four young officers could not help but glance at each other briefly. Dunbarston licked his lips before continuing. “We are under the direct orders of the Commissar-General, as represented by Mr. Carll Tann.” Dunbarston motioned towards Tann, hesitated, and looked at Tann. “Perhaps you would like to add something here, Mr. Tann,’ he said. The pleading in his voice was almost pathetic.

  Tann spoke quietly but firmly. “You are charged with apprehending the girl. Do not harm her, of course, and do not harm any of the persons you may find in the apartment, but take her to Valhalla. If this means she needs to be separated from her family momentarily, so be it.”

  “Isn’t this girl the same one involved in that fire in the Crèche?” the light-haired female officer asked.

  “Yes.” Tann said it with such an air of finality that the woman sank back into her seat. “Any other questions?” Again, his voice denied any further queries even as his words asked for them. The officers shifted in their seats and looked everywhere but at the short, balding man with such fire in his eyes.

  Surprisingly, one of them spoke. As if he was trying to imagine himself alone in the car, his question directed at no one in particular. “Has this kid done anything wrong?”

  Tann stared at the officer. “Hasn’t your Captain briefed you on the circumstances?” He glared at Dunbarston, who, like the other officers, was looking the other way.

  “I see,” Tann said. The question had been rhetorical, but Tann decided he would answer it anyway. “You are uncomfortable with this assignment, aren’t you?”

  The three officers in the passenger section nodded, and Tann was sure, even without turning his head to look, that the driver had as well.

  “You wanted to be constables in order to serve the public trust, yes?”

  Nodding.

  “And you think kidnapping little girls in the middle of the night isn’t nice.”

  This time, the officers looked at him for a moment. Tann could see their thoughts. This, too, would require his oratorical skills.

  “All right, then. I had hoped to avoid this, because I thought it might cloud your judgment and efficiency, but I can see you are not just men and women who will blindly follow orders. This little girl is a shippie, as the vernacular goes, who has for some reason been targeted by the local argie population. We in the Commissar-General’s office have been watching the developments in New Chicago and have become concerned with the level of antagonism directed towards her. We are therefore taking steps to ensure her safety while at the same time keeping the public calm. We felt taking her quietly, in the night, would be best.”

  Dunbarston leaned forward. “You didn’t tell me that, Mr. Tann.” His voice had a definite edge to it.

  “No, I didn’t. I was hoping we could take her, secure her in a secret location, and then try to defuse the situation here in New Chicago.”

  “But why didn’t the Commissar-General just address the—”

  Tann smiled. “Captain, you don’t understand. There is a point when the general public ceases to be a thinking body and turns to a mob. There is no reasoning with a mob; no series of syllogisms or arguments will quell a mob’s fanaticism. The Commissar-General feels that the undercurrent of hatred towards shippies in general, and toward this girl in particular, is so great that any overt action on the part of the administration would result in violence.”

  “Do you think the fire at the Crèche was an example of that?” a young male officer asked.

  Tann blinked. He had never thought to try that angle. He had prepared the cover story of taking the girl away for her own safety some time ago, but this was a new wrinkle he could use. He had to be careful, though.

  “I leave that to local authorities to discover,” he said disingenuously. He glanced significantly at Dunbarston and knew the Captain would immediately launch an investigation—one dedicated to finding out that the fire was arson.

  “So now you know,” Tann said to all of them. “Does that make you feel better?�
�� He said the last with such expectation that all nodded and seemed to relax a bit. Tann did as well. These officers would talk, of course, and the rumors would start to circulate. People would begin to think there was a vast argie underground of activists—there might even be one now, for all Tann knew—who were dedicated to shippie destruction. Better yet, if he played the next few days properly, he could either expose a real underground or claim to have done so.

  “Here we are,” the driver said unnecessarily as he slowed the transport. The officers filed out of the truck, Tann behind them, content to let the local authorities lead the way. He was under no illusions as to his role here. He did not need to be in the front to be in control—as had been demonstrated by the last twelve years on New Earth.

  The officers and Tann made their way to the ninth floor using the stairways. Tann was the only one a bit winded when the group reached their destination. Dunbarston pressed the doorbell and presented himself to the door eye.

  Dolen opened the door. “Yes, officers?” He took in the sight before him and narrowed his brow. “What is this?”

  “Sorry, Professor. We’ve come for your daughter,” Dunbarston said.

  “You’ve what?” Behind him, Jene rose from the living room chair where she had been stroking the crying body of her granddaughter. Kuarta was holding Yallia and tightened her grip when she heard Dunbarston’s answer.

  “Officer, I presume you know who I am,” Jene said, approaching the police with clear distaste.

  From behind the officers, Carll Tann pushed his way forward. “And I presume you know who I am, Commissar Halfner.”

  “Mr. Tann?” Jene was taken aback. “What are—?”

  “I’m here as a representative of the Commissar-General. He has ordered the immediate arrest of Yallia Verdafner for her own safety.”