In the yellow dimness of the tent, she knelt by Fielding’s bedroll and sobbed for joy. He gave her a shaky smile. His voice was still barely audible. “Hi, honey. Want to cook me a bowl o’ soup in a while? You pick the recipe.”
“You are getting well?” It was a stupid question, but she had just been snatched out of anguish.
“Yeah. Ol’ Doc de Barros thinks I’ll be on my feet in three-four days. Now that the poison’s leaving me, I can take cell stimulants and…” His mien turned anxious. “Janne, can you and…and Roberto…ever forgive me?”
“For what? You were sick, dear Arch.” She brushed lips across his. “What you can do for us is take care of yourself.”
“I obey. I’ve learned. From here on in, I listen to you.” Fielding uttered a chuckle. “Funny. Eden…forbidden fruit…this time the man tasted, ‘spite o’ the woman….” His words trailed off.
De Barros touched her. “Come,” said the Brazilian. “Let him rest It is a natural sleep.”
Outside, she drew breath after breath until at last she could say levelly: “Then it was the porkplant.”
“Well, yes and no.” de Barros replied. “You gave me the clue.”
“Me? How in the universe?”
“Granted, a chance remark of yours. However, I have an idea that chance favors those who deserve well. When you were running off—do you remember what you said to me about your weight on Cleopatra?”
“Um-ra-m…yes, since you mention it…but what—” Janne sat down on a dune and hugged her knees. “Tell me.”
He joined her. “It triggered something,” he explained. “Perhaps I would have gotten the thought anyhow, but probably not in time. Arch was failing fast. I was desperate enough to try anything, if only I could find the least clue.
“Well. Cleopatra is smaller than Earth, therefore its gravity field is weaker. But that weakness is not in proportion. If the two planets had the same density, we would weigh less here than we do. And, actually, if they had the same composition, Cleopatra should be somewhat less dense, because of a smaller mass compressing itself less at the core. In fact, the mean density is ten percent more than Earth’s. This must be due to a greater proportion of heavy elements, as the spectrum of Caesar also indicates. Doubtless this whole system condensed later than Sol’s, from a nebula which had had time to accumulate more large atoms. For Cleopatra, that means more radioactivity, a hotter interior, hence the outgassing of as much atmosphere as we have around us—” De Barros shook himself. “I babble. You know all this. I too am a little silly from happiness.”
“Go on,” she urged.
“You recalled the fact to me,” he said. “I realized that there must be surface regions where heavy elements happen to be especially concentrated. There are on Earth. Plants in such areas may take up the metals and become toxic. For example, locoweed—selenium-contaminated desert forage—is a menace to livestock. I heard about that from a bailiff on our estate…. If this can happen on Earth, how much more often on Cleopatra?”
Janne straightened. “By glory, Arch’s symptoms did look like arsenic poisoning, didn’t they? Now that you’ve pointed it out!”
“I am not sure what element is responsible,” de Barros said. “Perhaps several. A broad-spectrum chelating drug did the—ah, did the trick.”
He paused before continuing: “I have found that the solar storm has passed its maximum. I estimate we can get a call through in about six more days—C-days, that is. Therefore we can give Arch adequate nourishment without starving ourselves too much—” he grinned—“or resorting to organically grown foods.”
“Splendid,” said Janne absently. Her mind had gone elsewhere, “Animals must have an immunity, whether or not a given soil is metal-bearing. The possibility will be a hazard for humans. Not too bad. It simply means people must check a region before they settle in it, and take what precautions are indicated.”
Surprised, de Barros said, “What? Have you resigned yourself to colonization?”
Janne laughed. “Goodness! I’m sorry, Roberto. Your news made me forget I haven’t told you—or Arch. He’ll be so glad. In spite of his…his ideas about human supremacy…or his dislike of ‘glorified snakes’…I can’t believe he was really single-minded about us over-running a whole other sentient race.”
“Wait a minute.” De Barros seized her arm. “Do you mean the Cleopatrans. are not intelligent?”
She nodded. “I should have deduced it earlier. Besides the youth of this world, its generally primitive biology, there was the toolmakers’ absolute lack of interest in communication, lack of curiosity, lack of community. My guess is, they’re solitary. Individuals stake out territories, sharing the flint sources. Male and female meet just in mating season. Yes, I should have realized they aren’t thinkers, long before I did. What clinched it was seeing a small one fending for itself. Consciousness demands learning, which demands parental care. The lowest mammals and birds look after their young. Cleo…The moment she saw this hatchling, she wanted to eat it.”
De Barros sat appalled.
“It escaped,” Janne said. “Don’t be shocked. I was at first, till I realized what the significance was. They’re as unconscious, you might say innocent, as fish or praying mantises.”
“But they make tools!” he protested.
“That was what blinded me too,” she replied. “We know we evolved with tools in our hands. Naturally we supposed that whatever other kind of life uses them must be like us, or at least like our near ancestors.”
She sighed. “The truth is,” she continued slowly, as if to herself, “we’re unique, on our planet, only because we’ve destroyed our brothers. In that moment I remembered what I’d read or seen filmed from long ago when they lived: a sea otter pounding an abalone open against a stone he held on his chest: a beaver colony damming a river; a chimpanzee shaping and wetting a straw to catch termites with…At that, we still have termites, and the other ants, and the bees. They still do things which are much more complicated than chipping stones into one particular shape.
“Not that these—what shall we call them? Fabers? Not that they aren’t wonderful, and important, and with many truths to teach us. How I hope the people who come will spare them.”
She rose, walked from him, gazed out across the sea to its clear and burning horizon. “Eden,” she finished. “We are the serpent.”
2300 A.D.
A world grew in all directions from the place of landing. People became different from one another, moving away to create different places and life-styles,, filling up the world. Cleopatra changed. Local flora and fauna retreated before the life from Earth. Two great powers gradually emerged to rule the planet, Dardania in the north of the western hemisphere, Pindaria in the east. Together these two nations controlled most of Cleopatra’s land masses; and what they did not control, island chains and remote mountain settlements, they sought to influence, with a view toward future annexation.
Fabers were first modified Dardania. In the beginning they became workers and servants; later they served as dancers and musicians, taking part in the developing Dardanian art forms. At the same time both Dardania and Pindaria continued with covert biological research on the faber form, seeking modifications that might have war applications. Much of this work was senseless, carried out to satisfy the individual bent of the researcher, who in many cases held a dubious scientific competence.
The story of Marcus Binh perhaps sums up the human reaction to the conflict of art, society, and misguided science…
—Hela Fenn, Psycho-Soc Colonial Survey, 3300 A.D.
FABER-MASTER
by Michael Orgill
Leaping across the stage, the thesp executed an entrechat-douze. Then he bouréed to the center of the stage and stood motionless on point as a holo-camera dollied in for a close-up. The thesp’s golden eyes sparkled in the glare of the arc lights.
“Enough,” Marcus Binh said, and the crew stopped taping.
I can use it, he thought. Th
e thesp was an Unger, the most primitive of faber breeds. Binh had thought that the reptile did not have the ability to follow an entrechat with a bouree, but the dance had gone better than he had hoped. It had taken longer than most; the thesp had required three days of coaching. What else could he expect of a second-rate animal?
He saw Osbeck standing next to a camera. Binh averted his eyes. Best not to give the assistant coach too much credit before the production ended. The man simply could not handle it. Osbeck had coached the thesp. He had been right about the animal’s capabilities. Now he would expect Binh to give all his other ideas a respectful hearing.
Osbeck was not one to slink away with his own private satisfactions. Binh sat on a rickety canvas-backed chair, surrounded by a crowd of technicians. Osbeck threaded his way toward him.
“We can use this thesp again,” Osbeck said.
Binh said nothing. He looked at the stage where the thesp lay on a stretcher. Two medics taped wires to his skull which led to a bank of monitoring equipment.
Dymund, the chief technician, whispered in Binh’s ear as Osbeck waited for an answer. There was a power interruption. It would take at least fifteen minutes to trace the source of the breakdown. Already cumulus clouds were turning purple and massing everywhere in the sky. The slightest rainfall would make taping impossible.
Binh stood up abruptly. “Does the thesp have a name?” he asked Osbeck.
Osbeck wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s in the papers somewhere. I’m sure of it. But it doesn’t matter. He’s the most perfect Unger I’ve ever seen. You can see that.”
A technician pressed a clipboard in Binh’s hands. He signed it after a cursory glance. He began to make his way through, the milling technicians, and Osbeck followed at his side.
“He is an Unger,” Binh said after a moment, “but not perfect.” The clouds were a threat. It might be less than fifteen minutes before it rained.
“But you have to admit that the thesp was beautiful,” Osbeck said. “Believe me, I really made a buy. Took two days on the market to close the deal. We can use the thesp for any number of scenes. I see him in a comedic improvisation…”
“I won’t use the thesp again,” Binh said. “Your coaching was fine, Osbeck, better than I expected, but trade the thesp in. There’s no other place for the animal.”
Osbeck wandered slowly away as Binh began conferring with a group of lighting technicians. The man was intolerable, Binh thought. Osbeck had been a thesp coach for five years. He could handle brief scenes well, but he was a failure at choreographing longer dances. Binh was surrounded by Osbecks. Every coach on the production was trying to gain Binh’s confidence, as if he would yield some of his control to a favorite and agree to fashion a collaboration.
Binh entered his office tent. He filled a stone basin with water and splashed it on his face. After drying with a rough towel, he lowered himself on his brown meditation cushions and assumed a half-lotus.
It was getting more and more difficult to concentrate. The first signs had appeared months ago when he began the production. He had thought it would go like all the others. This one, however, had not been a product of his vision alone. Cleopatra would have its bicentennial in less than six months. This production had been commissioned by the planetary council to be the centerpiece of the celebration.
Thoughts chattered. The council had difficulty uniting the contending factions behind this innocuous project. Every group on Cleopatra was represented in the crew, in line with quotas ordered by the Council. Hispanics from the southern hemisphere. Japanese from the volcanic archipelagos. Europeans and Asiatics from the heartland of Dardania. Chinese, Vietnamese, and other Orientals from Pindaria. Blacks from the island continent of New Africa.
Binh had worried about the possibility of rivalries but there had been no problems. On any project there would be professional jealousies; and the ethnic mix could have made them more intense. Everything, however, had gone smoothly. The Council propagandists held up the production as an example of global cooperation, but Binh thought differently. The crew, happy to land this plum of a job, laid aside their political and ethnic differences. The work had come first.
The air in the tent was oppressively humid. Binh inhaled deeply. Vague pains shot through his chest. The cushion leather creaked as he shifted his weight. Closing his eyes, he began to meditate.
Count one, two, three, four. It was a technique Binh had used since his student days. He concentrated on the numbers, assigning one to each inhalation. When thoughts appeared he let them float away. Count one, two…there was a babble of voices outside the tent…three, four…only a few minutes more…
A sudden light stung his eyes.
“Weather looks bad.” The production’s meteorologist stood in the opening.
Binh ran his hand over his skull. “How much time?”
The meteorologist shrugged. “I don’t give us more than a half hour of clear weather. You might get more. It depends.”
It was twilight. A blaze of arc lights illuminated the location. Stepping out of the tent, Binh was immediately surrounded by journalists. Their shouted questions rose to a din. He tried to push his way through, but the journalists pressed closer. He could not move as the vid cameras and microphones were waved in his face.
Osbeck was among them, waving a sheaf of papers. He tried to force them into Binh’s hands.
‘Please reconsider,” he said. “I have everything here, the thesp’s genetic pedigree, a full report of the lab tests. You’ll see he’s a first-rate animal.”
Osbeck’s obsequious voice irritated him. Binh pushed the papers away. He managed to break free, and shoved through the crowd. The throng followed like insects.
“Maestro,” a reporter shouted over the babble, “do you expect the Council to withdraw support now that Kevin Hussein is chairman?” The journalist wore a white helmet with a tiny video cube attached to the top. Jostled by the crowd, he kept his head turned toward Binh, so that he would always be within the cube’s range.
Binh said nothing. Other voices drowned out the first questioner. “Do you admit you’ve exceeded budget?” a frizzy-haired woman asked. Binh remained silent, infuriating the reporters. They encircled him again. Everyone began shouting at once. Binh raised his hands, but the pushing and shouting grew louder. Hands holding cameras and microphones reached out and jabbed his body.
“Do you expect Hussein to ask for script changes?” someone asked. A thin, male reporter held a microphone under Binh’s nose. “Have you been ordered to use human dancers?” he shouted. “That would be impossible,” Binh said, brushing the microphone away.
“Would you resign if the Council issued that order?” another journalist asked.
“Let me pass,” Binh shouted. “This is not a press conference.” Shoving through the crowd, members of his crew moved toward him. Fistfights broke out among journalists vying for better positions. Still cameras were thrust above the crowd by reporters unable to push their way forward. A burly, red-haired man in a purple jump suit blocked Binh’s way. Waving his arms, he shouted an unintelligible question.
Simon, one of Binh’s electricians, shoved the man away. Three of Simon’s assistants joined him and linked arms around Binh. The journalists continued to shout questions as the men escorted Binh out of the crowd.
“Binh’s finished. Hussein will see to that!” a tall man shouted. He wore a blue tunic, the uniform of Hussein’s political party. The din grew louder. The reporters began to shout the heckler down.
“Are you going to meet with Hussein?” a journalist called out.
“Binh doesn’t have the guts!” another heckler shouted.
The crew members hurried Binh along, and the crowd ran behind them. Binh wanted to shout an answer which would stun them all into silence. But it would get back to Hussein. Binh did not want to give Hussein anything to use against him.
Simon grabbed Binh’s elbow and kept him moving. Despite his escort, the crowd still
pressed against him. Binh gasped for air. A woman leaned against him, her breasts brushing his left shoulder. Binh stared at her face. He studied the network of wrinkles under her eyes.
She grimaced and began to pummel him with her fists. The crowd drove itself toward the stage, sweeping Simon and the other crew members away from him. Cameras and recording equipment dropped to the ground and smashed to pieces. A woman spit in Binh’s face. A blue triangle, the emblem of Hussein’s political organization, was sewn on the top of her jumpsuit. Why were so many of his supporters here? Binh thought.
As the crowd pushed and shoved around him, Binh managed to remain standing. Random blows struck him, and he covered his head with his arms. Something hit him on the back of his neck. His vision went black for a moment, and his head began to pound.
Binh was pushed down violently. Its knees scraped against the ground. Boots slammed into his body. He rolled himself into a fetal ball. The blows glanced off the curve of his back.
He had taught himself this defensive position in his student days. He had been emeshed in the “Months of Revolution” which preceded the collapse of the First Council. Every day had been filled with significant events; Binh, along with the other members of the Common Front, had thought he had the power to make history. Cleopatra had become theirs; it would never be the same again.
Every thought and action had contributed to the struggle. Binh, who had been an apolitical aesthete, made himself into a street fighter. In spite of his myopia and slender body, he had become a karate expert, using to good effect the grace and stamina he had acquired in his studies of dance. He had transformed his body into a precision instrument, and with it he had served the struggle.
A World Named Cleopatra Page 5
