Brother to Dragons

by Charles Sheffield

  Job stared around him. He was astonished by the number of infants. They were everywhere. Xanadu was supposed to be a deathtrap, a grave for people without hope. But there was more hope here than he had seen back in the city. And the Mall Compound, he now realized, had no children at all.

  As the people in the circle spoke, Job learned that all they had was hope. They knew no facts. They had no idea of anything that might achieve the longed-for release from the Nebraska Tandy.

  But surely the Big Three had at least an idea of a mechanism. They could not hold out the promise of a bright future for very long, without something to support that optimism. And yet the mechanism remained as obscure to Job as it had ever been.

  At dinner that night, the woman whose baby he had touched introduced him to her sister, Jia. She stood there shyly, a slim girl about the same age as Job. She was placed next to him during the meal. He felt ashamed when she tried to serve him with the best tidbits, and he had to explain that his throat and stomach could tolerate only the soft-boiled rice, and poorly at that; after the first mouthful he felt nauseated. She smiled understanding, brought him a drink that was soothing and lukewarm instead of the spicy herbal infusion that the rest were drinking, and found for him a sweet, chilled mush to substitute for the chewy dessert. Job’s mouth was sore, and he encouraged her to talk more than listen. But she hung on his every word, and took his hand in hers when she left.

  Before he eased himself into bed that night, Job did what Skip Tolson had warned him not to do: he found a mirror, and stared into it. The bald, raddled nightmare that peered back at him made him feel sicker than the boiled rice. A few wisps of thin dark hair were appearing on his scalp, worse in Job’s opinion than total baldness. His eyes were like black holes in the furnace-slag of his cratered face, and his receding chin was a minefield of open sores. How had Jia even been able to look at him, still less to talk to him without disgust, smile at him, and touch his hand? But she had done all that, and invited him to visit the village again when the survey was finished.

  He climbed into bed. There was only one possible explanation: in the topsy-turvy-Tandy world, radiation sores did not send a woman screaming away. They were Job’s saber scars, his mark of manhood, the scalps at his belt, his red badge of courage showing that he had been through stern testing and survived.

  So far. But the real test lay ahead. Tomorrow the schedule would take them to the mysterious fenced facility.

  Job should have been worried. Instead he drowsed off oddly content, and slept easy for the first time in two months.

  • Chapter Eighteen

  For now I shall sleep in the dust;

  and thou shall seek me in the morning,

  but I shall not be.

  —The Book of Job, Chapter 7, Verse 21

  Morning brought a great change. While Job slept, high winds carried away the deadly cold of late February and left in its place a false spring that mimicked full summer. By eight o’clock snow was turning to gurgling rivulets, warm fogs rose to blanket the gentle slopes of the Nebraska Tandy, and birds were appearing from nowhere to peck at newly exposed earth.

  As great a change had been taking place inside Job’s own body. He overslept, to awake with an unfamiliar sensation. It was hunger. His mouth was sore and his skin itched, but for the first time in months he was eager to eat breakfast.

  Everyone on the survey team was already in the dining area when he arrived. They too were responding to the outside changes with more animation than Job had ever seen before. Give us three or four days like this, they were saying, we’ll be ahead of schedule, we can be back at Headquarters within two weeks…

  Which was where all of them longed to be. They hated the survey—stupid questions, uninteresting people, jabbering away in unintelligible languages. Job was hurried through his meal and into the truck. By nine o’clock they were in the far west of the Tandy, passing through the boundary fence of the biggest town Job had seen so far.

  He stared about him with quivering intensity. Here, at last, was Techville, the preferred home of scientists exiled to the Nebraska Tandy, the town where according to Wilfred Dell as many as three thousand of them lived. Job saw nothing unusual within the surrounding fence. The buildings were standard Xanadu construction, set in regular rings around a central cleared square from which the streets ran off like spokes of a wheel. Job stared along one of those streets as they arrived at the center. Follow it for three or four hundred yards, and you would reach another facility, this with its own boundary fence. Would the survey team be allowed to follow that road, later in the day?

  If Job found the town interesting, his curiosity did not seem to be returned. In the other communities people had crowded around the truck. Here, the arrival of the survey team was noted with no more than mild interest. It was as though they had been expecting visitors, and knew just why the team was in Techville.

  The group waiting in the central clearing confirmed that view, together with another impression gained by Job during the drive into town. This was not the ethnically uniform community that the survey had encountered in previous stops. Job saw many different racial types and heard a polyglot mixture of languages. The people who met the truck were just as diverse: an Oriental woman, a hulking red-haired male with a broken nose, and two dark-skinned men who looked like brothers.

  The red-haired bruiser was the spokesman. “We know what you want,” he said, after the briefest of introductions. “We have already prepared the census data, and listed the areas where we could most use help. That’s written out in the packet here. So if we could just confirm your IDs…and of course, if you would like us to go over our answers with you, we’ll be happy to do it.” His manner suggested that it would be a waste of time.

  The ID badges were collected from each team member and examined by the Oriental woman as census packets were opened and examined. Was Job’s badge receiving an unusually intensive scrutiny? He thought so, but he told himself that must be his imagination. As the badges were handed back he became alarmed for a different reason. His companions were eager to press on to the next stop. The residents of Techville had prepared everything in advance. The survey team would have no reason to stay, and then—

  “—and then you can take advantage of the good weather and be on your way,” the red-haired spokesman was saying. “Leave now, and you’ll be in Clydestown before noon.”

  Leave now, and make no visit to the interior fenced area. Leave now, and find no answers to Wilfred Dell’s questions. Leave now, and maybe never have a chance to come back. The gates of Xanadu would remain closed forever.

  His companions were putting away their packets after scarcely a glance at the contents. They were ready to go. How could he delay them?

  By persuasion? Ridiculous. Even if he had a logical argument no one would listen.

  The truck? He could disable it, given time and privacy…

  Forget that. He had neither.

  There was only one way to prevent his departure—a dangerous and irrevocable act, but Job was moving before he had thought through its consequences.

  He put his hand to his head and staggered forward to collide with one of the dark-skinned men. Eyes closed, he stood clutching at the man’s chest.

  “Here. What’s he doing?” That was the Oriental woman.

  “He’s radiation sick. He should never have been in our team.” That was a woman from Job’s own party. He was surprised at the vindictiveness and satisfaction in her voice. Yet he could have predicted it—and not just from her. The other members knew each other’s loyalties, and therefore how to behave, but Job was an unknown quantity, and therefore dangerous. “He can’t go on with us,” she continued happily. “He’ll interfere with our work. You’ll have to make arrangements to ship him to Headquarters…”

  Where he will be sent back to the training program, and die. Job could finish her thoughts. If Gormish and Pyle and Bonvissuto and I went through training, he has to go through training, too. And if it
kills him, that’s his problem.

  The rules were implacable. But how many deaths in Xanadu over the years were due to the inflexibility of those idiot rules? In another month Job would be able to finish the training course and survive. Start tomorrow and it would kill him.

  Job opened his eyes. Everyone was staring at him, but on no face could he see a trace of sympathy.

  “Take him to the hospital,” said the red-haired man. He turned to the rest of the survey team. “You can go anytime you want to. Don’t worry about him. We’ll arrange his return to Headquarters.”

  Fifteen minutes later Job was stretched out on the bed in an otherwise empty room. He lay back and closed his eyes.

  I’ve managed to work my way right into the lion’s den. Well, clever me. But what now? I feel a bit of energy for the first time in months, but I’m forced to lie here and do nothing…unless I can find a way to put my head in the lion’s mouth, and get over to the fenced buildings.

  A more sensible man would hurry back to the square and try to rejoin the survey team, hoping that they had not yet left, telling them that he felt fine, that it had been just a minute or two of dizziness. A more inventive man would send a signal aloft to the watching satellites, find a way to reach the Tandy eastern exit at the right time, and then make up some story to satisfy Wilfred Dell.

  Job stood up and went across to the window. It was closed—and barred. The hospital bordered the central clearing, and he could see that the truck had already departed. Apparently he was neither sensible nor inventive enough.

  And now the sky was clouding over. Dell had made it plain that Job could lie outside all day, but if the sky were overcast he would not be seen. There could be no escape from Xanadu tonight. As though to reinforce that conclusion a Tandyman came rolling across the middle of the square. Everyone hurried clear of it, and watched intently until it was far away in the distance.

  Job was still standing at the window when the Oriental woman returned.

  “Well,” she said. “Not dead yet, eh?” Her cool manner had gone, and she sounded pleased with herself.

  “I don’t feel too bad. In fact, I’m getting hungry.”

  “Good sign. We can take care of that easily enough.” She smiled. “I’m Frances Chang. You know, you didn’t have to go through that little act outside. We already planned that you would not be leaving with the others.”

  For the past few weeks the sores on Job’s face had encouraged him to show as little expression as possible. That helped now. He walked forward and sat down on the bed. “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t. That’s why I’m here.” She held out her hand. “Give me your badge for a moment.”

  He handed it to Frances Chang and watched in silence as she turned it over to show the back. “See that?” There was a little green line along the bottom. Job could not remember if it had been there when the badge was issued. “That says you’re a candidate to work in Techville. We like to keep to ourselves here, as much as we’re allowed to, but we have friends at Headquarters. When someone arrives in Xanadu who might be useful, we like to know about it. Normally nothing happens ’til the training program is finished, so your badge doesn’t get marked ’til then. Your case was unusual. You popped up here ahead of schedule.”

  “Candidate for what?” Job opted for the least revealing thought in his mind.

  “I told you, to come and work here.” She did not seem surprised by the question. “I know you’ve had no scientific training, and you’ve been in trouble—we have your full record, we’ve had it since the day you arrived at Xanadu. But you have excellent aptitude. We try to pick up anyone with potential. You will have to go back to Headquarters and finish the training program, but before you leave we want you to have a feel for us, and what we do.” She handed him his badge. “Come on, since you say you’re hungry.”

  Warning lights were flashing inside Job’s head as he followed Chang from the room. While he had been scheming to find a way here, someone had been waiting for him—more than waiting, steering him in this direction. People didn’t do favors for nothing, outside Xanadu or inside it. Frances Chang could paint her innocent picture of Techville scientists, impressed by Job’s aptitude and wanting to recruit him. But Job could see a far more probable scenario. These people had friends in Headquarters, just as Chang suggested, and one of those friends, the Oriental aide to Gormish, had tagged Job’s badge. But the green line didn’t say, “Promising recruit, treat him well, sign him up.” Far more likely it said, “I don’t know what this one is, but he’s a late addition to the survey. Keep him around until you find out why he was sent to Techville.”

  One thing that Frances Chang had said to Job possessed a ring of truth: “You didn’t have to go through that little act outside. We already planned that you would not be leaving with the others.”

  Job might be treated as a “guest”; but “prisoner” was a better description of his status. He would leave when, and if, his hosts decided that he should. And if they decided that he was too dangerous to release? Well, that was no problem. He had been left behind in Techville because of radiation sickness. What was more natural than his death here?

  The next few hours confirmed his suspicion. Food was served in a different building, and although Frances Chang left him while he ate, three or four other residents always managed to be at his table throughout the meal.

  They chatted freely among themselves, but to Job’s surprise they did not ask him the obvious questions: why was he here, how long had he been in Xanadu, what was it like outside, did the Quiebra Grande still devastate the rest of the world? They must know he was a stranger, to Techville and to Xanadu. Their lack of curiosity was inconsistent with his earlier idea, that they would probe to find out why he had been sent with the survey. He ate in puzzled silence.

  The answer when it came to him was not reassuring. It took the form of another question. Why go through the farce of polite queries when you had the truth drug? One dose of that, and Job would tell everything. And once they knew that he had been sent to Xanadu by the outside government…

  Job had learned from the conversation around him that the hatred for the government of the Mall Compound was as strong here as anywhere in the Tandy, maybe stronger. The only “crime” committed by Techville residents was the pursuit of science; but the witch-hunts had grabbed them, declared them guilty, and sent them to Xanadu without even the pretense of a fair hearing.

  Let the punishment fit the crime. Science was officially to blame for the country’s worst problems, pollution and toxins; therefore by government policy, captured scientists should be sent to the country’s worst Tandy.

  It would be pointless for Job to explain to the people around him that he too was a victim, sent here against his will. They would learn that he had entered the Tandy as a spy for Wilfred Dell and that would be enough.

  At the end of the meal Frances Chang appeared from nowhere and conducted Job quietly out of the dining area. They had reached the door of the building when a vanload of new diners came hurrying in. Job, one step in front of Chang, found himself suddenly face to face with a woman.

  It was Hanna Kronberg.

  She looked older and more worried than her pictures. The genial expression had vanished from her eyes, her gray hair was thinning, and she wore rimless glasses, but Job would have known her after far greater changes. He stopped dead, unable to resist staring at her point-blank. Fortunately she gave him only a casual glance, then looked right past his face and stepped around him to talk to Frances Chang.

  Job went outside and stood waiting. His pulse was racing, his heart pounding up in his throat. After months of planning and anticipation, the first meeting had been an anticlimax. He had said nothing to Hanna Kronberg. What could he say—“Ah, Dr. Kronberg, just the person I was looking for. Tell me about the experiments that you are doing inside that fenced-off area”?

  The air was warm, and the heaps of dirty snow were melting into the gr
ound. The pulse in Job’s throat slowed and became like a ticking clock. It was the clock of his own time, rapidly running down. The weather felt like early summer, but it was not yet even spring. In another day or two winter would return to set its grip on Xanadu, roads would again be difficult, escape impossible, and long before that, the truth drugs would have squeezed him dry.

  Job did not speak to Frances Chang as she led him back to the hospital, except to say as they entered his room: “I’m sorry, but I’m exhausted. May I just rest here until morning?”

  “You’ll miss dinner if you do. The only place to eat is in the dining room, and it will be the last meal of the day.”

  “I don’t feel up to eating again.”

  She nodded. “I understand. We’ll talk in the morning.” Even if talk meant cross-examine, she sounded sympathetic.

  But sympathy had its limits. As she left the room the door closed firmly and Job heard the key turn in the lock. After a few minutes he went across to examine it. The door was solid. Even if the lock were of a simple type, Job had no idea how to pick it.

  In any case, escape into the corridor was no solution. To get out of the building he would have to pass three or four rooms, each one occupied.

  That left only the window. He went across to examine it. The room was on the second floor, and beyond the thick and yellowed glass of the casement were the vertical bars of iron. Job studied them. They were solidly planted in the window frame, each one a quarter of an inch thick. Skip Tolson might bend them; Job was far too feeble. But the bars had been spaced to prevent the escape of a normal adult, not one sickly thin and naturally hollow-chested. Job opened the casement as wide as it would go and pushed his head tentatively into the widest space between the bars. It might go through—just. And then by turning his body sideways, he might be able to slide his shoulders and hips through. At that point he would be hanging head-first above the ground, dangling over a twelve-foot drop onto wet black earth.