Children of God s-2

by Mary Doria Russel

  "What is that scent?" John asked Emilio, standing next to him.

  "Which one?" Joseba cried, agriculture’s depredations forgotten in the languorous panorama of lavender savannah. There was a lifetime’s work within a few paces of where he stood. The soil alive with tiny vertebrate fauna, the air teeming with flying things, membranous wings flashing as they wheeled in the sunlight. Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of data, Joseba could hardly keep himself from staking out a square meter and beginning the research that very moment; he needed to contain it somehow-divide it, tame it, know it.

  "It’s like a perfume shop!" said Nico.

  "But there’s one scent, especially," said John, searching for words. "Like cinnamon, except-more flowery."

  "Yes, exquisite," Carlo agreed. "I recognize it—there were ribbons with that scent in the shipment the Contact Consortium stowed on board the Stella Maris when they sent Sandoz back."

  Emilio looked around and then walked to a patch of low-growing bushes a few paces away. He picked a trumpet-shaped blossom, its petals the hallucinatory scarlet of a poppy, and held it out to John, who leaned forward to inhale. "Yeah, that’s what I’m smelling. What’s it called?" John asked, offering the blossom to Sean, who backed away, still feeling rocky.

  "Yasapa," said Emilio. "And yasapa means?"

  John pulled the pieces apart. Ya s ap a… "You can make tea with it!" he translated triumphantly.

  Pleased with his pupil, the linguist nodded as Carlo reached for the flower, carrying it with both hands to his face and inhaling deeply. "The Runa fill a glass jar with the blossoms, cover them with water and set it in the sun—too sugary for my taste," Emilio said, "but they add sweetleaf to the tea as well. If you leave it long enough, it ferments. You can distill that for a kind of brandy."

  "Just as I predicted!" Carlo crowed triumphantly. "We’ve been here less than half an hour and you have already paid for this entire expedition," he told Sandoz, looking at the blossom. "Beautiful color—" He paused, and then sneezed violently.

  "Crisce sant’," Nico intoned.

  Carlo nodded, and tried again, "Is the brandy th—" He stopped, mouth open, eyes closing, and this time there was a series of sneezes, with Nico blessing each small detonation. "Thank you, Nico, I think I’m sufficiently sanctified," Carlo said. "Is the brandy this color?" he finally managed to ask before sneezing again. "God," he cried, "I can’t be coming down with a cold!"

  "It’s that damned flower," said Sean, lip curled at the cloying odor.

  "Or the lander fumes," Danny suggested.

  Carlo shook his head in amazement, and managed to continue his thought. "Is the brandy this color as well? The demand would be huge—"

  "Just don’t let the Jebs in on the deal," Danny warned as Carlo abandoned himself to an artillery barrage of sneezing. "The only time we ever tried to run a winery, we lost money on it. On the other hand, it might be fun to give the Benedictines a little unhealthy competition—"

  Carlo was now staggering backward, as though jet-propelled. "Possa sa’ l’ultima! he gasped with his hands over his mouth, which felt bizarrely numb. His eyes were starting to itch and water. "Drop the flower," he heard Sean say. "Get it away from your face!" Sandoz ordered. And Carlo did so, but the sneezing continued unabated, and his eyes were swelling shut…

  "This is the last time I go on a package tour with you guys," John was griping. "Sean throws up, Carlo’s allergic to flowers—"

  "Padrone, is something wrong?" Nico asked. When there was no answer, Nico turned to Emilio and asked again, "Is there something wrong?"

  Everything began happening at once: Emilio yelling, "Get the anaphylaxis kit! Run, for crissakes! He’s going down!" Carlo hitting the ground, each breath a separate struggle to suck air past a rapidly constricting pharynx. Danny dashing back to the lander for the ana kit. Emilio barking at John, "Get him on his back! Start CPR!" Then Carlo turned blue and Nico’s fright turned to sobs. Sean tried to calm him, but Emilio turned away from the grief, arms across his chest, and paced for a few moments before glancing back to see Joseba take over the rhythmic effort to restart Carlo’s heart when John began to flag. "Danny—come on!" Emilio yelled as Iron Horse skidded to a halt and dropped to his knees next to Carlo’s lifeless body. "The red syringe," Emilio said, his voice low and tense as he watched Iron Horse dig through the kit. "Yes! That’s it. Right into the heart. We’re losing him—"

  But even as he spoke, Carlo’s color pinked and the gasping breaths started to come again without Joseba’s aid. Suspended in time, they all watched silently as the hit of epinephrine took hold. "Jesus," John whispered. "He was dead."

  "All right," Emilio said, coming to life himself, "get him into the lander and lock it down—he’s still exposed out here."

  "Nico," Sean said evenly, "be a good boy and clear a space for Don Carlo on the deck, please."

  Bleary-eyed and scared but always ready to obey a direct order, Nico ran ahead to open the cargo-bay door while John, Sean and Joseba carried Carlo to shelter. "If he stabilizes, that may be all he needs," Emilio was telling Danny as they dogtrotted behind the others. "But if he goes under again, try aminophylline, yes?"

  By the time they had the lander systems reactivated and the filters began cleaning the interior air, Carlo was coming around. " — ole atmosphere must be drenched in pollens and danders and God knows what else," he could hear Joseba point out. But Sandoz said, "No, it must be yasapa. Anaphylaxis takes at least two exposures, and he recognized the scent—" Throat still constricted and eyes puffed shut, Carlo struggled to sit up; someone took him under the arms and pulled him to his feet, maneuvering him into a flight seat. Drained and disoriented, he whispered, "That was certainly exciting."

  "Yes, indeed," he heard Sandoz agree. He could not see the man, but Carlo could picture the head shaking in wonder, silver hair falling over black eyes. "Of all the lives on two planets that I might have chosen to save," Sandoz told him, "yours, Don Carlo, would have been at the very bottom of my list. How do you feel?"

  "Inglorious but better, thank you." Carlo tried to smile and was startled by how odd his swollen face felt. I must look like Frans, he thought as his vision cleared and breathing became easier. Then it struck him: "Your dream, Sandoz! You said I wasn’t in the city of the dead—"

  "Yes, and I am afraid you won’t be going to the city of Gayjur either," said Sandoz dryly. "I’m sending you back to the Bruno. Danny is going along as medic, in case you crash again. John will pilot—"

  "Sandoz, I didn’t come all this way—"

  "To die of anaphylaxis," Emilio finished for him, "which is exactly what you did a short while ago. Yasapa blooms year-round. You can try the surface again later, if you like—maybe John can reconfigure a pressure suit for you. For now, I recommend that you return to the mother ship. The decision is yours, of course."

  "Right," said Carlo, not one to argue with facts for very long. "Radio the change of plans to Signora Mendes and put Frans on remote as backup pilot. Do you suppose yasapa brandy would affect people as the blossom did me?" he asked. "We’ll have to put warning labels on anything we export— drink at your own risk. That will probably increase the appeal! An element of danger—"

  "You’ll still get sued, ace," Danny told him. "I’m going to move you to the cockpit. We need to reopen the cargo bay, but you should be okay if you’re sealed off, up front. As soon as we get the gear unloaded, you’re going back to the Bruno."

  NOT FAR TO THE NORTHWEST, IN THE SHADOW OF A LIMESTONE ESCARPMENT, a small mixed party of awestruck travelers listened for the second time to a shrieking roar that reached them from the darkening flatlands. This time the wedge-shaped mechanical object rose slowly into their sightline on gouts of flame, its blackened carapace absorbing the dying light of the second sun. They watched, mute, as the lander reached an altitude that allowed for straightforward propulsion and readjusted the attitude of its engine bells, shooting forward and upward, then banking and climbing. Soon there was no sound but
the slap of the water against the hull of their boat as they stared at the rapidly dwindling sight.

  "Sti’s feet dancing," Shetri Laaks swore in the gloom, as a blast of burnt fuel reached them. "What a stench! Those people must be dead in the nose."

  "Why did they go back so soon?" Kajpin wondered. "I thought their plans were to wait here for the escort from Gayjur."

  "Now what shall we do?" Tiyat asked. "Go back to—"

  "Quiet!" Rukuei whispered, ears cocked toward the landing site. "Listen!" At first there was only the usual tumult of the prairie reasserting itself, now that the reek and noise of the foreign machine was gone: the stridulation and whining buzz of the grasslands once again undisturbed. "There! Hear it?" Rukuei asked. "They haven’t all gone!"

  "They sing!" Tiyat whispered. "Isaac will be pleased."

  "Sipaj, Kajpin, tie off," Shetri said urgently. "We’re upwind! Rukuei, can they taste scent at all?"

  "Not so well as we, but they’re not oblivious. Perhaps we should circle around to get downwind of them." He couldn’t see a thing anymore. "Or wait until morning."

  There was a splash and a rocking shudder as Kajpin began pulling the shallow-drafted boat onto the sloping east bank, not waiting for anyone else’s opinion. "The water’s warm down here!" Tiyat exclaimed when she hopped out to help Kajpin haul the boat close enough to a marhlar stump to make it fast.

  "You two monitor the radio," Kajpin told Rukuei and Shetri. "We’ll go up and see what we can find out."

  A few scrambling moments later, they heard Tiyat call quietly, "There are three of them!"

  "Go sit in the boat!" Kajpin sneered good-humoredly, lying on her belly next to Tiyat. "There’re four! See? There’s a child sitting by that shelter."

  "A translator?" Shetri speculated, face turned up toward their voices.

  "No, they don’t bring children to learn to be interpreters," Rukuei informed the others. "At least, they didn’t last time. Some of their adults are small." He turned his attention to the radio monitor, but was distracted when a few notes of song reached him. "That’s the one for Isaac. Can you see who’s singing?"

  Another small dispute broke out. "Sipaj, Kajpin, did your grandmother screw djanada? You’re the one who’s blind!" Tiyat teased. "It’s the one doing the cooking. Watch the mouths! The others are just jabbering. The cook—do you see? His mouth stays open longer, while the song comes out." There was the sound of sliding as the Runa skidded down the bank, still arguing. Rukuei, listening to the radio, motioned for silence.

  "One of their party got sick, so they took him back up," he reported, when the transmission ended. "The others are still waiting for an escort to Gayjur."

  "So. There are three adults and one child—or whatever that little one is," Kajpin said, brushing debris from her knees and climbing back into the boat. "There’s black rain east of here, but the VaGayjuri could show up any time, once the weather clears. I say we wait for the foreigners to fall asleep tonight, take the singer for Isaac, and go home."

  "The others will wake up!" Tiyat objected. "Isaac can see at night, you know. They’re not like djanada."

  "Then grab all four! They don’t look like much for a fight—"

  "No," Rukuei said firmly. "Ha’anala was right—you don’t make allies by sneaking up and grabbing people."

  "Just invite them to breakfast!" Shetri insisted again. "Sipaj, foreigners, such a long journey you’ve had!" he whispered in a piping Runa falsetto that made Tiyat smother a laugh. "Won’t you join us?" This had been Shetri’s plan from the start, and he was convinced it would work. "Roast some betrin root—Isaac likes betrin," he’d argued back in the valley. "Mix a few grains of othrat into the seasoning, and they’ll sleep all the way to the N’Jarr!"

  "Listen to that song," Rukuei breathed. The wind was shifting as the smallest sun dropped below the horizon, and "Che gelida manina" floated toward them on the breeze. "Sipaj, Tiyat, what do you think?" Rukuei asked. "Any ideas?"

  "I say wait until morning, so you can see them, too," Tiyat declared. "Two kinds of mind are better than one for making plans."

  Which was true, but nothing went as planned.

  "SIGNORA," CARLO INSISTED THREE DAYS LATER, "I ASSURE YOU, THEY are at the rendezvous coordinates you gave us—"

  "They’re not there," Sofia repeated, cutting Carlo off. Her voice was clear and hard, despite the huge storm system over Gayjur, which made her transmission pop and hiss. "The escort reports they have located the site. Signor Giuliani, my people say that the camp smells strongly of blood, but there are no bodies."

  "Oh, my God," John Candotti whispered, hugging himself and pacing along the bridge bulkhead. "I knew we should have gone back down!"

  "Let’s not panic, ace," said Danny, but like everyone else, he was reconsidering the facts. Three days of terrible weather, with short reports from the ground crew: "We’re fine." But no details…

  "Signora, our entire party has subcutaneous GPS implants," Carlo said, having taken this step to avoid the fate of the lost Contact Consortium party. He watched as Frans Vanderhelst brought up the readouts from the global positioning system. "We are checking the position data as I speak, but there is no reason to believe—"

  "What the hell…?" Frans said.

  Carlo swore briefly. "Signora, we show three GPS transmitters at the coordinates of the rendezvous. But the implants haven’t moved for sixty-eight hours—. That doesn’t make sense. We heard from the ground party last night. Wait. There is a fourth trace showing a position approximately two hundred and forty kilometers northeast of the landing site."

  "Whose trace is still active?" Sofia asked tightly.

  "That’s Sandoz," Frans reported.

  There was a moan from John and something near a growl from Sofia Mendes. Carlo cut in, still studying the GPS data. "Yes. Definitely. Sandoz started moving north almost three days ago."

  "He’s been taken hostage. The others are dead—or worse!"

  "Signora! Please! They—"

  "Why didn’t you cross-reference the GPS locale with the origin of the radio transmissions?" Sofia demanded. "You should have realized days ago that something was wrong!"

  "Never occurred to me," Frans said defensively. He was already pulling up the transcripts to see if there was something he missed, some clue… "Everyone sounded fine!"

  "Signora, please! You are assuming your conclusions," Carlo cried. He was hardly one to dither, but Mendes seemed to leap out ahead of everything that was said. "The ground party checked in last night!"

  "Have you spoken to all four of them?"

  "Yes, at one time or another."

  "Then obviously they have been reporting under duress," Sofia snapped, furiously impatient with their slowness. "The GPS implants have been ripped out—"

  "Signora, how would anyone know—"

  "— which is why there’s been no movement for three days. Someone has managed to take Sandoz’s with them and they’re—"

  "One of my men is still down there," Carlo said, trying to slow her down. "Nico has orders to protect Sandoz in particular. If Sandoz were in danger, Nico would have told me."

  "There was blood at the campsite," Sofia reminded him. "Signor Giuliani, they’ve been taken hostage. There are renegades in the northern mountains. We’ve never been able to root them out, but now—. This ends," she said almost to herself, her anger like the thunderheads in Gayjur’s sky, whose lightning made the radio crackle and spit. "This ends. The raiding, the theft, the lies. The kidnapping, the murders—it all ends now. I will get our people back and, by God, I will put a stop to this. Signor Giuliani, I am going north with troops to intercept them. I’ll want a continuous monitor of your GPS trace and all radio contacts with the ground party, is that understood? We are going to track those djanada bastards to their lair and finish this, once and for all."

  Pon River Drainage

  October2078, Earth-Relative

  EMILIO SANDOZ WAS THE FIRST TO NOTICE THE TRAVELERS APPROACHING the camp
site on foot from the west. All four VaRakhati wore the robes and boots of urban Runa traders, and he had no reason to doubt their identity. "Visitors," he announced, and walked out to meet the newcomers, Nico at his side, Sean and Joseba behind him. He was not afraid. Sofia had assured him repeatedly that there were no djanada south of the Gamu mountains, and Nico was armed.

  He held out both his hands, palms upward in the Runa manner, and readied himself for the once-familiar warmth of the long Runa fingers that would rest in his own, then remembered the braces and lowered his arms. "Someone’s hands are not fit for touch, but someone greets you with goodwill," he explained. Glancing at Nico, he urged, "Say hello," and watched, pleased, as Nice’s grave and correct greeting—"Challalla khaeri" — was acknowledged and returned by the two Runa who came forward.

  Turning to Sean and Joseba, he smiled at their dumbstruck immobility. "The two in front are women," Emilio told them. "The ones hanging back may be males. Sometimes they prefer to let the ladies do the honors. Say hello." When the greetings had been exchanged, he continued as though he had never been away, "Such a long journey you have had! We would be pleased to share our meal with you."

  He saw the two people in the back look at each other, and it was then that he stopped breathing, and stared at the smaller of them. Not a Runao, but someone Emilio Sandoz had seen in all too many nightmares: a man of medium stature, with violet eyes of surpassing beauty that met and held his own with a gaze so direct and searching that it took all his strength to stare back, and give no ground.

  It can’t be, he thought. This cannot be the same man.

  "You are-you must be the son of Emilio Sandoz?" he heard the man ask. The voice was different. Resonant, and beautiful, but different. "I’ve seen your father’s image. In the records…"

  At the sound of the K’San language and the sight of the Jana’ata’s carnassial teeth, revealed as Rukuei had spoken, Sean backed away. Nico drew his weapon, but Joseba stepped up swiftly and said, "Give it to me." He flicked off the safety and with a Basque hunter’s reactions, turned and fired at something snuffling piglike in the bushes nearby.