by neetha Napew
“And your sister?” Yana asked. “Does she transform, too? I wondered why she bit my head off when I mentioned seal hunting.”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of, and I think she would have told me. She’s the only one who’s actually seen me change, except for you, though Clodagh knows. As you saw, the seal shape can be very useful when it’s necessary to navigate the underground riverine network.” He gave her a half-uncertain, half-rakish smile. “Clodagh and Sinead even seem to feel it makes me one of the more versatile individuals on the planet. But the woman whose opinion on the subject matters the most to me is you and-I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it, which is why I hesitated to make love to you the first time we came here, although I wanted to very badly. I meant to tell you all of this before we made love after the latchkay but ...”
She laid her hand on his cheek, and he caught it and held it as if she were throwing him a lifeline. He took another deep, ragged breath. Obviously confiding this secret to her scared him as none of the dangers they had braved together had done.
“I-hope-that after what you’ve seen, you can see that it’s this dual nature of mine that gives me my particular special bond with Petaybee. And that because of it, when we were all joined with the planet, I sensed that within our common union there was an extra person present, the child you carry. Our child.”
“But I can’t have a child,” she said, still trying to absorb his astonishing revelation. A little dizzy with all the changes taking place, she leaned against his water-slick body, her cheek damp against his shoulder. “I can’t.”
“You can and are having our child,” Sean said in such a fiercely tender voice that she melted against him. “Petaybee healed that part of you, too, because our children will be even closer to it than most. The planet wants your children-and mine.” He turned her in his arms, and again she saw the anxiety-no, fear- cloud his silver eyes. “Or do you not want mine?”
Yana gulped. “I think . . .” she began unsteadily; then she cleared her throat so what she could manage to say was audible. “I think that first 1 need a bath. After that, anything you want, I want, too!”
“Then you don’t mind?”
“Being pregnant? No, I thought I’d never get the chance.”
Relief mingled with the anxiety in his face now. “Then you do want the baby? You don’t mind that I sometimes . . . change into a seal?”
She searched his face, so strong and full of integrity, intelligence, and humor. She thought of their lovemaking and his strength and kindness through everything they had endured together. She shook her head slowly, rather amazed to find that in the face of all of that-in the face of her love-she had damn few fears, and even fewer doubts. She put her arms on his shoulders, looked into his face with a quizzical little smile, and gave a small shrug of nonchalance.
“A seal? A man? Whatever,” she said. “Nobody’s perfect.”
ABOUT THE COLLABORATION
The inspiration for the arctic background of Powers That Be came several years ago when Hugo and Nebula award-winning bestselling author Anne McCaffrey visited Fairbanks, Alaska, at that time the home of (future) Nebula-winner Elizabeth Ann Scarborough. When the two weren’t working on a writers-in-the-school project for the Fairbanks Arts Association, Scarborough saw to it that McCaffrey tasted the adventures Fairbanks in the winter had to offer: a dogsled ride, the northern lights, a movie about dogsled racing, and (thanks to her friend Hilda’s hospitality) moose spaghetti.
In the beginning of 1992, McCaffrey invited Scarborough to Ireland to conduct some folk music research. Inevitably, the two writers talked about writing, and folk music and the Irish, and the idea for Powers Thai Be “just growed” despite McCaffrey’s busy schedule and Scarborough’s exploration of Irish music. The manuscript bounced back and forth down the hall at McCaffrey’s new home in County Wicklow, with story conferences occurring over the breakfast table before the milkman arrived. The two took turns writing and rewriting the manuscript to make the transitions smooth, each section being written in turn by whoever was most excited about that particular passage. The book was completed before the end of Scarborough’s ‘92 visit, and McCaffrey’s editor, Shelly Shapiro, who was visiting at the time, promptly put dibs on the joint project for Del Rey. The story will continue in two more volumes, which are to be written in the next two years on subsequent visits.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Anne McCaffrey shuttles between her home in Ireland and the United States, where she picks up awards and honors and greets her myriad fans. She is one of the field’s most popular authors.
Elizabeth Ann Scarborough is the 1989 winner of the Nebula Award for her novel The Healer’s War. She has also written twelve (and a half) other novels. Scarborough, whose other great passion is folk music, lives in a log cabin in the Puget Sound area of Washington State with her three cats.
Power Lines
by:
Anne McCaffrey
And
Elizabeth Ann Scarborough
copyright 1994
Chapter 1
SpaceBase occasionally still rumbled underfoot, as if to remind everyone that Petaybee planet was by no means pacified. The riders from Kilcoole village had kept well to the wooded trails farthest from the steaming, freshly thawed river, now merely rimmed with ice like a frosting of salt along the top of a glass. Several times on their journey, the planet shook and shifted, as if telling them of the urgency of their mission, but by now the Petaybeans calmly accepted the planet’s new mood.
Major Yanaba Maddock, Intergal Company Corps, Retired—well, mostly retired, anyway—looked around at the faces of her lover and her new friends and neighbors. Their own mood was both happy and expectant as they dismounted in front of the SpaceBase headquarters building. Clodagh Senungatuk, Kilcoole’s healer and one-woman information center, dusted her divided skirts while her curly-coated horse gazed impassively as flurries of its freshly shed hairs floated on the unseasonably warm air.
Sinead Shongili, Yana’s own beloved Sean’s sister, assisted Aisling, Clodagh’s sister, from the saddle while Buneka Rourke held the reins of her Uncle Seamus’s and Aunt Moira’s horses as they dismounted. The churned mud that formed the roads at SpaceBase was dotted with stones and boards and pieces of metal to be used as steps. Hopping from one of these to the next, the party of Petaybeans made their way into the building.
They all had such high hopes for this meeting, Yana thought, almost with irritation. Personally, she hated meetings. Always had. Most of them provided no more input than could be contained in a two-second burst on a comm link. Waste of time, ordinarily. She took a deep breath and neatly tucked in the shirt tails of the uniform blouse that Dr. Whittaker Fiske had suggested might be the politically tactful costume for the occasion. Partisan as she was, she was the most neutral person attending the meeting. While the company she kept announced her leanings, the uniform would remind the bosses of her long-standing affiliation with Intergal.
Sean Shongili, sensing her tension, reached up briefly to knead the back of her neck, and she gave him a nervous smile. As the chief geneticist for this area of the planet, Sean was a key member of the Petaybean delegation. He and the others seemed to think that it was predestined that the company men would see reason and accede to the requirements of their planet and its people. Sean, who despite his profession was no more experienced at being a prospective parent than she was, had already suggested that her premeeting trepidation was in part at least a hormonally stimulated response. He was wrong, but as he had been born and bred on the planet, she could hardly expect him to understand.
Petaybeans gathered only to entertain themselves and each other or to discuss a problem and arrive at a consensus for solution. Company meetings were far more often power plays where the issue was secondary to whose view prevailed. But then, Yana had never before been to any meeting where the issue was the survival of a sentient planet and its people.
Two deep breaths, and she follow
ed Sean into the building and on into the conference room. As the Petaybeans and Yana entered, Dr. Whittaker Fiske stood, forcing the other dignitaries to do likewise. Here most of the cracks from the earthquakes had been sealed. The screens along the walls were still slightly askew on their brackets but functional. There wasn’t enough seating for all the Petaybeans who had been invited, but the major players ringed the beautiful table, hand crafted from native Petaybean woods.
As nominal chairperson, Whittaker Fiske sat in the center with his son, Captain Torkel Fiske. Yana, Sean Shongili, Clodagh, and the Petaybean survivors of the last ill-fated exploratory mission sat to the left of the Fiskes; Francisco and Diego Metaxos and Steve Margolies were placed to the right, along with various other company dignitaries. The latter looked considerably more confused than the Petaybean group, who were, to a person, optimistically resolute.
A bare half hour later, when the comm link with Intergal Earth had been established, the optimism on many faces had been replaced with disgust and dismay at the unreasonableness of certain officials.
“And you actually have the unmitigated gall . . .” declared the occupant of the main screen, Farringer Ball, the secretary-general of Intergal’s Board of Directors, “to tell me that the planet is making these demands on us! His round, fleshy face had taken on a reddish orange hue.
Yana thought some of that color had to be generated by the faulty connection or the disrupted innards of the comm screen. No human flesh could turn such a shade.
“Yes, Farrie, that’s what I’m saying,” Whittaker Fiske replied, smiling gently as a fond parent might to an erring child. “And I’ve proof enough that I haven’t lost my marbles or melted my circuits or any damned thing else you can think up to account for such a—“ Whittaker Fiske paused and grinned before he added, “delusion. Delusion it isn’t!” He said that with no smile whatever and a very solemn expression. “We may not have encountered such a phenomenon before, Farrie, but we have now, and I don’t need my nose rubbed in it any more than it has been. So let’s get on with—“
“We’ll get on with nothing, Fiske,” Farringer Ball said explosively, and a thick finger rose from the bottom of the screen, followed by a hand that was shaking with anger. ‘I’m sending a relief company down immediately, with a squad of medics to check out every single—“
“Just be sure none of the company or the medics happen to have Petaybee as their planet of origin,” Torkel interrupted.
“Huh? What’s that, Captain?” The secretary-general shifted his scowl slightly to Torkel.
“It’ll be hard to do, Secretary Ball, since most of your best men and women come from this planet.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing.” Farringer turned away from the camera to address others on his end of the communications channel. “We’ve got a planet issuing orders, respected scientists gone barmy, and now captains telling secretary-generals how to choose reinforcements! This situation is now Class Four!”
“You never were reasonable, Farrie,” Whittaker Fiske remarked in an amiably placatory tone, “when you come up against something remotely unusual.”
“Remotely? Unusual?.”
“Like I said . . .” Whittaker glanced around the screens at the other people who were attending the conference from a distance. “You can’t handle what isn’t in the book. This isn’t. I came here myself to sort out what looked like a minor glitch. And it’s the majorest one I’ve ever encountered. However, keeping both mind and options open, I’d still like to get on with the substance of this conference. Take a trank, Farrie, and listen, will ya? I’ll explain if you stop interrupting me.”
“We do owe Whittaker the courtesy of hearing him out, Farringer,” said one of the other board members, a woman of elegant bearing and composure. She had a beautiful countenance, sculpted on classic lines that owed nothing to surgical skills. Her black hair waved back to frame her heart-shaped face; even the harsh colors of the comm unit could not hide the porcelain fairness of her complexion, or the clear, bright blue of her eyes. Her makeup was discreet, and the only hint of her high rank was the exotically set firestones that she wore as earrings. Marmion de Revers Algemeine had made several fortunes on “hearing people out.” I rather fancy the idea of a planet knowing what it wants, and doesn’t want! Sentience on a vast scale.” She leaned forward, elbows on the surface in front of her, and rested her chin on her fists. “Besides, Whittaker never gives boring reports.”
She flicked her glance sideways, but as the speakers were in different offices, at widely separated locations, it was impossible to tell if she was looking at someone in her vicinity or one of the other attendees.
This won’t be the least bit boring, Marmie,” Whittaker said, grinning. “Torkel sent me an urgent call that there was a breakdown in the terraforming on this planet—we used Terraform B, the Whittaker Effect, which has never before broken down—so I figured that a simple adjustment would suffice, but I certainly wanted to be on hand . . .”
“Yes, yes, we know your grandfather developed that program,” Ball said testily, flicking his fingers impatiently.
“The point, then, my impatient friend, is that no break down has occurred. Unless one counts evolutionary development of a quite extraordinary nature as breakdown.” Whittaker said the last triumphantly, and Yana saw some of the Petaybean contingent nodding in agreement and looking relieved.
“Am I missing something here?” Ball demanded. “Have you found a way to extract the minerals we require after all? Or located the missing members of the teams?”
“No, but one surviving team member, who has made quite a spectacular recovery, is sitting here in this room. Dr. Metaxos?”
“Secretary-General Ball.” Francisco Metaxos nodded to the screen. Metaxos’s hair was now spectacularly white, but otherwise he looked much younger than he had when he was first found, closer to his true age of forty-some-odd years. When Yana had first seen him, she’d thought him a man of seventy or so. The only change that hadn’t reversed was the hair. It had been, when he landed, as black as his son’s, or so Diego had said.
Marmion Algemeine suddenly smiled. “Frank! We heard you were . .”
“I was,” Metaxos said, returning her smile. “But as happens with many maladies, once the cause of mine was made clear, the appropriate treatment was administered and I’m fine now.”
“Why is everybody talking in riddles?” Ball asked, almost plaintively.
“If you’ll allow me, sir,” Torkel cut in, I think I have the explanation. It seems that all of us, myself included, have been under some sort of massively induced hypnotic illusion. It is quite strong, quite real—seeming. Under this illusion, one becomes certain that this terraformed rock on which we stand is actually a sentient being. That is, of course, impossible, a bit of superstitious nonsense, but I assure you the quality of the illusion is exceptional. I feel that it is induced primarily through two of the inhabitants of this area, the woman called Clodagh and this man, Dr. Sean Shongili. Even our own Intergal agent, Major Maddock here, has fallen under their influence and—“
“None so blind as the man who will not see, son,” Whittaker Fiske said sadly.
“Even my father has been taken in, sir.”
“Excuse me,” Yana said. “I thought we were here to present evidence, to talk over solutions. There is the evidence of Lavelle Maloney. The autopsy report is objective enough. There were physiological changes in Lavelle’s body that the doctors couldn’t explain. Dr. Shongili here can. Whether or not the company accepts the explanation is another matter but you should at least hear Dr. Shongili out.”
Ball waved a dismissive hand. “We’ve seen the reports and the treatise he sent in with its highly imaginative explanation of Petaybean adaptation. Still smacks of obstructionism. Besides, Shongili is one of the ringleaders down there, if certain parties are to be believed.”
The Petaybeans cast resentful eyes on Torkel Fiske, who smiled, a wronged man vindicated.
The
elegant Marmion spoke again in her slow, considered way. Tell me, Doctor Shongili, Ms. Senungatuk, are your perceptions that the planet is sentient shared by other Petaybeans, planet wide?”
Clodagh nodded, but Sean looked dubious. “We aren’t in direct contact with the southern land mass,” he said.
“Not directly,” Clodagh said, shrugging. “But they know.”
“You seem so sure.”
“How could they not know a thing like that! Clodagh asked. Yana had the distinct impression that Clodagh was hedging, unwilling, for some good reason, to divulge more just then. Knowing Clodagh, that would not be out of character. The woman was like the planet: round, subtly active, and full of mysteries. In Yana’s experience, they were mostly comfortable, benign mysteries, but mysterious nonetheless.
Marmion let that drop for the moment, but another member of the committee, whose balding, ponytailed head had been turned to the comm screen, turned to face them. His eyes were a beautiful celestial blue, but his mouth was a thin hard line, the upper lip beaking over the lower like a snapping turtle’s.
“We must ask them, certainly,” he said. “We must conduct a survey all over TBeta and inquire of its inhabitants what their beliefs are concerning the planet and what experiences they have had there. It is a study long over due.” His speech contained a slight lisp and an odd intonation, an accent perhaps, mostly erased.
