“In mourning together we are reminded of the brevity and value of life. We remember that every member of our community is precious to the Maker. And we understand that when the One calls, we will go to Him, each in our own time.”
Jin-Li stared at the ranks of veiled women. No way to guess which might be Zahra, but surely she was there, somewhere, among the anonymous red-swathed figures.
“Today,” IbSada continued, “we say good-bye to a fine man, a tireless worker, a devoted husband and father. With his bereaved family, we honor his life. He spent it in service to Irustan, in the mines, in the directorate, here in the Doma. His devotion to his duty and to the Maker is an example for all men to emulate.
“We grieve at the empty chair in the Office of Water Supply. We regret the work left undone, the plans unrealized. We sorrow with his widow at the sad truth that he will never preside at his daughter’s cession, or celebrate the births of his grandsons.”
The chief director paused then, and nodded toward the center of the Doma. The palmcam followed two of the scarlet-veiled figures as they rose from their knees and approached the dais, climbing two shallow steps to stand beside the coffin. One of the women took something from her hand and laid it inside the coffin while the other stood with folded hands and bowed head. After a moment, a third woman joined them, to lay a square of white cloth precisely over the face of the dead man. Then, together, the three lowered the lid of the coffin. The third woman walked around it, sealing its metal clamps.
Only when that was completed did six men come from the sides of the Doma to lift the coffin from its resting place and carry it down the steps. The women trailed behind them.
The short procession moved toward the doors of the Doma, and the wide doors opened. A blaze of sunshine hit the palmcam, washing out the scene momentarily. By the time the filters compensated, the scene had become a long silent parade of swaying scarlet figures followed by stiff lines of white-garbed men. Just as the coffin reached the doors, the chief director called out, “Let us say farewell now to Gadil IhMullah,” and the line of women burst forth again in ululation, their steps swinging left and then right, almost as one body.
Abruptly the palmcam picture shut down. A routine story replaced it on the reader, text scrolling across the screen. A bored voice read it aloud. Jin-Li said, “Sound off.”
“So, Johnnie—all that mean something to you?” Rocky sat back in his chair, cradling his coffee mug in his large tanned hands. He raised his thick eyebrows at Jin-Li.
“A traditional ceremony,” Jin-Li mused. “But why send an archivist?” Rocky ventured, “Maybe because the guy was an official?”
“Director, actually,” Jin-Li answered. “But still . . .”
Rocky drained his coffee. “Won’t matter to us, anyway,” he said. He set his mug on his tray, stood, and lifted the whole to carry to the busing station. “Well, I’m not wasting my day off sitting around. I’m off to the reservoir. Want to come, Johnnie? There’s room—got a rowboat already loaded in my cart. Plenty of trout for everybody!”
Jin-Li stood, too. “Thanks, Rocky, but I think I’ll go around to the port offices—see what’s on.”“You sure? Right! I’m getting away from here. See ya.”
“Right. See you.”
* * *
The Port Force offices filled the upper level of the terminal building. Longshoremen rarely went farther than the comm center, where the schedule of shuttle arrivals and departures rolled across several readers around the room. Jin-Li greeted the comm officer at her desk. “Hi, Marie. What’s on?”
Marie, well-groomed, intelligent, laughed and waved her hand in the air as if cooling burned fingers. “Things are hot, Johnnie,” she said. “And here you are! What a surprise.”
Jin-Li laughed too. “Hate to disappoint. So what is it?”
Marie pursed her lips. They were tinted a shiny lavender, vivid above the beige of her uniform. A crescent glowed on her left cheek, the same color. “An Irustani director died.”
“Hardly big news. What’s hot about it?”
“Better ask the general,” Marie said, gesturing toward the end of the corridor with one slender, purple-painted thumbnail.
“You can’t tell me?”
“Nope.” She smiled again, perfect teeth between the lavender lips, eyes angled up at Jin-Li. Flirting. Her eyes had been altered, made huge and round.
“Come on, Marie.”
“Nope, can’t. Strict orders from the general.”
“General” was not a military title. This man was the general administrator of Port Forces, and only called “the general” in his absence. In his presence, this slender, intense man from the African Confederacy was Mr. Onani, or Administrator. He was unlikely to answer questions put by Jin-Li Chung, longshoreman.
The general’s secretary, though, was accessible. Jin-Li gave Marie’s desk a friendly knock and winked at her before heading off down the corridor toward the general’s office.
Like other Irustani buildings, the Port Force offices were a blend of native sandrite and whitewood, stone, and tile. Unlike the directorate buildings, however, all the outer windows in this one were tinted to filter out the glare. The general’s office also sported a large rug, deep blue with red-and-green figures in it. Doubtless Mr. Onani had imported it from his beloved Africa, as Jin-Li had imported one piece of calligraphy from Kowloon Province. So much in common! Jin-Li thought.
In the outer office, the secretary’s desk was empty, but he emerged from a door beyond it just as Jin-Li approached. Tomas wore the Port Force uniform modified as much as he dared without violating the Terms of Employment. His shorts were so wide they fell in drapes about his plump thighs. His shirt puffed around his shoulders, and he wore looping earrings and necklaces. Round glasses all but hid his eyes.
“Hello, Johnnie,” he said gaily. “What are you doing up here? I waved at you this morning at breakfast but I guess you didn’t see me.” He pouted a little, then gave a small laugh. “I hope you came up just to visit!”
“Hi, Tomas.” Jin-Li leaned to the side to glance through the door of the inner office. Three men were huddled around the desk, and Mr. Onani’s slight figure was just visible behind it, phone at his ear. “I just thought you might tell me what’s on.” A quick smile. “You always know everything!”
“Too right.” Tomas looked back at the group of men and made a sour face. “One of the Irustani high-ups died. Director of Water Supply. Nasty business. Upset everybody.”
Jin-Li came close to Tomas’s desk. “But why, Tomas? Why the attention?” Tomas took off his glasses and wiped them with a tissue. He tilted his head and squinted up at Jin-Li with glistening brown eyes. “It’s not who died, but why,” he said importantly, as he settled the glasses back on his nose. “He was pretty old, for an Irustani, but . . .” Tomas leaned forward, lowered his voice. “We’re not going to talk about this,” he whispered. “But since it’s you, Johnnie . . . chap got the leptokis disease.”
Jin-Li’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
Tomas snapped his fingers and hissed, “Went like that!”
“Uh-oh.”
Tomas looked back at his boss’ office. “Yuck!” he said with a delicate shudder. “Those filthy little beasts are everywhere. Just the thought!” “Tomas—you’ve never been in the mines, have you?”
“Thing is, I have. Once. Went with the general.”
“Wore a mask?”
Tomas nodded. “Yes, absolutely. Positively.”
“Well, then, no problem. These miners who breathe the dust—they’re the ones. They get the modified prion gene.”
Tomas sighed. “So they tell me,” he said, “but I’m scared anyway. This old guy—this IhMullah—he hadn’t been in the mines in twenty years! And he got it.”
Jin-Li frowned. “Odd. So what’s the general doing?”
Tomas rolled his eyes and flapped one limp hand. “All the staff are worked up—going to bring the dead guy’s doctor up here!”
&n
bsp; “Medicant.”
“Yes, that’s what I meant, medicant. Big deal, anyway, because her husband has to come, since they can’t talk to her directly. And get this”—he lowered his voice to a dramatic level—“the medicant’s husband is the chief director!”
Jin-Li stared at Tomas. “You’re sure?”
“Definitely! I know everything, remember?”
“Medicant IbSada—I’ve—” Jin-Li stopped in midsentence. Better not to reveal too much. Rules had been bent, if not broken outright. “I make deliveries. You know, medicines.”
“Oh, really?” Tomas was not distracted by this. “Well, look, Johnnie— you’d better not be here when the general comes out. And don’t talk about all this, or I’ll be in trouble!”
“Tomas—do they need a driver? For the medicant, I mean?”
Tomas shook his head. “No, I guess Director IbSada drives himself. And the funeral was this morning, so they’re coming after lunch. Really, better scoot. Any minute now.”
Jin-Li couldn’t bear to let this opportunity escape, or to miss out on events. But how to be useful? What might Zahra need, or the general . . .
It was too late. Onani was emerging from his office, the three other men behind him. Tomas waved his hand at Jin-Li as he rose to take instructions. Jin-Li backed away and slipped as unobtrusively as possible from the office.
Chief Director IbSada and another man in a white formal shirt and trousers were already approaching from the far end of the corridor. Between them a tall, slender figure moved, graceful in layers of red silk. Her head was bowed. Not even her hands showed as she walked between her husband and the other man. But Jin-Li knew her, knew the elegant, fine-boned features hidden by her verge, the glorious eyes covered by her rill. She was Zahra IbSada.
thirteen
* * *
Disease is a warning to follow the laws of the One. He sends the remedy as a reward for obedience.
—Forty-second Homily, The Book of the Second Prophet
Zahra kept her head bent, but her eyes flashed around her, trying to observe everything through her veil. Through the haze of scarlet, she saw the outside of the two-storied building that was the port terminal, something she had only glimpsed from a distance before today. Abundant plantings surrounded it, thirsty Earth shrubs mixed with hardy met-olives and mock roses, everything neat and well-kept. She saw men in short pants and short-sleeved shirts, and then caught her breath when she realized she was looking at women, too, their faces bare, their arms and legs exposed! They walked freely in and out of the doors, down the white sidewalks. Dark glasses turned to watch her pass. Qadir and Diya walked protectively on either side of her, but they could not shield her eyes. She drank in everything she saw, as thirsty as the Earth plants.
They made their way up a staircase to the second floor of the terminal, then down a long corridor. A young woman with bizarrely colored lips rose from the reception desk and smiled at them, gesturing to the end of the hall. Her eyes were oddly wide. Zahra felt the girl’s curious gaze as she paced along between Qadir and Diya. Other people looked up from their desks, then looked away too quickly. Conversation lagged in their wake.
General Administrator Onani’s office was the last one in the corridor. Zahra tried to see everything, taking in the pictures, the signs, the furnishings, the people. Some had skin as white as Cook’s flatbread, some olive-dark. Many wore odd, confusing decorations. In some cases Zahra could not tell if they were male or female, and it was fascinating to think that perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps it made no difference at all.
Zahra was startled to see Jin-Li Chung standing in the corridor. Chung touched his heart with his hand and nodded to the three of them, but neither Qadir nor Diya responded.
In the general administrator’s office a large, colorful mg covered most of the floor. Surely it made the office hotter than it needed to be—but then, the windows were darkened to shut out the heat. Two men stood on the rug beside a broad desk, and behind the desk was the administrator himself. His skin was the darkest Zahra had ever seen, much darker than any Irustani’s. It was so black as to have a blue cast, and his eyes were the color of a moonless night sky. Like Qadir, his hair had mostly vanished. He was far shorter than Qadir, even than Zahra herself, but he was a powerful presence. He wore a suit of deep brown, with pencil-thin lapels, and a matching collarless shirt.
The administrator touched his heart with his hand, and then held his hand out to Qadir. “Chief Director IbSada,” he said courteously. “Thank you very much for coming.”
“Of course,” Qadir answered easily, taking the hand and shaking it briefly. “Administrator, it’s good to see you again.” He indicated Diya. “I believe you’ve met my secretary.”
Diya touched his breast, as did Onani. Neither offered to shake hands. Qadir added, “And this woman is the medicant. My wife.”
“Yes,” Onani said. “Please tell the medicant we are grateful to her for coming.” The administrator knew his Irustani manners. Too bad, Zahra thought. She would have liked to see how an Earther might have addressed her.
Qadir said, “Medicant, Mr. Onani thanks you.”
Zahra made no answer.
Chairs were arranged around the big desk. Qadir set one back, slightly outside the circle, for Zahra. He took the one to her right, and waved Diya into the one on her left. The Earthers took their seats, and Onani tapped the keypad of the large reader set into his desk. It was angled so he could glance at it without turning his head. He put his elbows on the desk, his hands together before him, palm to palm, fingertip to fingertip.
“We’re sorry about Irustan’s loss, Chief Director,” he began. Qadir nodded. “And we’re sorry to interrupt your day of mourning. But we felt there was no time to lose.”
“I understand,” Qadir said. “You felt this matter required immediate attention.”
“Exactly. This is Dr. Michael Sullivan,” Onani went on, indicating the man to his immediate right.
Zahras head snapped up, and through her veil she gazed at the man, rapt. A doctor. A real Earth doctor. A man.
Beside her she felt Diya squirm in distaste, and she felt a rebellious laugh bubble inside her. She quelled it firmly, biting her lip. She had not laughed in days, nor could she imagine a worse time.
“Doctor,” Qadir said calmly.
“Chief Director,” the man replied. He looked robust, ruddy-cheeked, with silvering dark hair. He, too, wore one of the dark suits, though his was blue, with lapels even narrower than Onani’s. His shirt was piped in silver at the neck.
Onani said, “Dr. Sullivan is the chief physician for Port Force. I’ve asked him to be here while we discuss this situation because my own understanding of medical matters is limited.”
“And mine,” Qadir said.
“Yes, of course.” Onani glanced at the reader. “Now. You will forgive me, I hope, if I speak bluntly. I’m told that Director IhMullah contracted the prion disease. Correct?”
Qadir murmured to Zahra, and she spoke back in a low tone. Diya shifted uneasily, but Qadir was managing to put aside his feelings. His voice, when he conveyed her answer, was even.
“The medicant says that your information is accurate. Although Director IhMullah was not on her clinic list, she performed the postmortem examination. . . .” At these words, even Qadir’s composure cracked slightly. He had to stop and swallow, and Zahra heard the dry click of his tongue against his palate. “Ah, because she is familiar with the disease, and because the director’s medicant doesn’t do such procedures. Medicant IbSada says that the examination revealed . . .” He paused again, and said in an undertone, “Zahra, what was that again?”
“Vacuoles,” she said, clearly enough for them all to hear. “Vacuoles in the brain tissue.”
Sullivan took a breath that whistled between his teeth.
Qadir set his jaw and said, “The medicant says there were vacuoles in the brain tissue.”
“Are you sure?” The doctor’s voice was harsh.
It was tension, Zahra thought, that made it so. It was rather a light voice, but it rasped now like stone on stone.
Qadir did not bother to ask Zahra again. “Yes,” he said. “The medicant performed her exam the same day of the death.”
“What’s a vacuole?” Onani asked sharply of Sullivan. The veneer of courtesy was cracking, and Zahra watched all the men, seeing their various responses to the crisis. The two aides with Onani were frowning, hastily tapping in notes on portables.
Sullivan said, “It’s a hole, a bubble, like in a sponge.”
“What does it prove?” Onani pressed.
“It’s evidence of the prion disease,” the doctor said. He asked Qadir, “Did the medicant dispose of the waste safely? Contact can be serious, and ingestion almost certainly fatal!”
Qadir stiffened. Zahra murmured to him, and he said, “The medicant says she is well aware of the dangers. And I may add, on her behalf, that her training has been excellent.”
“Of course, of course,” the doctor said swiftly. “But there hasn’t been a case of prion disease on Irustan for over thirty years. Why now? And does it mean we have to fear an epidemic?"
Zahra touched Qadir’s arm and he bent to her.
“Qadir,” she murmured. “Tell them there could have been rhodium dust underground. Gadil might have breathed it there.”
Qadir relayed her information, adding, “The water pipes run under the streets and the building foundations. Director IhMullah may have conducted a personal inspection.”
“Without his mask?” Onani snapped. “Don’t you all know better than that?”
Qadir folded his arms. He didn’t answer immediately, and Zahra knew he was trying to control his temper. “I doubt very much that Director IhMullah would have been so rash,” he said after a moment. “I doubt it very much indeed.”
The Terrorists of Irustan Page 13
