The Terrorists of Irustan

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The Terrorists of Irustan Page 14

by Louise Marley


  “Then how the hell could he have contracted the disease?” Sullivan demanded.

  Zahra touched Qadir’s sleeve again, and he turned toward her. The skin around his eyes had gone white, his jaw muscles trembling with tension. “Qadir,” she murmured. “It would be better if I speak directly with the doctor.”

  “No,” he grated. “Tell me what you want to say.”

  “But you must calm yourself,” she breathed.

  Qadir met her eyes through her rill. “1 will,” he said quietly. “Thank you, my dear. Now tell me.”

  “Gadil worked in the mines a long time,” Zahra said. “And 1 often find evidence, even with the masks, of rhodium dust in the lungs and the bloodstream.”

  Qadir conveyed that to Dr. Sullivan, and then leaned close to Zahra again. She continued, “1 suspect that very long exposure, even with precautions, causes a rise in the level of contamination. It may even be absorbed through the skin.”

  There was another interruption while he repeated her words. She heard Sullivan shift impatiently, and she went on speaking to Qadir. “Gadil avoided his medicant; routine exams would have detected elevated levels of rhodium.” Zahra waited while Qadir repeated that to the Port Authority officials. She added, “Our men must be more conscientious about visiting their medicants. There’s no cause for alarm.”

  When all of this had been relayed, the Earthers leaned their heads together, conferring. Zahra sat demurely, silent now, her long fingers linked in her lap.

  “Chief Director,” Sullivan said, “could you ask the medicant if I may see her postmortem results?”

  Qadir looked at Diya, and Diya took a sleeved disc from his pocket, holding it by one corner, and put it on the desk. “She prepared this for you,” Qadir told the doctor.

  Onani looked at the disc with one narrow eyebrow arched. Sullivan picked up the sleeve, saying, “Thank you.”

  Zahra murmured to Qadir again. He hesitated a moment, and then smiled at her. He told Sullivan, “The medicant says IhMullah’s body has not yet been interred. You’re welcome to repeat her exam if you like. She offers her surgery.”

  Sullivan stared at them. “Why, no,” he said, after an uncomfortable moment. “I have every confidence in your—in the medicant’s ability. I’m curious, though. How did she know how to do an autopsy?”

  Zahra murmured, “Tell Dr. Sullivan that I found a tutorial on postmortem exams in the files, and that I had a remote sampler in my equipment, so gross incisions were not necessary.”

  Qadir had difficulty with some of that, but he managed to convey the information.

  “Interesting, interesting. I’ll look over her results,” Sullivan said, “and I’ll give her a call if I have questions.”

  Onani put out a hand. “The doctor means he’ll call you, Chief Director, or your secretary.”

  Dr. Sullivan looked surprised, and then embarrassed. His face grew rosy. “I’m sorry. I forgot,” he stammered.

  Qadir said graciously, “It’s all right, Doctor. We Irustani understand that our ways are somewhat different from yours.”

  “But, look, Director,” Sullivan said quickly. “What if this IhMullah got the disease some other way? What if there’s danger to his family, or other Irustani—or Port Force? I’m responsible for the health of over a thousand people here.” The two aides looked up from their portables and exchanged an uneasy glance.

  Diya had sat silent throughout the entire interview, but he now turned to Qadir. “Chief Director, I believe you have other duties this afternoon,” he said coolly.

  “Indeed.” Qadir stood up, and gave his hand to Zahra. She stood beside him. “I think that’s all, Administrator.”

  “We’ll see,” Onani answered, his midnight features grave. “If this is an outbreak, it could have serious implications.”

  “The medicant is convinced it is not,” Qadir said. “I trust her judgment.” “Yes.” Onani’s was noncommittal. “I hope she’s right.”

  “I’m concerned for my own people, of course,” Qadir said in a studied tone. “If I had any doubts, I would pursue them.”

  A grim smile stole across Zahra’s veiled face. Her allies were fear and prejudice. Sullivan could redo the postmortem, or Qadir could inspect the water tunnels. Information was readily available. They would find a hundred reasons not to find it.

  Ah, well, she thought. She descended the stairs with Qadir and Diya, past the curious men and women of Port Force. She walked in silence to Qadir’s sleek car and took her seat in the back. Ah, well. It’s over now. She would answer to the Maker when her time came. But she was finished with Port Force.

  fourteen

  * * *

  Let yesterday and tomorrow keep their own concerns; today we have the mines, the Doma, and our sons, in the mercy of the One.

  —Seventeenth Homily, The Book of the Second Prophet

  Ishi rose early on the Doma Day following Gadil’s funeral. Zahra slept on, her dark hair tumbled over her face. Ishi tiptoed about the bedroom, brushing her teeth, combing her hair, finding her dress and veil and sandals, almost holding her breath to keep from making a sound. She pulled on her veil, and kept her sandals in her hand until she went out. She put her sandals on in the hall before she hurried downstairs.

  The circle was coming, and Ishi knew there was too much for Lili and Cook to do alone. Zahra—Zahra was just not herself these days. She claimed she was only tired, but that explanation didn’t satisfy Ishi. She couldn’t imagine why Gadil IhMullah’s death should upset anyone, but Zahra had been withdrawn ever since. Of course the leptokis disease was a shock to everyone, but Zahra had assured Ishi there was nothing to worry about.

  Ishi wasn’t a bit concerned about the leptokis disease. She was worried about Zahra. She tried to find small things to do to make her days easier, changing the bedsheets in the surgeries without being asked, picking up scattered discs from Zahra’s desk. She wanted to ask outright what was wrong, but Zahra’s remote expression, her shadowed eyes, forestalled her.

  Still, Ishi was not quite twelve years old. Even worried as she was, she tingled with excitement over the party ahead. Her favorite circle days were when the friends gathered at Qadir’s house, the women and girls and anahs trooping up the drive in silence, bursting into talk the moment they were within doors.

  And Cook made such lovely things to eat, beautiful fruit and olive trays, fresh flatbread, the sweet cakes all the girls adored. Ishis mouth watered, thinking of it. She couldn’t wait until the company came to eat. She would have to grab some fruit or bread from the kitchen. It seemed she was always hungry!

  She was growing fast. Lili complained over her clothes, always letting out the hems of her old dresses or measuring for new ones. Ishi thought about the growth as a medicant might; her cells dividing, her bones lengthening, her breasts just beginning to swell. She held up her hands before her sometimes, in awe at how her body was changing. Her fingers grew longer every week, her wrists narrowing, her arms stretching. A little ring she had received as a birthday gift from Qadir no longer fit her at all, and she wore it on a chain around her neck. She told herself she was growing to look more like Zahra every day. Of course that was silly; Zahra’s hair was black, and her eyes a dark violet. Ishi’s own hair was plain brown, and her eyes, too. But her face was almost the same shape, except for her pointed chin. One day she might even be as tall as Zahra!

  Today would be a different kind of circle day. Rabi and her mother would be wearing their scarlet mourning dresses, and voices would be kept low, out of respect. If she and Rabi spoke of Gadil they would whisper, hiding their mouths behind folds of verge. Only Kalen, who spoke everything that came into her head, was likely to say anything out loud.

  Ishi had keened as loudly as anyone as she knelt before Gadil’s coffin, but she had felt no grief. She had seen Rabi’s eyes through her veil, and Kalen’s. How could they be sad? It was a good thing Rabi’s father died when he did. Ishi had been surprised to see him in his coffin, so old and wrink
led, not like Qadir at all. It was a mercy, just like the Second Prophet said. Kalen could choose for Rabi now. Besides, Binya Maris no longer wanted her—Ishi had heard Cook and Marcus whisper that Binya Maris was afraid of the leptokis disease. As if he could catch it from Rabi! Men were so stupid sometimes.

  “Ishi, are the chairs set?” Lili called from the kitchen.

  Ishi put her head out of the dayroom door. “Yes,” she called happily. “Chairs for the circle, chairs for the anahs.”

  “Good, good,” Lili answered. She came into Ishi’s view, bearing a wide wooden tray laden with glasses and cups. “Run to the kitchen then, and help Cook with the rest of these.”

  Ishi trotted down the hall, grinning at the anah. Lili was neatly veiled as usual, only her rill open. Ishi’s blue veil was untidy, rill and verge still undone, drape tossed back over her shoulders. Lili clucked her tongue and shook her head.

  Lili had been worrying about Zahra too. She fussed, urging Zahra to eat more, to lie down, to shorten her clinic hours. Zahra had been spending too much time at the clinic, going there at strange times, and alone.

  One evening very late, Ishi had waked to see Zahra pulling on her medicant’s coat, tiptoeing out of their bedroom. Ishi rubbed her eyes and got out of bed, feeling anxious. It had been a strange day in the clinic, with Asa gone all morning and Diya sulking behind the screen in the surgery. Ishi, following Zahra through the dark house, found the door to the large surgery closed and locked. She knocked lightly, but received no answer. She stood outside the door, puzzled, her hand raised to knock again. Such a thing had never happened before in the three and a half years she had been Zahra’s apprentice.

  A sound came from the surgery, and Ishi stood frowning, trying to think what it was. It sounded like scrubbing, the regular soapy scrape of a scrub brush on tiles, the way it sounded when the kitchen floor was being washed. Alarmed, Ishi stepped back from the door. Why would Zahra scrub the surgery? The maids did that for her! There was something odd, something frightening. . . . Suddenly, Ishi didn’t want to know. She felt small and confused and left out. She wrapped her arms tightly about herself and hurried back to their bedroom.

  At least, Ishi reflected now as she hurried to the kitchen, Zahra hadn’t gone to the surgery alone since that night.

  Cook met Ishi at the door with a platter to carry to the dayroom. Sweet cakes and sugared grapes were arranged in layers around the bloom of a mock rose Cook had candied with honey and citrus juice. The sweet scent of the flower mingled with the enticing vanilla and cinnamon of the cakes. Ishi smiled as she carried the platter carefully down the hall and laid it on the long table. Rabi and the others would love these. Cook came after her with another tray.

  “No, this way, little sister,” Cook said, moving Ishi’s platter to one side. “You see how the pattern moves, leading from the citrus to the fish, and then to the sweets?”

  Ishi followed Cooks hands and nodded. “You could have been a sculptor, Cook!”

  “If I’d been a man, maybe,” Cook said.

  Ishi would have loved to take just one of the sweet cakes, but she wouldn’t have disturbed Cook’s lovely design for anything. She sighed, and turned to survey the dayroom. Everything was beautiful. Huge vases overflowed with flowers and olive branches Asa had bought in the Medah. Big colorful cushions were scattered and ready for the girls to sit on, chairs for the women carefully arranged. And Rabi would be free to play and chatter with the girls, not forced to sit, veiled and polite and bored, with the married women! Anticipation made Ishi giddy, and she ran from the dayroom and charged up the stairs, taking two at a time, to see if Zahra was awake.

  Very quietly, she opened the bedroom door.

  She found Zahra leaning into the casing of her window, staring out across the city. She was still in her nightgown, her long, smooth arms bare, her hair a dusky tangle down her back.

  “Zahra?” Ishi ventured. “It’s circle day!”

  Zahra didn’t turn, but she put out her hand to draw Ishi close. With relief, Ishi snuggled against her, putting her arm around Zahra’s slender waist. She felt Zahra’s ribs beneath her fingers, almost no flesh to cover them.

  “Look,” Zahra said, pointing. Ishi followed her gaze.

  A shuttle was approaching the port. It appeared to hang suspended above the city, a wedge of silver against the pale blue of the sky. The rumble of its engines was almost inaudible at this distance. Its wings, sweeping back at a wide angle, blazed with reflected light, leaving its swollen underbelly in shadow. As they watched, the shuttle sank below the skyline, one final gleam glancing between the buildings. Zahra sighed, making the silky fabric of her nightdress slither under Ishi’s hand.

  “Like a great bird,” Zahra muttered. “Imagine, Ishi—imagine being able to fly like that, to soar, land where you like—or leap into the air and just—just leave.”

  “You mean, go to Earth?” Ishi asked.

  Zahra turned away from the window. She patted Ishi’s cheek, and gave her a fragment of a smile. “No, not Earth,” she said. “The shuttles don’t go to Earth.”

  “I know that! But you’d like to go, wouldn’t you?”

  Zahra turned her head back to the window. Ishi was alarmed to see a glisten in her eyes. She had never, ever seen Zahra weep, not even when that poor woman, Maya B’Neeli, died.

  No tears fell. Zahra sighed again, and moved away to her dressing table. “I just meant, away,” she said. “Away from everything. Fly, where no one can follow. Above the planet. Off among the stars.”

  Ishi didn’t know how to answer, didn’t understand this mood. She stood rooted, feeling as if she had missed something. She hoped Zahra didn’t mean she wanted to fly away from her.

  Zahra met her gaze in the mirror. She smiled again, but it was the same expression, a smile that curved her lips but brought no light to her eyes. “Never mind, Ishi,” she said. She picked up her brush and pulled it through her hair. “I’m being silly. Go down and get some breakfast. I’ll be along in a moment.”

  * * *

  The remorse Zahra felt—or perhaps not remorse, but at the least a vicious weight of responsibility—Kalen did not share. Kalen gripped her hand, hard, and hugged her close.

  “Look, Zahra, look at Rabi!” she whispered fiercely.

  Zahra turned slowly, finding Kalen’s daughter in the dayroom that was quickly filling with colorful dresses and floating veils. The mourning scarlet Rabi wore made her eyes sparkle. She glowed, smiling, looking even younger than her thirteen years. Ishi had drawn her to the cushions spread on the floor. Their heads bent together, the scarlet veil and the blue, and a froth of giggles rose about them.

  “You see, Zahra!” Kalen exclaimed.

  The others came, quiet Camilla, plump Idora, little Laila, their children in tow, their anahs snickering together in their own circle almost as freely as the little girls. Lili bustled about, moving chairs to more congenial places, offering drinks. Rills and verges were unfastened, and laughter and talk swirled, cheerful as ever. Zahra watched the scene, so normal, so ordinary. Yet everything was changed. The beauty of the scene, the delight in the company of friends, were like remembered pleasures, as if they had nothing to do with the present.

  They sat down, the five friends, the circle. Laila smiled across at Kalen and said softly, “Praise to the One whose face is never veiled! Our prayers were answered.”

  Idora patted Kalen’s hand. “Are you all right? And Rabi?”

  Kalen tucked her fading red hair beneath the vivid scarlet of her cap and blew out her lips. “We’re fine!” she said with a toss of her head. “I tell you, widowhood suits me. No one orders me about, at least no one in my house. The houseboy has to ask me—me!—for decisions on things.”

  “Oh,” Idora said, leaning toward Kalen. “Isn’t that hard? How do you know what to tell him?”Kalen chuckled. “1 just think of something. Sometimes I don’t know right away—I mean, what do you do with a car no one in the house can drive? But it works out. And the
men from Water Supply came and cleared out Gadil’s desk and business things. All I had to do—” She stopped, and her lip curled. “All I had to do was get rid of his clothes.”

  “What did you do with them?” Idora asked.

  “I sent them to the Medah. In a big basket!” Kalen said. “I sent them down there for anyone who wanted them.”

  “Oh, I could never have done that,” Idora declared. “I’d have to keep something, something to remember him by!”

  “I don’t want to remember,” Kalen said. “It’s all gone.”

  Laila said, “Kalen—where are you going to live now? You know, without Samir, I wouldn’t know what to do! I’d be completely lost . . . and so lonely.” Her mouth drooped.

  “Really,” Idora said. “Where does a widow go if she doesn’t have married daughters?”

  Kalen folded her arms and her cheeks flushed. “Our parents don’t talk about this. They marry us to old men who usually die before we do. Where are we supposed to go?”

  Camilla said, “You can come to us, Kalen. I think Leman would agree, if I asked him.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  Camilla made a wry face. “No, I can’t be sure, really. You know how he is, but . . . but I can at least ask him!”

  Kalen leaned to pat Camilla’s hand. “Never mind,” she said. “It’s not necessary. Rabi and I—we’re going to go home. To my father’s house.”

  “Oh, Kalen!” Idora cried. “Is that all you can do? Wouldn’t you like to marry again? Surely your father—”

  Kalen laughed. “Oh, no! I’m not going to give him the opportunity! Besides, this is easier. My father’s very frail. My mother and I can work things out between us.”

  “There must be money,” Zahra put in. “Gadil left you and Rabi everything, surely, since there’s no male heir?”

  Kalen made a sour face. “Sure, there’s money. But what can I do with it? I can’t go to the bank and get it, can I, or go to the Medah and spend it. My father, or his man, has to do all that for me. It’s all well and good to say women receive their fair inheritance, but if they can’t use it . . .”

 

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