DV 3 - The Lazarus Effect

by Frank Herbert

  "Everyone can't go onto the land at once," she said. "Only the most needy at first. We think other Islands will have to be moored offshore . . . or rafts may be built for such nearby moorage. They'll be temporary living quarters until the agricultural system is well along."

  Keel thought about this a moment, then: "You have been thinking this out for a long time."

  "We have."

  "Organizing Islanders' lives for them and --"

  "Trying to figure out how to save the lot of you!"

  "Oh?" He laughed. "By putting us on bedroom rafts near shore?"

  "They'd be ideal," she said. He could see a genuine excitement in her eyes. "As the need for them vanished, we could let them die off and use them for fertilizers."

  "Our Islands, too, no doubt -- fertilizer."

  "That's about all they'll be good for when we have enough open land."

  Keel could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. "You do not understand, Kareen. I can see that. An Island is not a dead piece of . . . of land. It's alive! It is our mother. It supports us because we give it loving care. You are condemning our mother to a bag of fertilizer."

  She stared at him a moment, then: "You seem to think Islanders are the only ones giving up a way of life. Those of us who go back to the surface --"

  "Will still have access to the deeps," he said. "You are not cutting the umbilical cord. We would suffer more in the transition. You seem willing to ignore this."

  "I'm not ignoring it, dammit! That's why you're here."

  Time to end the sparring, he thought. Time to show her that I don't really trust her or believe her.

  "You're hiding things from me," he said. "I've studied you for a long time, Kareen. There's something boiling in you, something big and important. You're trying to control what I learn, feeding me selected information to gain my cooperation. You --"

  "Ward, I --"

  "Don't interrupt. The quickest way to gain my cooperation is to open up, share everything with me. I will help if that's what should be done. I will not help, I will resist, if I feel you are concealing anything from me."

  She stopped them at a dogged hatch and stared at it without focusing.

  "You know me, Kareen," he prompted. "I say what I mean. I will fight you. I will leave . . . unless you restrain me . . . and I will campaign against --"

  "All right!" She glared up at him. "Restrain you? I wouldn't dare consider it. Others might, but I would not. You want me to share? Very well. The bad trouble has already started, Ward. Guemes Island is under the waves."

  He blinked, as if blinking would clear away the force of what she'd said.

  An entire Island, under the waves! "So," he growled, "your precious current controls didn't work. You've driven an Island onto --"

  "No." She shook her head for emphasis. "No! No! Someone has done it deliberately. It had nothing to do with Current Control. It was a cruel, vicious act of destruction."

  "Who?" He spoke the word in a low, shocked voice.

  "We don't know yet. But there are thousands of casualties and we're still picking up survivors." She turned and undogged the hatch. Keel saw the first signs of age in her slow movements.

  She's still holding something back, he thought as he followed her into her quarters.

  Humans spend their lives in mazes. If they escape and cannot find another maze, they create one. What is this passion for testing?

  --"Questions from the Avata," the Histories

  Duque began to curse, rolling in the nutrient bath and pounding his fists against the organic sides until great blue stains appeared along the edge.

  The guardians summoned the C/P.

  It was late and Simone Rocksack had been preparing for bed. At the summons, Simone pulled her favorite robe over her head and let it drop over the firm curves of her breasts and hips. The robe in its purple dignity erased all but the slightest traces of womanliness from her bearing. She hurried down the passage from her quarters, pulling at her robe to restore some of its daytime crispness. She entered the gloomy space where Vata and Duque existed. Her anxiety was obvious in every moment. Kneeling above Duque, she said: "I am here, Duque. It is the Chaplain/Psychiatrist. How can I help you?"

  "Help me?" Duque screamed. "You wart on the rump of a pregnant sow! You can't even help yourself!"

  Shocked, the C/P put a hand over the flap covering her mouth. She knew what a sow was, of course -- one of the creatures of Ship, a female swine. This she remembered well.

  A pregnant sow?

  Simone Rocksack's slender fingers couldn't help pressing against the smooth flatness of her abdomen.

  "The only swine are in the hyb tanks," she said. She concentrated on keeping her voice loud enough for Duque to hear.

  "So you think!"

  "Why are you cursing?" the C/P asked. She tried to keep a proper reverence in her tone.

  "Vata's dreaming me into terrible things," Duque moaned. "Her hair . . . it's all over the ocean and she's breaking me into little pieces."

  The C/P stared at Duque. Most of his form was a blurred hulk under the nutrient. His lips sought the surface like a bloated carp. He seemed to be all in one piece.

  "I don't understand," she said. "You appear intact."

  "Haven't I told you she dreams me?" Duque moaned. "Dreams hurt if you can't get out. I'll drown down there. Every little piece of me will drown."

  "You're not drowning, Duque," the C/P assured.

  "Not here, baboon. In the sea!"

  Baboon, she thought. That was another creature from Ship. Why was Duque recalling the creatures of Ship? Were they at last coming down? But how could he know? She lifted her gaze to the fearful watchers around the rim of the organic tank. Could one of them . . . ? No, it was impossible.

  His voice suddenly clear and extremely articulate, Duque proclaimed, "She won't listen. They're talking and she won't listen."

  "Who won't listen, Duque? Who are 'they'?"

  "Her hair! Haven't you heard a thing I've said?" He pounded a fist weakly against the tank side below the C/P. She stroked her abdomen again, absently.

  "Are the creatures from Ship to be brought down to Pandora?" Rocksack asked.

  "Take them where you want," Duque said. "Just don't let her dream me back into the sea."

  "Does Vata wish to return to the sea?"

  "She's dreaming me, I tell you. She's dreaming me away."

  "Are Vata's dreams reality?"

  Duque refused to answer. He merely groaned and twisted at the edge of the tank.

  Rocksack sighed. She stared across the tank at the mounded bulk of Vata, quiescent . . . breathing. Vata's long hair moved like seaweed in the currents of Duque's disturbance. How could Vata's hair be in the ocean and here on Vashon simultaneously? Perhaps in dreams. Was this another miracle of Ship? Vata's hair was almost long enough to be cut once more, it had been over a year. Was all of that hair that had been cut from Vata . . . was all of it somehow still attached to Vata? Nothing was impossible in the realm of miracles.

  But how could Vata's hair speak?

  There was no mistaking what Duque had said. Vata's hair spoke and Vata would not listen. Why would Vata not listen? Was it too soon to return to the sea? Was this a warning that Vata would lead them all back into the sea?

  Again, Rocksack sighed. The Chaplain/Psychiatrist's job could be troublesome. Terrible demands were made upon her. Word of this would be out by morning. There was no way to silence the guardians. Rumors, distorted stories. Some interpretation would have to be made, something firm and supportive. Something good enough to silence dangerous speculations.

  She stood, grimacing at a pain in her right knee. Looking at the awed faces around the tank's rim, she said, "The next lot of Vata's hair will not go to the faithful. Every clipping must be cast into the sea as an offering."

  Below her, Duque groaned, then quite clearly he shouted, "Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!"

  Rocksack placed this reference immediately, having been prepared by Duque
's previous mutterings. Bitch was the female of the canine family. Great things were in store for Pandora, the C/P realized. Vata was dreaming Duque into wondrous experiences and Duque was calling forth the creatures of Ship.

  Looking once more at the awed guardians, Rocksack explained this carefully. She was pleased by the way heads nodded agreement.

  All Pandorans will be free when the first hylighter breaks the sea's surface.

  -- Sign over a Merman kelp project

  Five water-drum tones sounded a musical call, pulling Brett up . . . up . . . lifting him out of a dream in which he reached for Scudi Wang but never quite touched her. Always, he fell back into the depths as he had sunk when the wavewall swept him off Vashon.

  Brett opened his eyes and recognized Scudi's room. There were no lights, but his light-gathering eyes discerned her hand across the short distance between their beds. The hand reached out from the covers and groped sleepily up the wall toward the light switch.

  "It's a little higher and to the right," he said.

  "You can see?" There was puzzlement in her voice. Her hand stopped its groping and found the switch. Brilliance washed the room. He sucked a deep breath, let it out slowly and rubbed his eyes. The light hurt him all the way out to the temples.

  Scudi sat upright on her bed, the blankets pulled loosely around her breasts. "You can see in the dark?" she persisted.

  He nodded. "Sometimes it's handy."

  "Then modesty is not as, strict with you as I thought." She slipped from the covers and dressed in a singlesuit striped vertically in yellow and green. Brett tried not to watch her dress, but his eyes no longer would obey.

  "I check instruments in a half-hour," she said. "Then I ride outpost."

  "What should I do about . . . you know, checking in?"

  "I have reported. I should be finished in a few hours. Don't go wandering; you could get lost."

  "I need a guide?"

  "A friend," she said. Again, that quick smile. "If hunger strikes, there is food." She pointed toward the alcove end of her quarters. "When I get back, you will report in. Or they may send someone for you."

  He glanced around the room, feeling that it would shrink without Scudi here and with nothing to do.

  "You did not sleep well?" Scudi asked.

  "Nightmares," he said. "I'm not used to sleeping still. Everything's so . . . dead, so quiet."

  Her smile was a white blur in her dark face. "I have to go. Sooner out, sooner back."

  When the hatch clicked shut behind her, the stillness of the little room boomed in Brett's ears. He looked at the bed where Scudi had slept.

  I'm alone.

  He knew that sleep was impossible. His attention wouldn't leave the slight impression left by Scudi's body on the other bed. Such a small room, why did it feel bigger when she was in it?

  His heartbeat was fast, suddenly, and as it got faster he found a constriction of his chest whenever he tried to take a deep breath.

  He swung his legs off the bed, pulled on his clothes and started to pace. His gaze moved erratically around the room -- sink and water taps, the cupboards with conchlike whorls in the corners, the hatch to the head . . . everything was costly metal but plain and rigid in design. The water taps were shiny silver dolphins. He felt them and touched the wall behind them. The two metals had entirely different textures.

  The room had no ports or skylights, nothing to show the exterior world. The walls with their kelplike undulations were breached only by the two hatches. He felt that he had an unlimited amount of energy and nowhere to use it.

  He folded the beds back into their couch positions and paced the room. Something boiled in him. His chest became tighter and a swarm of wriggling black shapes intruded on his vision. There was nothing around him, he thought, but water. A loud ringing swelled in his ears.

  Abruptly, Brett jerked open the outside hatch and lurched into the passageway. He only knew that he needed air. He fell to one knee there, gagging.

  Two Mermen stopped beside him. One of them gripped his shoulder.

  A man said, "Islander." His voice betrayed only curiosity. "Easy does it," another man said. "You're safe." "Air!" Brett gasped. Something heavy was standing on his chest, and his heart still raced inside his straining chest.

  The man gripping his shoulder said: 'There's plenty of air, son. Take a deep breath. Lean back against me and take a deep breath."

  Brett felt the tension clawing at his belly lift a bony finger, then another. A new, commanding voice behind him demanded: "Who left this Mute alone here?" There was a scuffling sound, then a shout: "Medic! Here!"

  Brett tried to take a fast, deep breath but couldn't. He heard a whistling in his constricted throat. "Relax. Breathe slow and deep."

  "Get him to a port," the commanding voice said. "Get him somewhere he can see outside. That usually works."

  Hands straightened Brett and lifted him with arms under his shoulders. His fingertips and lips conveyed the buzz and tingle of electric shock. A blurred face bent close to him, inquiring, "Have you ever been down under before?"

  Brett's lips shaped a silent "No." He was not sure he could walk.

  "Don't be afraid," the blur said. "This occasionally happens your first time alone. You'll be all right."

  Brett grew aware that people were hurrying him along a pale orange passageway. A hand patted his shoulder. The tingling receded, and the black shapes floating across his vision began to shrink. The people carrying him stopped and eased him to the deck on his back, then propped him upright. His head was clearing, and Brett looked up at a string of lights. The light cover directly overhead had blobs of dust and bugs inside. A head blotted out his view and Brett had an impression of a man about Twisp's age with a backlighted halo of dark hair.

  "You feeling better?" the man asked. Brett tried to speak in a dry mouth, then managed to croak, "I feel stupid."

  In the sudden laughter all around him, Brett ducked his head and looked out a wide port into the sea. It was a horizontal view of low-lying kelp with many fish grazing between its leaves. This was a perspective of undersea life far different from the driftwatch views topside.

  The older man patted his shoulder and said, "That's all right, son. Everyone feels stupid some time or other. It's better than being stupid, eh?"

  Twisp would have said that, Brett thought. He grinned up at the long-haired Merman. "Thanks."

  "Best thing for you to do, young man," the Merman said, "is to go back to a quiet room. Try being alone again."

  The thought pumped Brett's pulse rate back up. He imagined himself alone once more in that little room with those metal walls and all that water . . .

  "Who brought you in here?" the man asked.

  Brett hesitated. "I don't want to cause any trouble."

  "You won't," the medic reassured him. "We can get the person who picked you up freed from regular duty to make your entry into life here a little easier."

  "Scudi . . . Scudi Wang picked me up."

  "Oh! There are people waiting for you nearby. Scudi will be able to guide you. Lex," he spoke to a man out of Brett's line of vision, "call down to Scudi at the lab." The medic returned his attention to Brett. "There's no hurry, but you do have to get used to being alone."

  A voice behind Brett said, "She's on her way."

  "Lots of Islanders have a rough time of it down under at first. I'd say every one, in some way or other. Some recover all at once, a few brood for weeks. You look like you're getting over it."

  Someone on the other side of Brett lifted Brett's chin and pressed a container of water to his lips. The water felt cold and tasted faintly of salt.

  Brett saw Scudi rushing down the long passage, her small face twisted with worry. The Merman helped Brett to his feet, gripped his shoulder, then hurried toward Scudi. "Your friend's had a stress flash." The man hurried past Scudi, speaking back at her. "Put him through the solo drill before he learns to like the panic, though."

  She waved her thanks, then h
elped Brett manage the walk back to her room.

  "I should've stayed," Scudi said. "You were my first, and you seemed to be doing so well . . ."

  "I thought I was, too," he said, "so don't feel bad. Who was that medic?"

  "Shadow Panille. I work with his department in Search and Rescue -- Current Control."

  "I thought he was a medic, they said --"

  "He is. Everyone in S and R holds that rating." Scudi took his arm. "Are you all right now?"

  He blushed. "It was stupid of me. I just felt I had to get some air, and when I got out into the passage . . ."

  "It's my fault," she insisted. "I forgot about stress flash and they're always telling us about it. I felt . . . well, like you'd always been here. I didn't think of you as a newcomer."

  "The air in the passage felt so thick," Brett said. "Almost like water."

  "Is it all right now?"

  "Yes." He inhaled a deep breath. "Kind of . . . wet, though."

  "It gets heavy enough to do your laundry in sometimes. Some Islanders have to carry dry bottles while they're adjusting. If you feel well now, we can report in. Some people are waiting for you." She shrugged at his inquiring look. "You have to be processed, of course."

  He stared at her, reassured by her presence but still nursing an abrupt hollow feeling. Islanders heard many stories of the way Mermen regulated everything in their lives -- reports for this, tests for that. He started to ask her about this processing but was interrupted as a large group of Mermen clattered past carrying equipment -- tanks, hoses, stretchers.

  Scudi called after them, "What is it?"

  "They're bringing in the accident survivors," one of them hollered.

  Ceiling speakers came alive then: "Situation Orange! Situation Orange! All emergency personnel to your stations. This is not a drill. This is not a drill. Keep docking areas clear. Keep passageways clear. Essential duty stations only for regular personnel. Essential duty stations only. All others report to alternate stations. Medical emergencies only in the passages or trauma shed vicinity. Situation Orange. This is not a drill . . ."