The Lazarus Effect

by Frank Herbert

  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.

  Chapter 19

  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 Islander
s 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 helped 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 …”

  More Mermen dashed past them. One shouted back, “Clear the passageways!”

  “What is it?” Scudi called after him.

  “That Island that sank off Mistral Barrier. They’re bringing in the survivors.”

  Brett yelled, “Was it Vashon?” They ran on without answering.

  Scudi pulled at his arm. “Hurry.” She directed him down a side passage and pulled up a large hatchway, which slid aside at her touch. “I’ll have to leave you here and report to my station.”

  Brett followed her through a double-hatchway into a cafe. Booths with low-set tables lined the walls. More low tables were scattered throughout the room. Plasteel pillars in rows defined aisleways. Each pillar was set up as a serving-station. A booth in the corner held two people bent toward each other across the table. Scudi hurried Brett toward this booth. As they approached the figure on the right became clear. Brett missed a step. Every Islander knew that face—that craggy head with its elongated neck and its brace work: Ward Keel!

  Scudi stopped at the booth, her hand gripping Brett’s. Her attention was on Keel’s companion. Brett recognized the red-haired woman. He’d glimpsed her on Vashon. Until he’d met Scudi, he’d considered Kareen Ale the most beautiful woman alive. Scudi’s low-voiced introduction was not necessary.

  “There were supposed to be registration and processing personnel here,” Ale said, “but they’ve gone to their stations.”

  Brett swallowed hard and looked at Keel. “Mr. Justice, they said a whole Island’s been sunk.”

  “It was Guemes,” Keel said, his voice cold.

  Ale looked at Keel. “Ward, I suggest that you and young Norton go to my quarters. Don’t stay long in the passages and stay inside until you hear from me.”

  “I must go, Brett,” Scudi said. “I’ll come for you when this is over.”

  Ale touched Scudi’s arm and they hurried away. Slowly, painfully, Keel eased himself from the booth. He stood, letting his legs adjust to the new position.

  Brett listened to the people rushing through the passage outside the hatchway. Laboriously, Keel began shuffling toward the exit hatch. “Come along, Brett.”

  As they stepped into the aisle leading toward the exit, a hatch behind them hissed open, gushing the rich smells of garlic fried in olive oil and spices he couldn’t name. A man’s voice called out: “You two! No one in the passages!”

  Brett whirled. A heavy set man with dark gray hair stood in the open hatchway to the kitchen. His rather flat features were set in a scowl, which changed into a forced smile as he looked past Brett and recognized Keel.

  “Sorry, Mr. Justice,” the man said. “Didn’t recognize you at first. But you still shouldn’t be in the passages.”

  “We were instructed to vacate this place and meet the ambassador at her quarters,” Keel said.

  The man stepped aside and gestured toward the kitchen. “Through here. You can occupy Ryan Wang’s old quarters. Kareen Ale will be notified.”

  Keel touched Brett’s shoulder. “This is closer,” he said. The man led them into a large, low-ceilinged room flooded with soft light. Brett could not find the light source; it seemed to wash the room equally in gentle tones. Thick, pale blue carpeting caressed Brett’s bare feet. The only furnishings appeared to be plump cushions in browns, burnt red and dark blue, but Brett, knowing how Mermen swung things out of walls, suspected other furniture might be concealed behind the hangings.

  “You will be comfortable here,” the man said. “Who do I have the pleasure of thanking for this hospitality?” Keel asked.

  “I am Finn Lonfinn,” the man said. “I was one of Wang’s servants and now have the task of caring for his quarters. And your young friend is … ?”

  “Brett Norton,” Brett answered. “I was on my way to registration and processing when the alarm sounded.”

  Brett studied the room. He had never seen a place quite like it. In some respects, it was vaguely Islander—soft cushions, all the metal covered by woven hangings, many recognizably of topside manufacture. But the deck did not move. Only the faint sigh of air pulsing through vents.

  “Do you have friends on Guemes?” Lonfinn asked.

  “The C/P is from Guemes,” Keel reminded him.

  Lonfinn’s eyebrows lifted and he turned his attention to Brett. Brett felt required to give a reply. “I don’t think I know anyone from Guemes. We haven’t been in proximate drift since I was born.”

  Lonfinn focused once more on Keel. “I asked about friends, not about the C/P.”

  In the man’s tone, Brett heard the hard slam of a hatch between Merman and Islander. The word mutant lay in the air between them. Simone Rocksack was a Mute, possibly a friend of Mute Ward Keel … probably not. Who could be friendly with someone who looked like that? The C/P could not be a normal object of friendship. Brett felt suddenly threatened.

  Keel had realized with an abrupt shock that Lonfinn’s assumptions of obvious Merman superiority were barbed. This attitude was a common one among less-traveled Mermen, but Keel felt himself filled with disquiet at an abrupt inner awakening.

  I was ready to accept his judgment! Part of me has as
sumed all along that Mermen are naturally better.

  An unconscious thing, borne for years, it had unfolded in Keel like an evil flower, showing a part of himself he had never suspected. The realization filled Keel with anger. Lonfinn had been asking: “Do you have any little friends on Guemes? How sad that some of your less fortunate playmates have been killed or maimed. But maiming and death are such an integral part of your lives.”

  “You say you were a servant,” Keel said. “Are you telling me these quarters are no longer occupied?”

  “They belong rightfully to Scudi Wang, I believe,” Lonfinn said. “She says she doesn’t care to live here. I presume they’ll be leased before long and the income credited to Scudi.”

  Brett gave the man a startled look and glanced once more around these spacious quarters—everything so rich.

  Still in shock at his inner revelation, Keel shuffled to a pile of blue cushions and eased himself onto them, stretching his aching legs in front of him.

  “Lucky Guemes was a small Island,” Lonfinn said.

  “Lucky?” The word was jerked from Brett.

  Lonfinn shrugged. “I mean, how much more terrible if it had been one of the bigger Islands … even Vashon.”

  “We know what you mean,” Keel said. He sighed. “I’m aware that Mermen call Guemes ‘The Ghetto.’”

  “It … doesn’t mean anything, really,” Lonfinn said. There was an undertone of anger in his voice as he realized he had been put on the defensive.

  “What it means is that the larger Islands have been called upon to help Guemes from time to time—basic foods and medical supplies,” Keel pressed him.

  “Not much trade with Guemes,” Lonfinn admitted. Brett looked from one man to the other, detecting the subterranean argument boiling. There were things behind those words but Brett suspected that it would take more experience with Mermen before he understood just what those things were. He sensed only the fact of argument, the barely concealed anger. Some Islanders, Brett knew, made slanted references to Guemes as “Ship’s Lifeboat.” There was often laughter in the label, but Brett had understood it to mean that Guemes held a large number of WorShipers—very religious, fundamentalist people. It was no surprise that the C/P was a native of Guemes. Somehow, it was right for Islanders to joke about Guemes, but it rankled him to hear Lonfinn’s intrusions.