Damia

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Did you love me then as a baby?” Damia could not quite erase the wistfulness.

  “I loved you as a baby, but as a man loves an adorable, winsome child. I love you now as a man loves a vibrant, talented, sexually aware young woman.”

  “Love me then, do.”

  * * *

  As physical strength returned, they ranged wider; in part in response to the list of Isthia’s chores. She was keeping track of some Earth species which had been judiciously added to Deneb’s ecology. One such species were breeding pairs of raptors which had been established in the rough hills above her cabin. Isthia wanted to check on the nests and the success rate of fledging. With her maps and backpacks of food and trail supplies, Damia and Afra took advantage of a fine bright morning to accomplish that task.

  “You have the longest legs,” Damia told him, somewhat admiring them, lightly haired, well-shaped, sinewy, and tanned from long sunning. “Nice knees.”

  “I can say the same of yours, love,” he responded equably.

  “Can’t I ever get a rise out of you?”

  “Oh, you do indeed,” Afra said mischievously, “you do indeed.”

  “I didn’t mean that! But you never lose your temper, or is that your methody upbringing?”

  “Losing one’s temper over a trifle would definitely be considered unmannerly,” he replied.

  “Maybe I’m the one should have been raised by your parents,” she said with some exasperation.

  “No, love, no!” he replied so fervently that she turned to look at him over her shoulder and managed to collide with a tree. “Are you hurt?”

  “What? From that little bump?” she demanded, annoyed with herself for being so clumsy. The sapling had caught her from cheek to knee and the impact had stung. She rubbed herself fiercely, gave the tree a pat. “I probably hurt it far worse. Look, I’ve taken off all its new growth!”

  “Hmmm, so you have. Let’s hope Isthia does not intimately know every tree she planted.”

  Damia watched her way after that, wondering just how the bruises would come up. But shortly she was far more interested in the beautiful landscape, for they had left the sheltering belt of forestry and were out on the rough hillsides, stepping from rock to grassoid clump, or cutting through a bracken-like vegetation which, bruised by their hiking boots, gave off a pungent, astringent odor.

  They rested often, in deference to slack muscles and their convalescent state, but by midday had reached the craggy outcroppings where the raptors had nested. Using the high-power binoculars, Afra located the right cliff and the first nest.

  “No birds, no egg shells. Is that good?” He passed the glasses to her.

  “We might try looking at the base of the cliff,” she said after a careful sweep. “Seems to me the raptors clear the debris from the nest.”

  They had to climb over uneven ground to reach their objective but found nothing beyond fragments of shells and bones, many of those cracked for the marrow.

  They pushed on to examine the other four nests Isthia had listed and found two more before they came across a gushing mountain stream where they decided to eat their lunch. They had appetite for everything they’d thought to bring, washed down by the clear, cold water of the creek. Then they went on, still climbing up the tumbled gray-stone cliff. When they finally came out on the height, Damia paused and shielding her eyes, turned slowly, taking in the panorama below and almost all around them.

  “It’s breathtaking,” Afra said. “I’d forgot there could be so much world to see from one spot.”

  “It’s a far cry from Callisto, that’s for sure,” Damia replied. “And yet,” she added loyally, “I’m fond of that moon! All the world I knew until I. . . .” she cut off, frowning.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She was turned toward the rise beyond the saddle on which they stood. She bit her underlip, puzzled, twitching her shoulders restlessly.

  “There shouldn’t be anymore. There shouldn’t be any more here.”

  “Any more what?”

  “Well, I’ve got to go see, don’t I?” she said enigmatically.

  “See what, Damia? I can’t read your mind, you know.”

  “You don’t really want to, Af’a, but you’d best come see.” She started scrambling up the steep rock face and gestured for him to follow.

  “What should I be looking for?” he asked tactfully.

  “You should be sensing it,” she replied, her tone almost angry. “Beetle stuff. Don’t you feel the . . .”

  “Sting-pzzzt?” he asked, half amused.

  “Yes,” and she was very angry, “the sting-pzzzt. It’s very loud.”

  Afra paused, trying to sense what she did. “I hear insects buzzing.”

  “No, you feel Beetle metal. Look around, do you see any insects up this high?”

  Now that Damia had mentioned it, he didn’t, but she was setting quite a pace and he had to work to keep up with her. When they reached the top of the next rise, he looked about him expectantly, but Damia turned right and started purposefully up the next slope and abruptly halted, staring at a groove in the fine gray granite—a groove that was not natural and from which protruded a ragged shaft of metal. The buzz that Afra had thought insectoid was louder, and every breath he drew had a sharp metallic taste to it.

  “Sting-pzzzt is really accurate,” he said, gazing down at the artifact. Then he paced it out, along the impact split in the rock. “Fifteen meters visible.” He knelt down and, somewhat gingerly, poked his finger at the nearest surface. “Part of a hull?”

  “Looks like it,” Damia replied, beginning to take an interest in it. “Pitted. I didn’t think there’d be anything left to find. My uncle Rhodri spent the last nine years of his life tracking pieces down.”

  “This is a rather inaccessible spot,” Afra observed.

  Damia sighed. “We’d better get back and report this.”

  “Why? It’s been here twenty-odd years . . .”

  “One reports finds like this. And it’s awfully near the fourth raptor nest.”

  “There’d be a problem?”

  Damia shot him an irritable glance. “Can’t you taste it in the air? Feel it? Can you imagine what effect it would have on hatchlings?”

  “There is one?” He curbed a growing irritation with her cryptic remarks. “I may have helped blast Beetles out of the sky, but that contact was at an exceedingly long range.”

  “Well, there’s nothing long range about the way this metal affects me,” she replied tersely, and started to climb down. “I can’t get away from here fast enough.”

  “Oh, is that what’s wrong with us?”

  “Yes, indeed!” She snapped that out, almost spitting the d’s at him. “Let’s get away from here!” Her tone was desperate.

  He bit back an angry comment about how fast she’d climbed to get to the artifact. Damia did not slow her descent until they were back at the stream, panting for breath and sweating with exertion.

  “I think that’s far enough,” she said in gasps and flopped down by the stream, to splash water on her face and neck, and then grinned with a return of good humor at him. They both drank deeply, washing the metallic aftertaste out of their mouths.

  “Why did you let me eat all my lunch?” Damia asked. “I’m starving.”

  “I saw some berry bushes,” Afra suggested.

  “Hmm. Good idea. Sorry about the temper, Af’a, but Beetle metal really agitates.”

  “What I find amazing is that it retains that effect so long.”

  Damia grinned. “Uncle Rhodri was determined to find out why. He wasn’t sure if it was caused by emanations of the alien ore or vibrations induced by the Beetles for defense. He suspected the latter since it would be very difficult for attackers to approach the vessel when grounded.”

  “What was his final conclusion?”

  “Oh, he died before he arrived at one. High Command took over the project. They’re still here. They’re the ones I’ll call when we get
back to the cabin. C’mon.”

  Though Afra did not protest the brisk pace Damia set back to the cabin, they were both exhausted when they got to the clearing. Afra paused long enough to get a drink, but Damia went immediately to the comunit and dialed the number.

  “Damia Raven-Lyon,” she said to his astonishment and delight, “I’ve found an artifact, buried in the hills above Isthia Raven’s cabin.” She gave them the coordinates from Isthia’s map. “Yes, it’s still emanating. Couldn’t leave the area fast enough. You could land a vtol on the saddle below it. Yes, about fifteen meters long, maybe more. It buried itself into the ravine. Looks like hull.” She grimaced. “Feels like hull. Yes, of course, we’ll be here.”

  Afra handed her a cool juice drink as she replaced the handset.

  “Damia Raven-Lyon?” he asked softly as he slid an arm about her shoulders to pull her close.

  She gave him a sideways glance, her blue eyes sparkling in her tired, sweaty face.

  “Well, it’ll be obvious!”

  * * *

  An officer rang through, requesting permission to land at the cabin clearing. On the porch to greet him, Damia and Afra saw the giant removal unit, the jagged hull piece suspended from massive cables, as it thumped ponderously east toward the naval research facility. One of the escort vehicles peeled off and landed.

  “That was a grand find,” the Lieutenant Commander said, beaming from ear to ear as he presented himself and saluted smartly. “Thought we’d gathered up all the debris. Let us know if you find anything else, will you?”

  Damia felt a convulsive shudder go down her backbone. “We certainly will. Don’t want so much as a sliver of that stuff nearby.”

  “How do you mitigate the effect, Commander?” Afra asked.

  “What effect, sir?” The man was surprised. “Oh, you’d be Talented then.” He gave them a slightly patronizing smile. “Doesn’t affect us types at all. But I’d heard it can be pretty potent for sensitives.” Fortunately he turned away then, and trotted back to his skycar.

  “The nerve . . .” Damia began. “Potent for sensitives . . . Indeed.”

  Afra chuckled. “At least we know we’re sensitive again.”

  Damia blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that aspect.” Then her face brightened. “D’you think that means we’re healed?”

  “On our way to it, certainly.”

  * * *

  The dreaming began that evening. And, at first, Damia subscribed it to the alien metal. They weren’t nightmares: more pictures imposed on her dreaming mind, a kaleidoscope of images. She didn’t wake in an uneasy state of mind, but she could vividly recall the night’s fantasies.

  She did get in touch with Isthia, mentioning the Beetle find and its effect on them.

  “I would say that you are healing well. Don’t rush it, Damia. Too much is at stake.”

  “We’ve been here seven weeks.”

  “Bored yet?”

  “Grandmother! I’m not bored. D’you want us to go back and see what effect the Beetle fragment had on the last nest on your list.”

  “Hmmm. Yes, there could be problems. Leave it until the next good rainstorm, let that taint wash away. You don’t need alien pollution at your stage of repair.”

  “Are you so eager to get back to a Tower, Damia?” Afra asked when she broke the contact.

  She chuckled. “No, I’m not. Nor am I bored. Isthia says . . .”

  “I heard her . . .”

  “Afra!” Concerned, Damia seized at his shoulder.

  “I’m not deaf and Isthia was perfectly audible without any ‘sensitive’ assistance.”

  * * *

  After two weeks of nightly episodes, Damia was getting worried. Her uncle had never been able to explain how the Beetle metal could continue to emanate, but he had insisted that all fragments be contained in shielded bunkers with six-foot walls of the toughest plascrete. He had recommended that those with any vestige of Talent be barred from the research compound. But the substance of her nocturnal images held neither threat nor malice. In fact, they seemed to repeat in a pattern, unusual enough in itself, and gradually the pattern became so predictable that Damia could step from one sequence to the next . . . as if she were turning pages.

  Easing from their bed early one morning, Damia slipped to the kitchen and dialed Isthia’s number. Her grandmother was an early riser. Contact came on the third ring.

  “Grandmother, did Uncle Rhodri ever discover a long-term contamination from Beetle metal?”

  “What do you mean exactly?”

  To Damia, her grandmother sounded so casually alert that she felt no further reluctance in bringing the phenomenon up.

  “I’ve had dreams for the past two weeks, ever since that hull piece was found, only they’re not threatening, or evil, or particularly unnerving. They are repetitions of the same images.”

  “What images?” And again Isthia’s detached query suggested to Damia that the phenomenon might not be limited to herself.

  “I get a pleasant setting, then figures—too distant and fuzzy to be described—coming up a long road to another group of six figures. Both sets sit down. The atmosphere is peaceful and it seems to be as if the two groups are talking. Then the visitors, for that is the impression I get of them, turn and go back the way they came to what looks like a vessel of some kind.”

  “What kind?”

  “I can’t discern that, Isthia. I just identify it as a vehicle. An opening appears and the visitors go in it. Then everything starts all over again. Now, tell me that other people are having this same dream?”

  “I am,” Afra said, having entered the kitchen quietly.

  “Afra says he is.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, Damia. What does surprise me is that you two would be among those contacted.”

  “Those? How widespread is this?” Damia wasn’t certain whether she was relieved or annoyed.

  Isthia chuckled. “This time it’s not just the females who’re getting it.”

  “WHAT?” Damia beckoned urgently for Afra to come closer so he could hear what Isthia was saying.

  “Well, your uncle Ian as well as Rakella and Besseva have been having much the same nightly visitations. Yours are the clearest.”

  “You said ‘contact’ a minute ago?”

  “I did, and that’s what I think it is, now that you’ve amplified what the others only guessed.”

  “I’m not sure I like this,” Damia said, noticing that her hand was beginning to tremble. Afra put his arm about her waist, and the other hand on her shoulder, steadying her. She leaned back against him. “What does Jeran think?”

  “Ah, that’s it. Jeran isn’t included in the chosen,” Isthia said. “Of course, he spends most of his free time with a blonde he’s courting.”

  “He’s serious?”

  “I suspect so. When Jeran makes up his mind, he’s unswervable.”

  “Have you asked him to try?”

  “To dream requires to be asleep,” Isthia said pointedly.

  Afra smothered his laugh in Damia’s loose hair, pressing his face against her neck which he then nibbled. She jerked her shoulder, giving him a hiss to behave. He was totally unrepentant.

  “So what do we do? Have you told my parents?”

  “Hmmm, no, not yet. It’s been too nebulous.”

  “I can also hear what the Rowan and Jeff would say,” Afra remarked, projecting his voice so Isthia heard him, “about a third Denebian Penetration.”

  “It’s not penetration,” both Damia and Isthia said together.

  “Really?” Afra regarded his lover with quickened interest. “An interesting reaction.”

  “Plainly dream generated,” Isthia added. “Look, since you’ve been having these visitations, and clearer ones than anyone else, I think I’ll join you there, if you don’t mind . . .”

  “If you wouldn’t be bored . . .” Damia could not resist the gibe.

  “My dear, boredom has a certain appeal for one who has
never known what it was. Now, go get me some fresh fish for lunch.” She broke the contact.

  “I’m not sure I like this,” Damia said, replacing the handset.

  “Why?” and Afra turned her around in his arms, to hold her comfortingly against him. “I had no impression of danger or menace or jeopardy. As you did, I had the feeling of visitation, a peaceful one.”

  Cushioned against her lover’s body, Damia sagged against him, unconsciously seeking reassurance which he willingly gave.

  “I’m not sure I’m up to another visitor,” she said glumly. She gave a second convulsive shudder. “The last one cost us too much.”

  “What? My brave Damia sidestepping a challenge?”

  “Your cautious Damia not rushing in, blind,” and her tone was sardonic.

  “Let’s see what Isthia says. Meanwhile, I could use some coffee, and maybe even some breakfast before we go fish for her lunch?”

  “You’re trying to make light of this whole thing,” Damia accused, pushing away from him.

  He disclaimed that immediately. “Far from it. The prudent would examine the whole imposed dream sequence with an open mind . . .”

  “If we’re allowed . . .” Almost absently, Damia began to prepare the coffee and other elements of a breakfast.

  “We must be, if we’ve had the clearest dreams . . .”

  “But they began the night we found that Beetle artifact . . .”

  “They did at that,” and Afra frowned over the coincidence as he took the skillet from her hand and started cooking the eggs. “We’d best weed that front bed, too, or Isthia will have words about negligence.”

  It afforded Damia some relief to yank out weeds and fork up the soil to be sure she’d got the root systems as well. And, although Damia enjoyed fishing, today it was only a way to pass time until Isthia came. As is sometimes the case when one doesn’t care, the fish bit well and they landed ten good-sized white-bellies before they realized they had more than enough. When Isthia arrived with both Ian and Rakella, they had just enough.

  Afra hadn’t seen Ian for quite a few years and he was surprised at how much the young man resembled his older brother. Though he had not quite the same forceful personality, he had sufficient of the inimitable Raven charm.