Heritage of Flight (25 page)

The xenobotanist grinned at her.
Don't worry, I won't force you to sing
, the grin said. Mischievous it might be, but it was kind. Pauli shook her head, and the woman beckoned to the first of many of the littlests lined up to perform.

'Cilia, with a picture for every guest. A chorus of children; Washington and Samory turning cartwheels as Lohr played a new, carefully-carved flute. Pauli found herself laughing and clapping until Beneatha rose again.

"Now, we should have the remembrances of a man, a woman, and a child."

Must I speak?
Pauli asked herself.
What can I say to these people?

"Toussaint, will you speak?"

The boy rose like the black candle in the
kinara
, thin, straight, and shining. Except for the scar down one cheek, you couldn't tell him from a sheltered child from an inner system world. “I was hungry and afraid. Other children called me Scarface, when there was anyone else around at all, that is. Now I am not afraid—but I'm hungry!” he appealed to the adults, who laughed and promised “in a moment."

"But now I'm not Scarface anymore; I'm Toussaint, and I want you all to call me that. And this is my home."

"Will you speak, David?” asked Beneatha, and her dark eyes were unreadable.

"This is not my holiday, but yours,” ben Yehuda said. “But both of them commemorate freedom and a long fight.” He glanced down lovingly at the
kinara
with its brave candles: one black, three red, and three green. “What can I say, but that I'm glad to have been kept alive, sustained, and permitted to celebrate this joyous festival. May this be the first of many Kwanzaas we can share, all of us!"

Beneatha's eyes flicked to Pauli. “You're our guest, tonight, so I'll spare you a second time, Captain. I remember ... sometimes it seems to me that I remember too much: every insult, every enemy, every anger, every sorrow. Tonight, with all of us gathered around for a feast, I hope that I will remember the good things too. Like this moment, with all of us in agreement for once."

"Harambee!"
Pauli muttered, more loudly than she had planned. All around the room, people laughed, and laughed louder when she flushed and tried to apologize. She couldn't deny that Beneatha's remembering “the good things” would make her own life much easier.

She had little time for embarrassment, for the food was being passed. She heaped her plate with corn, with the candied yams and squashes, and fish. A basket of flat breads came her way, and she passed it on. “I can't eat all this!” she protested as she handed it back to Ramon, who promptly crunched his third crisp piece between white teeth, and handed the basket to Ari.

"You know what this looks like?” he asked his sister, who nodded. “Like Ararat, before we left. Only we had it in the spring.” She grimaced, then ate the squash her father ladled onto her plate.

"Try the chicken, Pauli,” Beneatha dropped down beside her. “It's got hot sauce on it, though.”
That was two surprises. Beneatha had used her name, and had warned her about the spices
. The dish was hot enough to make her sweat, but delicious too. “You might have told me to bring something,” Pauli complained.

"Next year.” Her callused fingers toying with the leather ankh that hung around her neck, Beneatha glanced around the room and smiled broadly. “You know, I meant what I said."

Pauli nodded. “I know. I wish...” Her own memories, not just of actions but of nights spent mourning them, condemning them, rose up, and she shook her head.
If only we had had time to study the world before we landed! Perhaps we could have settled somewhere else ... done something else...

"It's rough on you, I know,” Beneatha said. “I haven't made it any easier. No, I'm not going to apologize. I still think you were wrong. But what's done is done; and now we have to get on with things. Just believe me: I wouldn't want your job.” She shook her head, firmed her lips as if to say “that's all,” then rose and replenished the baskets of bread and vegetables.

What do you know?
Pauli thought to herself.
A loyal opposition
. Rafe and Alicia had been right all along.
Not too dumb, are you, Yeager? In a century or so, you may have puzzled out this business of leadership.

Long before the food stopped being passed, Pauli sat back, and watched the others: ‘Cilla limping over to sit beside her and hand Pauli a husk doll for the baby who was too young for such a late night; Lohr intent on his new wooden flute; Toussaint gnawing on a bone; Mahairi carefully refilling cups; Ari passing gifts to the younger children; Ramon leaning against a wall, a child asleep in his lap. Two women rose and stretched, one massaging the small of her back in a way Pauli remembered well. Their brightly patterned robes accented the graceful mounds of their bellies.

We're going to make it, here,
she told herself
. Just let it work out, that's all, so that there are still Cynthians on this world
. And what if moths, no, winged Cynthians ... still flourished somewhere on the other continents.
Do you think that would absolve you, Pauli? Even if there were, if they were a danger
... she didn't want to think of it.

Resolutely she stared into the candle flames for what seemed like hours of feast, dancing, and songs. The colony was a going concern now. Even Beneatha had come around. She had been a fool to be afraid. She suppressed a yawn as much of relief as of satiation. Perhaps she could make her excuses and slip out to allow Rafe to have a turn at the feast. It wasn't right that he had no share in it beyond the wrapped parcels already set out for her to take for him.

Pryor glanced over at them too, then at a window where a clouded night sky shone purple and black. There were no such parcels, no such memories for Thorn—not yet, perhaps not ever.

Pauli caught her eye. “Remember how strong he is,” she spoke without sound, an old trick of the service.

Resolutely Pryor smiled and turned her attention back to the children.

The sky was paling toward a snowy dawn, the party winding down into sleepy jokes and companionable huddles that made Pauli wish even more that Rafe had come with her, when Beneatha rose from her comfortable cushion by Ramon Aquino's side and again filled up the ceremonial cup for a
tambiko
, or libation.

"It's almost dawn,” said Beneatha. “Pretty soon, we should all get up and go to work"—she grinned as moans rose from about the room—"or to sleep, whichever you can get away with. Before you go, there's one last part of the
karamu
, a farewell. I remember the first one I ever heard."

She shut her eyes, drawing the words out of memory: “Strive for discipline, dedication, and achievement in all that you do. Dare struggle and sacrifice, and gain the strength that comes from this. Build where you are, and dare leave a legacy that will last as long as the sun—"

"Oh God, I'm sick!” Ramon cried out. He rose so quickly that the child who had been drowsing in his lap scarcely had time to throw out his arms and save himself from a nasty fall.

"Dizzy!” he muttered. “So sick!” He was sweating profusely, and kept one hand pressed to his belly, kneading it almost the way that the pregnant woman had kneaded her back. “Sorry,” he ducked his head at Beneatha, standing with the cup forgotten in her hands. “So sorry..."

He stumbled out into the night. Beneatha stood chagrined, the fine words of her speech forgotten.

"What was in that cup?” asked Pryor. “I didn't think he drank that much.” Already she was rising, untwisting herself from the bright fabrics in which the children had swathed her, reaching for her heavy coat.

"Fruit juice,” said Beneatha. “Ramon doesn't drink alcohol, anyhow. Maybe he has a virus and I ought to—"

From outside came a scream of pain and panic, and the cup dropped from her hand. Dark fruit juice spattered over the heaps of leftover food, soaking the bread, quenching out the candles and staining the mats as Aquino's full-throated bellow shattered what was left of the mood of the feast. Pauli's hand reached instinctively for the sidearm she'd politely left at home. All about her, children crouched, their eyes too bright, their hands seeking anything that might serve to protect them. Somewhere, horribly, one of them growled.

"Get away! I didn't want to kill you. I'm not going with you. Help me! There's a moth here, with black wings, and it's come to fly me down to hell!"

16

"Someone get my assistants! Wake them up!” Alicia Pryor shouted. She had scrambled into her jacket as the door began to open. She set her shoulder to it and forced her way out into the night.

"Ramon!” she cried.
Drunk
, she had thought when Aquino first staggered to his feet. But Aquino didn't drink, Beneatha had said. The physician slipped on ice and went to her hands and one knee. It hurt to lever herself up; past sixty-five, your joints got stiff; and it didn't look like implants or more anti-agathics were anywhere in her future. Her breath panted after her in white streamers, and the cold slashed at her throat.

She wished for a hat. You lost at least half your body heat from your head; and she had to stay well now, she had to. She shuddered, but not from cold. If Ramon wasn't drunk, then her diagnoses were terrifyingly limited. He might have seizures, in which case, he wouldn't have qualified for the service. That left her two logical alternatives: food poisoning, or some virus that created a fever high enough to cause hallucinations.

And everyone in that dome had been exposed. Pryor swore in at least four languages and stopped long enough to snap some orders at the people who had trailed after her. “Get Rafe!” she ordered one of the children. Assume there was an epidemic—the stomach-gripping, icy fear every colonist faced and tried to forget. Her own staff would be on constant call trying to contain it. There would be little time for the type of investigation that would have to be done.
Damn all outpost medicine! What I'd give for the Santayana datanets!
she thought. Since
she
had been exposed, someone else would have to know everything that she learned: Rafe was the likeliest candidate.

The child stood, almost blanking in terror.
These are our harvest too
. Pryor forced herself to stop, to speak calmly, gently, as if the girl had just been hunted from her lair on—where was Mahairi from? Didn't-matter. “You trust us, don't you?” Pryor asked. “Yes, we're scared now, but we can take care of you. Listen to me. Get Rafe. Tell him to find me."

Thank God, relief flickered across the girl's face at having a task she could perform, and she ran off. Fine.
How's Rafe going to find you?
she asked herself.

Running about would only exhaust her. She forced herself to breathe regularly. What was that? When the rasp of her own breath subsided, she heard it again.

"Ramon?” she called. Not a scream this time, but whimpers and moans. She set off in the direction of the sound, amazed at how far the man had run despite cramps and nausea. She coughed, not from the cold, but from an odor that didn't belong in the night air. She sniffed cautiously. When they'd rescued some of the children, she had smelled mold, vermin, and urine; now she used that smell to track Ramon to where he lay, his knees drawn up, his fists clenched and twisting, his entire body arching as if to find relief from the cramps that twisted him.

"I've found him!” she cried, and knelt in the snow at his side. His face was pallid, despite his swarthiness, and his pupils were dilated. She laid careful fingers against his carotid pulse, and he jerked away. Pulse: very slow. His hands were freezing; and his breath came shallowly, foul with sickness and tinged with garlic. She stripped off her jacket to tuck it around the sick man: all he needed was hypothermia along with the food poisoning.

Or plague
. The word insinuated itself into her subconscious, and forced a shameful tremor out of her. All the colonists had broad spectrum immunization during basic training. But Cynthia had not—God knows—been fully surveyed; and the spectre of some new bug (terrible pun, that: ignore it, Doctor; let's have just the facts, please!) always haunted colonies, especially those as isolated as this one.

The ships could come and find only the ruins of domes,
she thought.
We'd all be dead
. It had happened before.

Ramon's teeth were chattering. He glared at her, and she tried to soothe him. Before she could finish her first “there, there,” he laughed hysterically, and thrust her aside, to run farther into the night. “The wings!” he shrieked. “Don't come after me, you death's-head, I didn't kill you!"

"The river!” Pryor screamed. Damn this getting old: she couldn't run fast enough to catch him. “Ramon, stay clear of the riv—"

Ice shattered beneath him, and a splash that had to be the coldest thing she had ever heard choked off his scream.

Even as Beneatha stood in the ruins of her feast, Ari ben Yehuda's eyes went wide with fear, and he lurched against his father, who flung his arms about the boy and eased him to the floor.

"I never meant ... all I wanted...” Beneatha whispered.

Pauli reached up to pull off the colorful turban that laughing children had wound about her hair in what seemed like another life. Now her hair was damp with fear, and the children who had laughed as they dressed her like a puppet huddled against the walls. One of them growled. Several eyed the adults, clearly calculating whether they could scramble out the door after Dr. Pryor; Mahairi actually made it, and two more tried to follow.