Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley,Juanita Coulson
Another Rib (3 page)
"The word is without meaning to me, John. It is without meaning to the men
who wished this done."
He stopped pacing and sat down. "If you can do this, why can't you -- test
tubes -- anything but this!"
"It might be possible."
"It might -- then why in God's name this -- blasphemy?"
"John, the word does not exist for me. I could create a fertilized ovum
in that manner, but gestation would be tremendously difficult outside its
natural element. It would require every moment of two or three men's time
for the entire gestation period. And even if we had so many men at our
disposal -- "
"But -- "
"Hear me out, John. Tip was a poor choice for the -- first. I would not
have consented. I warned them of the dangers, but Tip insisted. Chord had
many reservations, but the younger man won out. He will have difficulty.
But even so, incubating a fetus in his body is much safer and surer than
any amount of laboratory work."
"Safer for the fetus."
"That's true."
He lunged to his feet, confronting the alien, furious. "You're gambling
with that boy's life!"
"Yes, and he knows it. He said -- he said that he wanted Chord's inheritance
combined with his."
Everett turned away, hands to his face. "Oh, God, what am I trapped in?
Why didn't the ship crash coming in?"
"Ask your God, John."
He jerked around, stunned.
"If you accept your deity's omnipotence, mustn't you accept the fact that
he has permitted this development?"
"If that boy dies -- Fanu, if you'd
seen
him -- "
The alien blinked, solemnly. "Hysteria is perhaps natural," he confirmed.
"Even though he has been prepared for this, there is some amount of
emotional shock remaining. You must remember, there is a certain chemical
imbalance. Tsen will have an easier time."
John sat down again. The nightmare was rising above his ears, drowning him
in its terrifying black waters. He didn't hear the alien go out.
The jokes ceased. They concerned too many men now. The men who were
concerned and still able did not look too kindly on lewd comments about
their partners. Emotional patterns were developing, friendships becoming
deeper, the new way of life more and more ingrained. Everett sometimes
thought that he sounded like a reactionary preacher, mumbling to himself.
They were all against him now. They knew how he felt, and they had stopped
discussing it in his hearing. They made their reports when they must,
and that was all, a habit not yet broken.
He kept his log. Some day he would either run out of paper or learn to make
a substitute. That was something to consider. The one grain they'd been able
to grow -- he'd have to consult the record tapes; how did you make rice
paper? Maybe among his study materials, Tsen had something that would tell
him -- the hell with Tsen! Why bother? He'd be dead, they'd all be dead
before they ran out of paper. Then what use would the log be to any of them?
The rainy season between the two growing seasons was well under way when
someone beat on his door, one night. He mumbled admission, not turning.
"Sir!"
"What? Chord, what is it?" The giant looked wild, his hair tousled, his eyes
wide. "What is it, man?"
"It's Tip, sir. He's awful sick!"
"Hasn't he been, all along?"
"This is -- no, sir, this is different. He . . . he hurts. He's in awful
pain."
Everett gasped and had to suppress a hysterical laugh. "Oh. Well,
isn't that just what you've been waiting for? He ought to have thought
of that before he took Fanu's offer." He wondered insanely if he ought
to offer congratulations.
The big man dug his thumbs into Everett's shoulders with painful force,
his face livid with anger and fear. "Look, sir, I've had about enough of
your -- " he stopped and gulped and said, quite meekly for him, "Look, sir,
I'm scared. It -- its not
time
yet. Not for about six weeks. And
I'm -- I'm scared, sir," he finished pitifully.
The two men hurried to Chord's hut through the blowing rain, and Everett
suppressed another burst of crazy hysteria. Those corny old videocasts on
a vanished world! Rainstorms, the black of night, a hurried summons --
he found himself dismissing irrelevant, ribald thoughts of a midnight
delivery of a . . . child . . . by two men.
But when he stepped into the hut the thoughts fled, beaten away by the pain
of the youth on the bed. He was incredibly pale, sweating badly, trying
desperately to muffle his outcries and not succeeding very well. His lips
were white and blood-specked where he'd chewed on them. Everett found
himself concerned, involved; whatever the cause, he could not ignore the
agony in the young face. Tip gave the Captain one look, turned his face
away and shut his eyes. "Couldn't you get -- Garrett," he said weakly,
and gasped.
"When did this start?" Everett asked, running over his memory quickly for
things that would help, and for the first time wishing he'd listened more
closely to Fanu's explanations.
"While ago." Tip made a smothered sound.
"
How
long ago?" he snapped, trying to be sympathetic in spite of
his worry.
"Couple . . . couple hours." The boy suddenly threw his head back, muffling
a groan, trembling violently. Everett glanced at his chronometer. The spasm
lasted nearly two minutes. He kept his eyes averted from the swollen body,
its distortion no longer concealable by the blanket. Tip, breathing hoarsely,
murmured, "How did our women ever -- " then his eyes widened in surprise and
he slumped back on the bed, unconscious.
"Tip! Tip! Wake up, kid -- please," Chord pleaded, bending over the boy,
shaking him gently, stroking the sweat-bathed forehead.
"That's no help." Everett felt frantic. Fanu would have to straighten this
out. He
had
to. He couldn't let the boy die, not after a -- sacrifice
-- like this!
"Can you carry him?" He helped Chord wrap the blanket around the unconscious
figure that still twisted silently, spasmodically beneath their hands. Chord
picked him up, and they hurried through the rain, up toward the beacon lights
of the alien laboratory.
"And he'd been unconscious until then?" Fanu questioned gently, moving
around the moaning figure.
"Yes, all the time, Chord answered. "It isn't time, is it? It isn't time?
That was what he was scared of. He was afraid to say anything. He said it'd
go away . . . all those books and tapes he read . . . he . . . by God, if he
dies, I'll kill you!"
"I am not your God," Fanu said quietly, sadly. "Life and death are not in my
hands, but I will do all that -- "
"Fanu -- " Everett began, dragging his eyes away from the obscenely swollen
body. He hadn't seen any of the . . . experiments . . . in clear light until
now, and the sight stunned him, brought all this brutally home. Maybe he had
been a fool. Why had he, alone, been kept in the dark? He realized only now;
there had been a conspiracy of sorts to keep Tip, and Tsen, and young
Reading, the ComCon man, out of his way.
"You've got to do something. Chord says it isn't time."
"Seven and a half or better of your gestation counts. Better than I hoped."
"Fanu . . . the human male was never designed for . . . this . . ." he found
himself wanting to giggle, more with fright than amusement. Tip was regaining
consciousness, moaning slightly, grunting like an animal. Garrett was there,
white-coated, his hand reassuring over Tip's, calm and matter of fact as he
explored the boy's body briefly with a stethoscope. "Heartbeat fine so far,
Dr. Fanu. But we can't monkey around too long."
"Chord, carry him in there. I must operate this time, I am afraid." As Tip's
eyes focused on him, the alien's voice -- and it no longer sounded toneless
to Everett -- said kindly, "I'm sorry, Tip. You are too masculinely
constructed. Remember, I warned you."
The boy nodded wordlessly, biting his lip. Then, as Chord picked him up,
he gasped between his teeth, "If it comes to a choice -- remember what you
promised me, Doc -- "
Everett sunk down in a chair and buried his face in his hands, and
consciousness was swamped in black nightmare. The next thing he knew,
Chord stumbled out of the operating room door, and Everett, feeling
nightmarishly idiotic, watch him give a startling performance of expectant
fatherhood.
"Female," Fanu announced, his tiny mouth curving in the nearest approach
to a smile he could manage. Chord caught the alien's clothing.
"Tip?
Tip?
"
"He's all right. Very weak, but fine. You can go in and see him. Be very
gentle, though."
Chord's face went limp all over. "Oh, thank God," he muttered, "thank God!
Cap'n, that idiot kid made the Doc promise -- to save the kid if it came
to a choice -- "
He pushed past them into the other room.
"Female?"
"Female," Fanu confirmed. "I arranged things that way -- with all of them."
"But -- "
"Did you think this was permanent?"
"Well -- well, yes, I did."
Fanu made a sound of alien amusement. "That's what's been troubling you.
No, John. In fifteen years your planet will have four or five nubile females,
at least. The climate will aid precocity. In two generations you will be
on firm footing. Your race is intelligent, hardy, ingenious, young --
all the things mine wasn't. Tip's case was the most difficult. He'll have
to wait two years before attempting this again."
"Again?" Everett gasped.
"His own request. I had difficulty making him agree even to that, or I should
have taken measures to end it now. I shall, next time. When the females are
grown, his chore will be done."
"When the females are grown -- what happens to the -- to the converted men
then? The -- attachments, the -- the lovers, Fanu?"
Fanu blinked sadly, "I don't know, John. I shall not be here. I am old,
John -- old. But I'm sure you'll solve it."
Everett turned and walked over to the window, staring down at the twinkling
lights from the huts, the rebirth of homo sapiens. Somewhere behind him he
could hear an infant wailing. The rain had stopped, and stars were coming
out, the strange stars of a strange world.
"All right," he said softly, "I was wrong. Now, for Your sake, tell us
what's next?"
who wished this done."
He stopped pacing and sat down. "If you can do this, why can't you -- test
tubes -- anything but this!"
"It might be possible."
"It might -- then why in God's name this -- blasphemy?"
"John, the word does not exist for me. I could create a fertilized ovum
in that manner, but gestation would be tremendously difficult outside its
natural element. It would require every moment of two or three men's time
for the entire gestation period. And even if we had so many men at our
disposal -- "
"But -- "
"Hear me out, John. Tip was a poor choice for the -- first. I would not
have consented. I warned them of the dangers, but Tip insisted. Chord had
many reservations, but the younger man won out. He will have difficulty.
But even so, incubating a fetus in his body is much safer and surer than
any amount of laboratory work."
"Safer for the fetus."
"That's true."
He lunged to his feet, confronting the alien, furious. "You're gambling
with that boy's life!"
"Yes, and he knows it. He said -- he said that he wanted Chord's inheritance
combined with his."
Everett turned away, hands to his face. "Oh, God, what am I trapped in?
Why didn't the ship crash coming in?"
"Ask your God, John."
He jerked around, stunned.
"If you accept your deity's omnipotence, mustn't you accept the fact that
he has permitted this development?"
"If that boy dies -- Fanu, if you'd
seen
him -- "
The alien blinked, solemnly. "Hysteria is perhaps natural," he confirmed.
"Even though he has been prepared for this, there is some amount of
emotional shock remaining. You must remember, there is a certain chemical
imbalance. Tsen will have an easier time."
John sat down again. The nightmare was rising above his ears, drowning him
in its terrifying black waters. He didn't hear the alien go out.
The jokes ceased. They concerned too many men now. The men who were
concerned and still able did not look too kindly on lewd comments about
their partners. Emotional patterns were developing, friendships becoming
deeper, the new way of life more and more ingrained. Everett sometimes
thought that he sounded like a reactionary preacher, mumbling to himself.
They were all against him now. They knew how he felt, and they had stopped
discussing it in his hearing. They made their reports when they must,
and that was all, a habit not yet broken.
He kept his log. Some day he would either run out of paper or learn to make
a substitute. That was something to consider. The one grain they'd been able
to grow -- he'd have to consult the record tapes; how did you make rice
paper? Maybe among his study materials, Tsen had something that would tell
him -- the hell with Tsen! Why bother? He'd be dead, they'd all be dead
before they ran out of paper. Then what use would the log be to any of them?
The rainy season between the two growing seasons was well under way when
someone beat on his door, one night. He mumbled admission, not turning.
"Sir!"
"What? Chord, what is it?" The giant looked wild, his hair tousled, his eyes
wide. "What is it, man?"
"It's Tip, sir. He's awful sick!"
"Hasn't he been, all along?"
"This is -- no, sir, this is different. He . . . he hurts. He's in awful
pain."
Everett gasped and had to suppress a hysterical laugh. "Oh. Well,
isn't that just what you've been waiting for? He ought to have thought
of that before he took Fanu's offer." He wondered insanely if he ought
to offer congratulations.
The big man dug his thumbs into Everett's shoulders with painful force,
his face livid with anger and fear. "Look, sir, I've had about enough of
your -- " he stopped and gulped and said, quite meekly for him, "Look, sir,
I'm scared. It -- its not
time
yet. Not for about six weeks. And
I'm -- I'm scared, sir," he finished pitifully.
The two men hurried to Chord's hut through the blowing rain, and Everett
suppressed another burst of crazy hysteria. Those corny old videocasts on
a vanished world! Rainstorms, the black of night, a hurried summons --
he found himself dismissing irrelevant, ribald thoughts of a midnight
delivery of a . . . child . . . by two men.
But when he stepped into the hut the thoughts fled, beaten away by the pain
of the youth on the bed. He was incredibly pale, sweating badly, trying
desperately to muffle his outcries and not succeeding very well. His lips
were white and blood-specked where he'd chewed on them. Everett found
himself concerned, involved; whatever the cause, he could not ignore the
agony in the young face. Tip gave the Captain one look, turned his face
away and shut his eyes. "Couldn't you get -- Garrett," he said weakly,
and gasped.
"When did this start?" Everett asked, running over his memory quickly for
things that would help, and for the first time wishing he'd listened more
closely to Fanu's explanations.
"While ago." Tip made a smothered sound.
"
How
long ago?" he snapped, trying to be sympathetic in spite of
his worry.
"Couple . . . couple hours." The boy suddenly threw his head back, muffling
a groan, trembling violently. Everett glanced at his chronometer. The spasm
lasted nearly two minutes. He kept his eyes averted from the swollen body,
its distortion no longer concealable by the blanket. Tip, breathing hoarsely,
murmured, "How did our women ever -- " then his eyes widened in surprise and
he slumped back on the bed, unconscious.
"Tip! Tip! Wake up, kid -- please," Chord pleaded, bending over the boy,
shaking him gently, stroking the sweat-bathed forehead.
"That's no help." Everett felt frantic. Fanu would have to straighten this
out. He
had
to. He couldn't let the boy die, not after a -- sacrifice
-- like this!
"Can you carry him?" He helped Chord wrap the blanket around the unconscious
figure that still twisted silently, spasmodically beneath their hands. Chord
picked him up, and they hurried through the rain, up toward the beacon lights
of the alien laboratory.
"And he'd been unconscious until then?" Fanu questioned gently, moving
around the moaning figure.
"Yes, all the time, Chord answered. "It isn't time, is it? It isn't time?
That was what he was scared of. He was afraid to say anything. He said it'd
go away . . . all those books and tapes he read . . . he . . . by God, if he
dies, I'll kill you!"
"I am not your God," Fanu said quietly, sadly. "Life and death are not in my
hands, but I will do all that -- "
"Fanu -- " Everett began, dragging his eyes away from the obscenely swollen
body. He hadn't seen any of the . . . experiments . . . in clear light until
now, and the sight stunned him, brought all this brutally home. Maybe he had
been a fool. Why had he, alone, been kept in the dark? He realized only now;
there had been a conspiracy of sorts to keep Tip, and Tsen, and young
Reading, the ComCon man, out of his way.
"You've got to do something. Chord says it isn't time."
"Seven and a half or better of your gestation counts. Better than I hoped."
"Fanu . . . the human male was never designed for . . . this . . ." he found
himself wanting to giggle, more with fright than amusement. Tip was regaining
consciousness, moaning slightly, grunting like an animal. Garrett was there,
white-coated, his hand reassuring over Tip's, calm and matter of fact as he
explored the boy's body briefly with a stethoscope. "Heartbeat fine so far,
Dr. Fanu. But we can't monkey around too long."
"Chord, carry him in there. I must operate this time, I am afraid." As Tip's
eyes focused on him, the alien's voice -- and it no longer sounded toneless
to Everett -- said kindly, "I'm sorry, Tip. You are too masculinely
constructed. Remember, I warned you."
The boy nodded wordlessly, biting his lip. Then, as Chord picked him up,
he gasped between his teeth, "If it comes to a choice -- remember what you
promised me, Doc -- "
Everett sunk down in a chair and buried his face in his hands, and
consciousness was swamped in black nightmare. The next thing he knew,
Chord stumbled out of the operating room door, and Everett, feeling
nightmarishly idiotic, watch him give a startling performance of expectant
fatherhood.
"Female," Fanu announced, his tiny mouth curving in the nearest approach
to a smile he could manage. Chord caught the alien's clothing.
"Tip?
Tip?
"
"He's all right. Very weak, but fine. You can go in and see him. Be very
gentle, though."
Chord's face went limp all over. "Oh, thank God," he muttered, "thank God!
Cap'n, that idiot kid made the Doc promise -- to save the kid if it came
to a choice -- "
He pushed past them into the other room.
"Female?"
"Female," Fanu confirmed. "I arranged things that way -- with all of them."
"But -- "
"Did you think this was permanent?"
"Well -- well, yes, I did."
Fanu made a sound of alien amusement. "That's what's been troubling you.
No, John. In fifteen years your planet will have four or five nubile females,
at least. The climate will aid precocity. In two generations you will be
on firm footing. Your race is intelligent, hardy, ingenious, young --
all the things mine wasn't. Tip's case was the most difficult. He'll have
to wait two years before attempting this again."
"Again?" Everett gasped.
"His own request. I had difficulty making him agree even to that, or I should
have taken measures to end it now. I shall, next time. When the females are
grown, his chore will be done."
"When the females are grown -- what happens to the -- to the converted men
then? The -- attachments, the -- the lovers, Fanu?"
Fanu blinked sadly, "I don't know, John. I shall not be here. I am old,
John -- old. But I'm sure you'll solve it."
Everett turned and walked over to the window, staring down at the twinkling
lights from the huts, the rebirth of homo sapiens. Somewhere behind him he
could hear an infant wailing. The rain had stopped, and stars were coming
out, the strange stars of a strange world.
"All right," he said softly, "I was wrong. Now, for Your sake, tell us
what's next?"
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