Downtime (35 page)

“I
know,” Jason said softly. “Just leave me alone with her.”

“I
could try a stimulant. Sometimes it breaks through the coma, but with Antiqua,
I mean, Commander Calla, it could just hasten death.”

“Let
her sleep,” Jason said, sitting on the ground next to the stretcher. “Let her
have peace. There’s nothing I can say to her now that I haven’t already said a
thousand times.”

The
medic nodded and withdrew silently. Jason stared at her sleeping form for a
moment, then kneeled on the ground and took her hand in his. It was limp and
unresponsive, slightly cool despite the thermal cerecloth covering her. He
moved some of the damp curls off her forehead, brushing them back the way she
used to wear her hair, remembering back to when he had done the same thing so
many years ago. But back then her nose would twitch when he touched her or her
eyes would move behind mauve lids. There was nothing now except a shallow rasp
as she breathed. He cried shamelessly, soundlessly, and he was thinking even
while fresh tears ran down his face. He had never known complete happiness
except when they were together. Nothing was quite right when she was not there.
Nothing would ever be right for him again, and so now the tears were helpless
tears, selfish tears.

“Jason.
Jason?”

He
rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and looked up to see Arria standing
there. She was clutching a nymph to her breast with both arms, which were badly
lacerated from the sharp claws. The little creature started struggling again,
and Arria grimaced as the claws dug into her flesh, but she didn’t let go. It
grew silent again, and for just a moment Arria’s eyes became very distant. Then
she blinked and looked at Calla.

“I
can sing the death song,” she said quietly. “I can make him spin for Calla.”

Jason
felt an involuntary prickling along his scalp. “You tried to do that for your
father,” he said. “It didn’t work.”

“Calla
isn’t dead. Tonto wasn’t dead. My father was dead.”

“And
Old Blue-eyes was dead,” Jason said, squeezing his eyes shut. “Dear Timekeeper.
Do we dare?”

“Can
you refuse her this chance?” Arria said simply. Jason unstrapped the
stellerator and pulled off his shirt to wrap the nymph in it. It was peaceful
until Arria let go, then it struggled again, but Jason tied the sleeves
together to make a sack. “Where?” Jason said.

“I
know a safe place,” Arria said. “We’ll need some help.”

She
gestured to the stretcher.

Jason
looked around for Marmion and found him standing with the medics. All of them
were watching. The perfection engineer shrugged and said something to the
medics. They came forth and picked up the stretcher. Marmion turned away.

Arria
led them, not to the Amber Forest as Jason had expected, but to a small natural
cave high on the ridge, the ledge to the tiny opening barely passable with the
stretcher. They lay Calla inside, then Arria took off the straps and cover. She
held out the cover to the medics. The senior man took it, holding her arm for a
moment to look at the lacerations before he let go. He put a tube of salve in
Jason’s hands, then followed his companion out through the narrow opening.

Arria
took the bundled nymph from Jason and went to sit by Calla. Jason sat down at
the opening, blocking it with his body. The nymph was struggling again inside
the shirt. Arria put her hand on the bundle, and still it wiggled and danced.
She closed her eyes. In moments the creature quieted again. Arria sat
cross-legged, trancelike. Jason was afraid to move, uncertain of what to expect
next.

It
was hours, Jason thought, before Arria reached over and untied the shirt
sleeves. The nymph and thousands of shimmering threads spilled out next to
Calla. The little creature crawled sluggishly onto Calla’s stomach, then toward
her face. Threads were spilling copiously from the spinnerets at the back end.
In front, its teeth were bared. Jason turned away, and stumbled out onto the
ledge.

Outside
he saw a wondrous sight. In the trees below, in the rocks above, pale as ghosts
in the waning moonlight, were the danae, all motionless on their perches. Their
wings were tightly scrolled, all eyes but the ones behind focused on the ledge.

“They’re
singing for her,” Arria said, coming up softly behind him.

“You . . .
“

“They
don’t need my poor song. They heard me singing, they came to do it right. The
nymph is spinning.”

A
summery breeze came by, lifting the hair that had escaped Arria’s braid. Jason
felt her tremble as she sat down next to him.

“Do
you think it will work?” he asked.

“I
guess they think it’s worth a try,” she said. “I don’t think we can ask for
anything more.”

“How
long . . .”

“It
takes a long time to spin the cocoon. Then . . .” She shrugged. “We’ll
know next spring.”

“Can’t
you tell anything now? Is she thinking anything? Does she feel any pain?”

“She’s
dreaming a little.” Arria shook her head. “There’s nothing to tell you. Dreams
aren’t real.”

Jason
sighed. “We should do something about this opening. Predators might come.”

Arria
smiled. “I was afraid you would suggest posting a guard.”

“I
thought of it,” he said.

“I
know,” she said. “We’ll use rocks. Little ones. Danae hands are tiny and not
very strong.”

“Your
hands,” he said suddenly remembering the salve the medic had given him. He
reached into his pocket to take it out, then opened it. Arria sat quietly while
he smeared some onto her wounds. He saw what the medic had seen, that while
they were deep and nasty, none were so bad that they wouldn’t close on their
own.

“Jason,
what will you do when you’re done?” Arria asked.

“Pile
up the stones,” he said, squeezing more salve onto her arm.

“I
mean after that.”

“See
that you’re onboard
Compania
.”

“And
then?”

Jason
recapped the tube and slipped it back into his pocket.

“You
already know,” he said, leaning back to stare at the stars.

“But
Jason,” she said unhappily. “I won’t be here to help you. They may not sing for
you. They didn’t come for hours, not until the nymph was thoroughly enthralled.”

Jason
looked at her, her hair so fine and silvery in the moonlight, her eyes
shimmering, brimming pools. “Then Calla will have to sing for me,” he said.

“But
she may not make it,” Arria protested. “And even if she does, there’s no
guarantee she will still resemble Calla.”

“Tonto
still resembles a water mammal.”

“Yes,
but . . .”

“Arria,
please don’t make this any harder than it is. You must know I am determined in
this.”

“I
could stay,” she said

“And
make me choose between you and Calla next spring?” He shook his head. How hard
that would be. Arria, so yielding. Even now he could see a heavy flush sweep
over her face, so humanly aware that he was looking at her. And Calla? He would
never touch Calla again in the way that he wanted to.

“Jason,
if this succeeds, you’re right. She will need you.” He nodded, feeling slightly
relieved.

“No!”
she said so sharply that he was startled. “It isn’t me who isn’t understanding.
It’s you. Yes, she will need you . . . back on Mercury Novus or
wherever it is you go to get a planet protected. Have you forgotten about the
crystal? What do you think the miners will do to the Amber Forest when the
ranger station is gone?”

He
stared at her a moment. He had forgotten, and now his mind was churning from
the relative peace of knowing just a few moments ago what he should do to
horrendous turmoil. “You and Marmion . . .” he stammered. “You
must tell them.”

“Me?
A backplanet nobody miner’s daughter who’s psi and probably crazy, too? Who
will listen to me?”

“Marmion,
then. He’s a chief in the perfection engineers. They pay attention to
perfection engineers.”

“Eventually,”
Arria said. “But if he’s transferred downtime, who will make sure it’s done on
time? What if she emerges next spring and a miner shoots her on her first
flight?”

“I
have to go,” he said, knowing it was true. He had to leave her again, and again
she would say nothing to stop him. He would be lonely and try to pretend that
he did not miss her, and he would ache inside. But this time he could believe
it wasn’t forever. He nodded with only small satisfaction and looked at Arria. “We
had better finish up here.”

“You
go ahead,” she said. “I’ll finish up here.”

He
grunted in agreement and started to get up.

“And,
Jason?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t
hold a place for me on
Compania
. I
won’t be going.”

He
sat back down. “Don’t get stubborn,” he said. “Of course you must go.”

“It would be a miserable journey,” she said, “worse than the
last two years. Don’t bother trying to change my mind; you lost your right to
do so when you chose Calla. Oh, I’m not blaming you anymore, Jason. I won’t
forgive you, but I won’t hold it against you, either.”

“Those
are Calla’s words,” he said.

“She
was a whole hell of a lot more perceptive than you, Jason, and she was my
friend. I’m choosing her, too. And there’s something I can do for her that you
cannot.”

“Oh?
What’s that.”

Arria
looked at him, then touched him gently on the cheek.

“I
can tell her that you’re coming back.”

DOWNTIME

Author’s Preferred Edition

Cynthia Felice

Book View Café September 1, 2015
ISBN: 978-1-61138-545-8
Copyright © 1985 Cynthia Felice

First published: Bluejay, 1985

Production Team:

Cover art and design: Dave Smeds, with thanks to Srecko Djarmati, Ruslan Huzau, and Jon Bilous, Dreamstime.

Proofreader: Sherwood Smith

Formatter: Vonda N. McIntyre

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Digital edition: 20150718vnm

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Cynthia Felice
writes science fiction novels, and occasionally writes short stories and
articles. She was a John W. Campbell Award nominee for her novel,
Godsfire.
Felice is a workshop
enthusiast, including being an early Clarion “grad” and a frequent Milford
attendee. Her experience includes managing technical editors, writers, and
designing configuration control software, as well as writing and editing
technical articles, essays, and documents, one of which received the Award for
Outstanding Paper from the Society for Technical Communication. Cynthia Felice
grew up in Chicago, and now lives with her husband on a ridge east of Colorado
Springs overlooking the Front Range.

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