Thoughts of home led him to another topic. One that had been seemingly set aside when the two young survivors had been discovered.
“Old Earth. What of my request? What of the search? For years now I’ve heard nothing. Has it all been forgotten? I’ve kept my part of the agreement to help in restoring the species; first by allowing my cells to be cloned and stored and subsequently by assisting in the growth and mental maturation of the two younger survivors.”
“It is not forgotten,” Kel’les told him. “I am assured that the work goes on.” His tone was apologetic and, insofar as Ruslan could tell, sincere. “Within the restrictions imposed by limited resources, true, but it goes on. You knew when you first made the bargain that the chances of locating the original human homeworld were limited.”
He dug one foot into the multicolored sand. Though something unseen tickled a toe, he did not withdraw his foot. Civilization on Myssar was so old and deeply established that those dangerous indigenous lifeforms that remained, no matter how large or small, survived only in carefully managed refuges. Nothing that dwelled in the sand, especially on a beach frequented by visiting city-dwellers, could harm him.
“After five years I’d say they were more than limited. I’d say they were nonexistent.”
“Ah.” Kel’les’s head rotated almost completely around before once more meeting the human’s gaze. “You have no confidence in our scientists.”
Ruslan shrugged. “I’m a realist. Always have been. It helps a lot.”
“Exactly the attitude necessary to aid the two young adult humans in their development.” The intermet rose, torso traveling in a straight line upward. “I will inform Cor’rin and the other members of the project of our conversation. They in turn will notify the Sectionary. May I also pass the word that should the youths opt to move to Seraboth you will go with them?”
Ruslan was no longer gazing at his minder or even at the two youngsters. His attention reached to the far horizon. What did it matter, after all, if he moved? Wasn’t one horizon much like another? A line dividing sky and sea, or sky and land. He lived at this end of the line of sight, wherever it might happen to terminate.
“Sure,” he replied. “There’s nothing holding me here.”
As incapable as the Myssari were of complex facial expression, he nonetheless suspected that he might have hurt the minder’s feelings. He offered no apology.
After all, on the day he had been removed from Seraboth, none had been tendered to him.
* * *
—
As the Myssari hoped, the change of setting did indeed stimulate excitement in Pahksen and Cherpa. Excitement at the prospect of returning to a once human-dominated world, excitement at encountering artifacts and relics closely linked to their own kind, excitement at the discovery of surviving human foods in gardens and on farms whose genetic lineage could be traced back to seeds that had originated on old Earth itself. Excitement, yes—but no spark.
Personality-wise, the two young humans remained as they had been on Myssar. Cherpa was ebullient, outgoing, energized by everything she saw and encountered, even if on occasion her verbalizations could turn addled. Pahksen was straightforward, determined, and suspicious of everything new but willing to learn. When certain hoped-for interpersonal developments did not occur, the members of the General Science Sectionary found themselves frustrated anew on an entirely different world.
Once again Ruslan had to persuade the Myssari senior scientists to be patient. Once again they restrained themselves. They would continue to hold off on compulsory artificial reproduction in the hopes that as the two young humans became more and more comfortable on the old-new world, they would be drawn closer together and Nature would take its course. The Sectionary would not, Kel’les repeatedly informed him, remain patient forever. As it turned out, the matter that never failed to focus everyone’s attention, Ruslan and Myssari alike, did indeed finally come to a head.
But not in the manner everyone expected.
* * *
—
No one could have failed to appreciate the natural beauty of the setting where Ruslan had chosen to live on Seraboth. Kel’les and the other Myssari were surprised when he informed them he did not want to return to the city where they had found him so very many years ago. Why should he go back there, he told them, when he had the best of the planet to choose from? No objection to his choice was raised by Pahksen or Cherpa, who after all knew nothing of his world. So it was that he’d had the Myssari restore a group of small but elaborate private homes located on a rocky peninsula that jutted out into one of Seraboth’s smaller seas. The views were spectacular and the climate salubrious. Cherpa was delighted with the location, while Pahksen gruntingly assented.
“Always the sea. Always the openness,” Bac’cul had commented when he had first been shown the site.
“Always whenever possible,” Ruslan had told him. “At least when it’s water and not liquid methane or something equally exotic. Besides, the homes were designed as vacation retreats and were in an unusually good state of preservation. There’ll be one for each of us and they’re close to one another. I can keep an eye on the youngsters while each of them adapts individually to their new habitat.”
Indeed, both Cherpa and Pahksen took to their new residences with a zest that only served to confirm the Sectionary’s foresight in instigating the move from Myssar. As time passed, everyone settled in. Even the resident Myssari, comprised of rotating teams from Myssar, took the time to customize the buildings that had been adapted by them for their research facilities. They had the benefit of assistance from fellow scientists who had been researching Serabothian civilization for decades.
Having come to know their initial specimen intimately over the years, the Myssari understood that Ruslan enjoyed having time to himself. Since there were no Myssari scheduled to visit him for study that morning and as none had contacted him to do so, he was startled to feel a hand on his shoulder. The swift spinning of his seat, suspended as it was an appropriate distance off the unforgiving ground, forced the individual who had accosted him to retreat a couple of steps. A surprised Ruslan found himself staring up at Pahksen.
In the two years since migrating from Myssar, the young man had stopped growing upward, but not outward. Recalling the lithe and hungry young Pahksen of Daribb, it was difficult for Ruslan to look at him now and realize he was seeing the same person. No longer needing to fight to survive and with everything he might desire provided by the helpful Myssari, the whiplike survivor had ballooned into a large and lazy young man. As evidenced by his occasional irritated outbursts, the old mental roughness was still there, but the body was on the cusp of surrendering to sloth.
This was, Ruslan mused as he waited to see what his visitor wanted, in sharp contrast to Cherpa, who seemingly by simply wishing it to be so had matured into a spectacular, healthy young woman. One who nonetheless rarely went anywhere without a certain repeatedly rejuvenated old toy in tow. Ruslan had to smile to himself every time he thought of the doll Oola. It might not qualify as a human survivor, but it certainly made the grade as a survivor of human culture.
It was a truly beautiful morning, he thought, and now Pahksen was showing him an expression designed to spoil it. He sighed inwardly.
“What is it this time? Another breakdown in communications? Cor’rin told you that the station techs are working on it.”
“You’re half right, I think.” The much younger man unslung a pack from his back and set it on the hard ground. As he did so a cluster of purple and yellow thushpins hurriedly uprooted themselves and scampered away in all directions, seeking safety from the crushing weight of the descending pack. Ruslan regarded the minor floral genocide with displeasure. Pahksen was careless about such things. This was not Daribb. He no longer had to worry about defending himself from the local flora and fauna. Seraboth was and always had been a benig
n world. Old habits die slowly, Ruslan told himself, manufacturing an excuse for the youth’s indifference.
Positioning the cushioned floating disc by subtly shifting his body mass, he spun his chair so that he was looking straight at his visitor. “Then I must also be half wrong.”
“You’re right about the communications but wrong about the source.” Pahksen indicated a second nearby, empty chair. “May I sit down?”
Odd, Ruslan thought. There were and never had been any formalities between them. But he welcomed the unusual degree of civility. “You don’t need my permission for that. You don’t need my permission for anything, Pahksen. You know that.”
“I always felt that I did. Part of it’s the age difference, I suppose.” He was looking down at his pack, toying with the shoulder straps. “I know that the Myssari want Cherpa and me to make a baby. Or babies, I guess I should say. They want to restart the species.”
This was nothing new, Ruslan thought. So eager were the Myssari, they could not have hid their intentions had they tried. Which, being inhumanly straightforward, they did not.
“Doesn’t sound like there’s a communications problem there.” He leaned forward, the disc tilting him toward the youth. “What’s wrong?”
Pahksen raised his gaze. “I’m willing. More than willing. But when I put the matter to Cherpa, she always has an excuse. She’s too young, she’s too uncertain, she’s too this, too that.”
“She is still a bit young,” a patient Ruslan pointed out.
“Not biologically. And with the best Myssari specialists in human physiology overseeing everything from conception to birth, it’s highly unlikely there would be any dangerous complications. You know what I think the real problem is?”
Ruslan had played the elder advisor for years now. “Tell me.”
“I don’t think Cherpa likes me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Pahksen. You’re the only other surviving human. How could she not like you?”
The younger man’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. “You don’t like me.”
Ruslan was genuinely startled. “That’s absurd! Of course I like you. I’d like any fellow survivor, automatically. How could I not? It’s wonderful to have your company, to just sit like this and talk with another human being. You’re developing into a fine individual. Everyone has growing pains, and yes, you’re no different. If I criticize you occasionally, it’s only because I want to do everything possible to assist in your maturation.”
“You don’t criticize Cherpa.” Pahksen’s tone was accusatory.
“Of course I do. Anyway, how would you know the details of how much I do or not? There are plenty of times she and I are together and you’re not around, just like right now it’s only you and me. How do you know what I say to her when you’re not present?”
A peculiar undertone crept into the younger man’s voice. “What do you say to her when I’m not around?”
It took a long moment for Ruslan to comprehend the full import of Pahksen’s query. When he finally did so, it took him a longer moment to overcome his shock and gather his thoughts enough to compose an appropriate response. It was hard to accept, but the youngster’s own words were the proof of it: his youthful, raging paranoia still retained its grasp.
“You’re not…” He hesitated and started over again. “You’re not implying, in any way, shape, or form, Pahksen, that you think there’s anything physical between Cherpa and me?”
The younger man shrugged with mock indifference. “How would I know, with all the times you two are together and I’m ‘not around’?”
A stunned Ruslan leaned back in his seat, which rocked slightly at the sudden weight shift. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You could start by denying it.” Fingers continued to play with the backpack’s straps.
“Fine, no problem. I deny it. Utterly and completely.”
“I’ve seen the way you look at her sometimes.”
“Pahksen, I’m older than both of you put together.”
“No. You’re just old.” Satisfaction and frustration competed for dominance in the youth’s rejoinder.
“Okay, sure: I’m old. Doesn’t that satisfy you, then?”
“No, it doesn’t. Because while you’re old, you’re not too old. I know—I checked the records. So I know you’re not too old to have sex, or even to reproduce. You’re healthy enough. I’ve wondered for years now why Cherpa won’t have anything to do with me, why she doesn’t like me. It’s so obvious I feel like a complete idiot for not seeing it before. She won’t have anything to do with me because she’s waiting for an invitation from you.” His tone hardened. “If it hasn’t been accepted already.”
What could he say? Ruslan wondered. How could he respond? He needed to convince Pahksen once and for all that his bizarre fantasies were nothing more than that—the imaginings of a disturbed, unsettled mind that lacked self-confidence. A mind perhaps more disturbed and unsettled, he suddenly realized, than anyone had suspected. The Myssari would not have noticed. Not even the specialists among them were sufficiently attuned to human psychology. With only three examples to choose from, they could hardly be blamed for that.
But there was someone who could be held to account: Ruslan himself. How had he missed the signals? How had he ignored the signs? Judging from the intensity of Pahksen’s stare and the crisp, certain timbre of his voice, this had been building up in him for some time.
It was good it was out in the open now, though, Ruslan told himself. A symptom revealed was a symptom that could be treated. The first step was to straightforwardly refute the youth’s claims. This had been done. The next was to deal with his baseless obsession. In order to do so effectively, the patient would have to understand the need for, as well as participate willingly in, his own therapy.
“I’ve denied your unfounded suspicions, Pahksen. I’ll do whatever you think necessary to reassure you further. And I’d prefer not to bring Cherpa into this.”
The youth nodded. “We’re in agreement on something, then. I don’t want her to know about this, either. As to its resolution, I’ve already constructed what I think will be a believable scenario that will resolve everything.”
Feeling better now that the problem was out in the open and that Pahksen appeared to have worked out a way to deal with it, a relieved Ruslan nodded approvingly. “That’s most encouraging. What did you have in mind?”
Leaning forward, Pahksen rummaged in his pack until he brought out the neural neutralizer. An uncomprehending Ruslan stared at the weapon as the younger man calmly explained.
“I’m going to kill you.”
15
“One shot from this will cause all the electrical activity in your body to cease.” Pahksen held the weapon firmly in both hands: a necessity since it was designed to be gripped by three sets of Myssari fingers. “Your brain will cease to function and your heart will stop. It will be quick and there should be very little pain.” His mouth twisted slightly. “I’m a survivor, not a sadist. It’s very Myssari in its way. They’re real problem-solvers.”
A stunned Ruslan chose his words carefully, aware that any one of them might be his last. “They’re also exceedingly civilized. What you intend is not…polite.”
Pahksen shrugged again. As he did so the muzzle of the neutralizer wavered slightly—but not enough for Ruslan to rush the younger man. The distance between them was too great, and despite his increased size and corresponding loss of conditioning, Pahksen’s reflexes were still those of a young man who had been forced to survive alone on a world emptied of humans and populated by dangerous creatures. His tone remained bitter.
“You want Cherpa for yourself. I can see that she’s waiting for you and that’s why she won’t have anything to do with me. The solution is pretty straightforward.”
Ruslan did not take his eyes off the
muzzle of the gun. “How do you think she’ll look at you when it’s made known that you’re responsible for my death?”
“Won’t happen.” The younger man was utterly self-assured. “As I told you, I’ve put together a sequence of events that will convince anyone you took your own life.”
“Why would I do that?” Stall, Ruslan told himself, stall, stall, in the hope that he could come up with something to change the troubled young man’s mind.
“You’re old. You’re tired. You’re bored. There are plenty of commonsense reasons. You want Cherpa and me to carry on the species without your interference, even if it’s unintentional. Don’t worry—I’ve worked everything out in great detail. I think you’d be proud of me.”
“I am proud of you, Pahksen. You’ve adapted very well both to a new world and to Myssari supervision. Don’t throw all that away on behalf of a false conviction. There are only three of us left. There’s no reason to reduce that by a third.”
“You mean by a turd. With you removed from the picture, Cherpa will have no one else to talk to, no one else to confide in, except me.” Once again the tip of the neutralizer shifted as its wielder waved it for emphasis. “The Myssari won’t care. You think they care about you? All they’re interested in is their human studies, and they want more humans to study. Well, Cherpa and I will give them a handful to study. And if she’s still unwilling after you’ve been removed from the scene, then I’ll just explain to the Myssari that a certain amount of force is sometimes required in order to ensure successful procreation. I’m willing to bet they’ll take my side of the argument. Anything to produce offspring to commence repopulation of their favorite nearly extinct species. If she needs someone to confide in and she continues to shun me, she can always talk to that stupid doll of hers!” He spat to one side. “That’s a piece of rag that needs to find its way over a cliff at the first opportunity.”