Marek Huberath - Nest of Worlds

“Please try to remember. Did you see him?”

“I heard of his death, at the table.”

“Interesting. That was the first death. The most poorly documented. It doesn’t fit the pattern.”

“You mean there’s a pattern?”

“The other deaths are connected. You personally knew or had met the victims beforehand.”

“I hope it wasn’t my breath that killed them. I use a fluoride toothpaste and brush after every meal.”

“It isn’t your breath,” said Medved, not smiling. “Each person died in accordance with his or her Significant Name. For every case of murder, the perpetrator is known.”

“Then what sense does this investigation make?”

“It’s not an investigation. There are no grounds to conduct an investigation. The perpetrators are all known. The causes of death are all clear. And you have an alibi.”

“I’m glad to finally hear it from you.”

“This is a study undertaken in part at the request of the Division of Hierarchy and Classification. I have no charges to press against you.”

Gavein decided to make the man tea. Ra Mahleiné, he thought, would have done the same. Medved had shown that he was not an enemy.

“There is something bigger going on here,” Medved said when Gavein returned with two half-liter metal mugs full of very strong and very bitter tea.

The tea will leave a deposit, Gavein thought. She’ll be angry with me when she has to scour the mugs.

“You flew to Davabel on the twelfth of December.”

“That’s right.”

“Have a look here.” Medved turned the laptop so both could see. Gavein took a swallow of his tea. On the screen was the face of a man wearing the cap of the airline. “That’s Captain Calvin Sallows, the pilot on your flight of December 12. He’s dead. The copilot, Roy Borchardt, died in the recent fire. Ossya Leblanc, navigator, burned to death with the others. He too was on your flight.”

Different faces flashed on the screen. There was a sweet girl with a snub nose, wearing the jacket of the airline. Gavein remembered her.

“Lorna DaCosta, flight attendant. She also died. Maude Calabash, another flight attendant. Also. Shelly Herbert, also. Do you understand? These people were to fly together for the first time since December 12, and they’re all dead. You see no coincidence?”

Gavein lowered his head.

“Still not convinced?” Medved took a sip of the tea, made the way the Throzzes liked it, and winced. “Among the passengers on that December 12 flight, one Bharr Thorsen died. During the explosion he was at the main terminal, taking care of some business.”

“I remember him. He sat next to me. We spoke.” Gavein felt like a butterfly stuck on a pin for display.

“There’s more.” Medved was without mercy. “The same ground crew was there, as on December 12.” Gavein’s only revenge was the tea: you drank to remove the bitterness, but the next swallow was even worse. The Throzzes drank no other tea.

“Do you remember this person?” On the screen now was the face of an elderly man.

“He certified my social classification. He gave me a three on my passport.”

“Tom Vantrook, fifty-seven. Died on the spot. And this one?” Medved pointed at a hatchet face with a jutting chin.

“I don’t know him.”

“Doug Waitz, customs official, also died on the spot. After you were done with Vantrook, you proceeded to him. Large, muscular, a red…”

“It’s possible. Wearing rubber gloves?”

“Customs officials all wear rubber gloves. And this one? Gummo Zuidema. He also worked there on December 12.”

“I don’t remember. He might have been the one who directed me to the second window. I’m confusing the faces. Do you have him at another angle?”

More pictures flashed in sequence on the screen.

“Yes,” said Gavein, growing grim.

“Shall we continue?” asked Medved. He saw that Gavein was tired.

“Let’s get it over with.”

Next, the photograph of a bald old man.

“Him I know. From the Division of Classification. He took me to Edda’s place. He complained that soon he would have to move to Ayrrah.”

“Rees Cozier. He didn’t have to move, he died. And this one?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Minibus chauffeur, Al Johnson. He was likely your driver. He’s in the hospital, fighting for his life. Do you recall anyone else on the airport staff December 12?”

“Yes, of course. Lorraine Patricks. I told you before. She lives in the apartment in the front, on the ground floor.”

Medved said nothing.

“If only those die whom I came into contact with, then the others who are wounded will live.”

“We don’t know. There’s a badly burnt woman there whose Significant Name is Flomirra .” Medved, giving up on the tea, put down the mug.

“Can you tell me what all this means?” asked Gavein.

“If you don’t know, then no one does. It’s pure coincidence then.”

“And how in the blazes am I supposed to know?” Gavein said, raising his voice.

Medved nodded, agreeing. It was even possible that he believed Gavein.

Two days later, Gavein took Ra Mahleiné home from the hospital. Dr. Nott’s face was stern. Her jowls hung more, her shoulders seemed even bonier. The news wasn’t good. Ra Mahleiné, after her many beatings by the guards, had internal scarring—adhesions—and most likely was sterile. In addition, she needed an operation: there was a growth that might or might not be malignant. They didn’t know, because Ra Mahleiné wouldn’t agree to a biopsy, afraid that the knife would spread the tumor. Dr. Nott decided they should remove it and examine it afterward.

Zef brought Gavein an article clipped from an afternoon tabloid, the Central Davabel Courier . The headline was “Death Is in the Masculine Gender, and His Name Is Dave.” The article began:

(DDP) According to a high-placed, confidential source in the Division of Hierarchy and Classification, the mortality rate is soaring. The deaths have taken place exclusively in Central Davabel, and the victims are all reported to have come into contact, before their demise, with a certain David, B, who recently arrived here from Lavath. The police have ruled out direct involvement on the part of this person, in every case, and yet without exception the deceased met their end only after meeting him. Those who are acquainted with him die, as well as those who merely exchange a few words with him. No explanation has yet been offered for this phenomenon, but a study has been initiated. It has been determined that in every instance death came in accordance with the victim’s Significant Name.

We can only advise our readers to give a wide berth to any individual named David who recently came from Lavath, as one of them may be this David Death. And in the event that you have actually met him, or know him… well, all we can say is, do your best to stay on his good side. It may improve your chances.

“I cut it out so my mother wouldn’t see it. I don’t believe a word of this crap, of course,” said Zef, “but my mother goes into hysterics, and she’s already filled the ear of one idiot policeman.”

On television they were showing the victims of the airport explosion. In isolated units, beds were draped with IVs and colored wires. Then a close-up: a tightly bandaged face, a tube coming from a nose, narrow slits for the eyes, swollen lips.

“Irma Rahm, G,” said the commentator, “seriously burned in the accident. She was standing at the end of the line of passengers who had just arrived from Lavath. Yesterday afternoon she regained consciousness. One can communicate with her.”