Marek Huberath - Nest of Worlds

The camera cut to another bed in the ward, a man encased in plaster.

“Walter Ravitzer, B. Besides burns, has a broken back. He was pulled from the rubble. He too was a passenger from Lavath waiting to go through customs. He is conscious and has sensation in both legs. The other survivors are in satisfactory condition.”

“At times I find myself almost believing Medved,” Gavein said. “This catastrophe, it might make a good dissertation for you. Local anomaly in the probability curve of human events in sector N.”

“You think?” Zef mused. “Doesn’t sound bad.”

“Thirty-eight, thirty-nine,” Ra Mahleiné began counting loops out loud. That meant she had something to say but didn’t want to lose her place in the row. There were new glasses on her nose, with pretty blue frames.

“That jackass should have some sense beaten into him,” she finally stated. “With a two-by-four. A whack for every jackass idea.”

The phone clattered. Gavein picked up the receiver. It was Medved again.

“Lewis died of a heart attack. He’s the cop who came with Tobiany and took Haifan Tonescu away. The one who put the handcuffs on Haifan. He was also at your place when the gas exploded and Gwenda and the Hougassian girl died.”

He stopped for Gavein to say something, but Gavein didn’t.

Then Medved added, “There have been no other deaths in Davabel.”

In the evening news it was reported that Irma Rahm died of blood poisoning. And Walter Ravitzer’s condition had taken a turn for the worse. At dinner Edda announced that she had found someone who was interested in the apartment vacated by Helga.

At the bookstore the next day, the main topic of conversation was the enigmatic David Death. Both assistants, of course, had read the article in the Courier . Bette was of the opinion that David Death must be gorgeous, “to die for.” Agatha joked that he must be Gavein, and she should become his wife to protect herself from fatal accidents. Gavein’s gruff reply was that he already had a wife. Wilcox was too engrossed in his book to join in the banter. Gavein dreaded the next phone call from Medved.

It came toward the end of the day. Medved’s voice was different.

“Finally we have a death that doesn’t fit the pattern,” he said. “One should not take pleasure in the passing of any person, but it does seem as if this cursed run has been broken. Lola Low, the film actress, died yesterday, in a car crash. She was speeding; there was alcohol in her blood. She died this morning, not regaining consciousness.”

“Not that long ago,” Gavein said, lowering his voice so the girls wouldn’t hear, “I saw her in one or two movies, with Maslynnaya.”

“Hold on. Maslynnaya?… Maslynnaya stopped filming on the coast so she could attend Lola Low’s funeral. I may have time to make it.” Medved hung up.

That evening they met the new tenant. It turned out to be Anabel. There was an awkward silence as Ra Mahleiné, led in by Gavein, sat opposite her at the table.

Anabel was the first to speak. “Hello, Dave,” she said, and added, for the others, “We know each other.” Only then did she look at Ra Mahleiné. Gavein felt his wife tense, as if preparing to spring, to go for Anabel’s throat. Although taller, Ra Mahleiné was weak and would have had no chance in a fight with the veteran guard. And Anabel’s rank could cause problems, if it came to blows between the women.

Zef stepped in. “You were Magdalena’s guard, is that true?” he began and went on before she could answer: “In thirteen years I move to Ayrrah, where blacks have a zero on their passport and reds a three. Could it happen that I would be a guard in your quarantine?”

“Not likely.” Anabel was angry at being interrupted, and in addition this insolent red was putting her on the defensive before she could get properly acquainted with her fellow tenants. “Women have women guards. And guards are all reds. I am not a guard. I supervise a section.”

Zef smiled too widely. “Ah… Then it must have been a vicious lie.”

“I still have not recovered, from her supervising,” said Ra Mahleiné. To some degree she could speak freely, having been written into Gavein’s passport as a wife.

“I regret what happened,” said Anabel. “It was procedure, a part of my job.”

“Are you now maiming another girl as part of your job?” Zef asked.

Anabel ignored him.

“Admit it, Anabel,” Ra Mahleiné said to her directly, taking pleasure in pronouncing the name, when for years she had to say, always, “Supervisor ma’am, number 077-12-747 reporting.” “You devoted special attention to me, favored me with more than your usual professional care. The name Anabel, so like Davabel, will sound funny in Ayrrah. But no—they will give you a nice number instead, and that will be the end of your name.”

“You! Mind who you’re talking to!” Anabel snarled, losing control for a moment. ,The rule that had been instilled in them from childhood said clearly that she was in her first incarnation, while the hated white prisoner was in her second.

A silence followed. Anabel ate, wiped her mouth, moved easily, sure of her position. She was superior to the former prey that now sat across the table from her. Anabel had parried the few verbal thrusts without trouble.

“Let me guess, Anabel, why you moved here,” Gavein said. “You used your professional contacts and from the file at Hierarchy and Classification learned the identity of David Death. You’re frightened. You want to save your skin. By keeping close to him, maybe you will live longer. Am I right?”

“Ridiculous!” Anabel huffed. A drop of spaghetti sauce from her mouth hit the tablecloth.

“But you must know, surely, that our Dave is David Death,” said Zef. “Observe what sharp white teeth he has.”

“We really shouldn’t joke about such things,” said Myrna Patricks.

“But I’m not joking,” protested Zef. “Death has sharp white canines, and how he bites with them!”

“And before long,” Gavein said, theatrically baring his teeth in a wolfish grin, “he’ll have a shiny white skull, when he loses what’s left of his hair.”

“The skull doesn’t show quite yet,” Ra Mahleiné put in. She gently scratched his pate where the hair was thinnest. “You can hold on to your miserable life a little longer, Anabel. But watch him every evening, and you’ll see his skull shining through…”

Anabel said nothing this time. The bolt had hit home.

“Lorraine has off until the end of next week,” said Myrna. “But she’s feeling fine, and if you like, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind giving you a hand with the housework.” The loving mother believed every word of the Courier article. “You don’t have to pay her. She’s glad to do a good deed, aren’t you, dear?”

“What do you say to that, Little Manul?” Gavein asked. “Would you like a red… a friendly red helper?” His laughter and his flashing teeth chilled the blood of Anabel and Myrna.

“Why not?” laughed Ra Mahleiné. “It doesn’t matter if she’s red, as long as she’s friendly. But a black would be good only for cleaning out the toilet.”

“Looks like the toilet’s your only chance, Anabel. You might not get another,” said Zef, laughing too. “I’ve finally hit on the title of my dissertation: Probability Field Fluctuation as Generated by Brain Power. Dave will be the subject of my research.”

“You change the title every other day,” said Gavein.

“In any ambitious undertaking I begin with the title. A work of genius must have a carefully crafted title.”

The conversation at the table continued in this vein. Anabel was ignored.