Marek Huberath: Nest of Worlds

“Excuse me?”

“What you were saying about the use of dye.”

“Yes, resocialization,” said the official. “You are home now.”

He held out a brochure.

“Read this. In Davabel, you see, matters of classification, the rules for categorizing humanity, are treated more seriously than in Lavath. We have solved the mystery of the order of incarnations and in a way that allows no doubt. On that basis it has been possible to create a just hierarchy.”

“The explanation of this mystery is also in the brochure?”

“Unfortunately the brochure contains only a summary, the basic principles.” The official rubbed his nose. “I personally feel that it should go into more detail. But you’ll get the full picture at the lecture.”

“I see,” said Gavein, without enthusiasm.

“In Davabel, problems are taken note of… that you may never have encountered until now.”

Gavein said nothing, so the official went on.

“For example, vocabulary. You should not use such words as ‘brunet’ or ‘blond.’ Never a color in conjunction with the word ‘hair.’ Be careful to say only ‘black,’ ‘red,’ ‘gray,’ and ‘white’… Forget those other words as quickly as you can, for your own good.”

“It’s illegal…?”

“Of course not. But for saying ‘blond,’ you could be knifed. The police are not always nearby.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You should set yourself up, get married. Now is a good time… Personally I recommend you take a red or gray woman. Blacks are trouble because they have too many rights.”

“But I already…”

“You already have a wife?” The official marked something down on a form. “But you can look around, give it thought… A simple declaration is enough to annul a hastily entered relationship. She’s arriving on a female transport?”

Gavein nodded.

“Any children left in Lavath?”

“No.”

“At least we have that. I am not an advocate of foster parenting, though it is commonly done. Today there are a lot of children remaining, two grays and a red. No blacks, unfortunately. But you can think about it. Their ages are two, five, and sixteen.”

“I’m waiting for my wife.”

“A purely formal question. She isn’t white, is she?”

Gavein lowered his eyes.

“You’ve misunderstood me, surely.”

Gavein said, “She’s tall, graceful, slender. A natural blonde.”

“White.”

“My wife won’t stick a knife in me.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you. Our classification of people is sensible. Even our climate doesn’t favor whites. Their hair falls out, their teeth, their nails. Too little pigment… Possibly it’s in the genes. But you’ll see for yourself. In ten years your tall and natural wife will be… still tall and natural, but bald and toothless. The thallium in the atmosphere affects them. Why do you need an old hag? You’re better off forgetting her.”

Gavein didn’t reply. He was not about to get into an argument with the official.

“Where is this lecture?”

“That’s after orientation. You’ll be given a schedule.”

And when you move to Ayrrah in a few years, Gavein thought bitterly, you’ll have to listen to this same crap.

“Over there is the airline representative. He’ll take care of you.” The official pointed.

Gavein got up from his chair. He put the folded brochure in his pocket. He didn’t intend to read it.

His place was taken by the next passenger, who had been standing, per regulations, at a distance of six meters from the window.

Again, the redhead official. As if she was sticking to him. Gavein followed her down corridors that went on and on.

The long flight, and perhaps also the fact that the air here was cleaner than in Lavath, made him feel slightly dazed.

Finally they reached the communal bedroom: iron beds, their frames scratched but not rusting. These were not bad accommodations; it could have been just pallets on the floor. Into a tag holder on a bed, the official put an airline tag that read Dave Throzz.

“Forgive the quality of the bedding, poor for us. In Davabel we have good mattresses, both foam rubber and inflated. What you see here is designed to help new arrivals make the transition. The beds come from a military hospital, that’s why they’re all white and identical. You’ll stay here a night or two. In the meantime the Immigration Department will find something for you. Blacks get the best jobs.” Her lip curled a little.

She shouldn’t betray her feelings, he thought. Social segregation, after all, is inevitable.

When she left, Gavein shoved his bag under the bed, took off only his boots and coat, and fell as he was on the dirty sheets. He had been told that people coming to Davabel had no resistance to local diseases; he feared infection.

The lights came on a few more times—more passengers from the plane, all of them retireds, not one middle.

It was hard falling asleep in a hall with a hundred and twenty men. The air was stuffy, but you couldn’t open a window because of the wind. The snoring didn’t let up—this one, that one—and the man to the right chomped in his sleep. When he finally closed his mouth and started grinding his teeth instead, it got quieter. Unfortunately, someone else started making muffled groans, as if smothered by a pillow. A nightmare, no doubt.

Gavein mentally calculated the time of Ra Mahleiné’s trip. She should have arrived. The thirty-two extra minutes made no important difference.

He slept poorly, kept waking up at first, and the dreamless sleep he finally fell into brought no relief.

Someone was shaking him by the shoulder. He thought at first that it was early dawn, but it was day, only overcast, dismal. He opened his heavy eyes: the redhead.

“You’re not diabetic?” she asked.

Aeriella … He didn’t like her any better today. Though she had the same Name as Ra Mahleiné.

“No,” he snapped.

“We were afraid you’d gone into a coma. It’s four in the afternoon. There’s a talk in just a little while for blacks.”

“You work two shifts?” he asked. His head was clearing.

“Today I’m on duty in the afternoon. I was assigned to you.”

You assigned yourself to me, red bitch, he thought.

He was wrong: she left him immediately. He joined a group of a few dozen people waiting in a small conference room. A few more travelers were brought in: all black middles. Finally the speaker appeared: it was the official from Hierarchy and Classification whom Gavein met yesterday.

“Many of you were surprised,” he began, “by the careful attention to social segregation that you encountered here upon your arrival.” He spoke from memory, though he had an index card with notes on the table before him. “Everything is written down in the flier that was given to you, but I’ll wager a month’s salary that none of you has taken a look at it.” He smiled benevolently and looked around the room.

The reply was silence.

“Exactly.” The official removed his cap and placed it on the table, badge facing the room. “Here in Davabel we have discovered the law of the sequence of incarnations and can say with complete confidence that a white born among us is in the first incarnation, the lowest form of person. A white middle coming to Davabel represents a second incarnation, and so on.”

This idea of four incarnations can’t be the only way of describing the human condition, Gavein thought, recalling a lecture given in Lavath. And here they’ve gone and made an inalterable law of sequence.

“As one changes Land, his passport category rises, until in a subsequent Land that category is wiped to zero—until, in other words, his imperfection is revealed. But if he moves on, his category begins to grow,” explained the official. At the same time he drew four bar graphs on the board, with rising columns. The highest column of each graph was at a different place on the x-axis. “This makes it clear. Even a moron can see that the more times one is incarnated, the longer the revelation of his imperfection will be postponed. Any questions?”