Marek Huberath - Nest of Worlds

It was very late when Gavein lifted his tired eyes from the yellowing pages.

I am not the Reader of this book, he concluded. Wilcox might have been.

Ra Mahleiné slept on the sofa, her legs folded under her, her work draped over her knees. He took the knitting needles from her hands. Lorraine, curled into a ball, slept with an open mouth. The television crackled quietly, sparks of different colors flickering across the screen. The Davabel anthem had been played long ago. Gavein turned the power knob off and carried his wife to bed. She was very light. She awoke in his arms and went to wash. Lorraine he didn’t wake, because she might not have been able to fall asleep again. Ra Mahleiné came out of the bathroom in a long nightshirt that covered her gauntness. For him she was as beautiful as ever. She said she felt dizzy. He put an arm around her waist and led her to bed. She fell asleep instantly.

They slept almost until noon. In the kitchen, Lorraine was trying to prepare some dish. Ra Mahleiné, the moment she got up, experienced sharp pains and barely made it to the bathroom before she began hemorrhaging. She fainted on the toilet seat. Later she said that she must have lost a full glass of blood. An ambulance came for her quickly, accompanied by a van. Dr. Nott explained that she hadn’t come before because Thompson’s commission had forbidden it. She gave Ra Mahleiné an injection, and the bleeding stopped. They sat her in the shade, before the house. It was a sunny, cool spring day. Lorraine had wrapped her in a green blanket that bore the words Armed Forces of Davabel. Ra Mahleiné drank something cold, took a couple of pills, and dozed off.

“I must speak with you, Dave,” said Dr. Nott.

He expected nothing good of this conversation.

She should remove that wattle, he thought, looking at her drooping chin with disgust.

“It’s about Magda,” she began. The flap of skin seemed to act as a resonator, giving her words unusual depth and timbre.

“Yes?”

“An operation makes no sense. Why use the knife, if the knife will change nothing? The tumor is secondary, and there are other metastases. Surgery would only hasten the spread of it. Most likely the primary tumor was removed on the prison ship.”

“My wife spoke of no operation on the ship.”

“A note in her file says there was a procedure. She might have thought it was cosmetic.”

“Nott, you must do everything possible to save her. She must live.”

“There are times when a doctor can do no more than the next person. The truth is your wife can be saved now only by a miracle.”

“Then that miracle must happen.” Gavein stared at her so hard that Dr. Nott lost her composure: Was it possible that his eyes alone could kill?

“I too wish for such a miracle,” she said, holding up her hands. “But miracles do not happen very often. Meanwhile the bleeding will be more frequent. Had they found the primary tumor earlier on the ship, she would have had a chance of recovery, maybe thirty percent. It’s zero now.”

He realized he was clawing at his skin. He stopped.

“How much time does she have?” he said with effort.

“Two weeks, maybe three.”

Silence.

“There must be a way. It can’t end like this. Otherwise what is the point?”

“Consider, Dave,” said Dr. Nott, her eyes on him like a bird of prey, “you yourself are a phenomenon outside percentages, like a miracle, sowing death on every side. Perhaps you can also prolong life. They may be two aspects of the same thing. You need to understand your powers better. The solution may lie there.”

“One of Medved’s people told you to say that?”

“Medved himself.”

Their talk was interrupted by the police bringing in groceries, newspapers, sundries for Lorraine: Medved keeping his part of the bargain. Gavein offered to pay—he had plenty of money—but everything was compliments of the government of Davabel.

When the ambulance and cars left, Gavein sat on the sofa and reached for Nest of Worlds .

Not to seek an answer; he simply needed to take his mind off a reality that was crushing him.

He opened the book beyond the place he had stopped yesterday.

Spig Bolya opened another can and poured. He waited stoically for his wife’s tongue lashing: on the upholstery of the armchair was a beer stain, and it smelled.

On the TV they were showing an Amido, the latest model. The splendid car roared blissfully across an unpaved expanse, clean and shiny despite the dirt that sprayed from its wheels. The resonant voice of the announcer told of an excellent new financing plan: no money down, no interest for the first three months.

This Amido Civic might be nice, was the thought that stirred in Spig’s lethargic brain. The Sitta Vekand they now had smoked too much, and the trunk was too small. They were tired of it, though they were still paying for it. The Amido was a smaller car but cheaper, so the payments would be easier.

Spig’s wife, Suzi, was preparing a late dinner. Curvy sections of her showed in the kitchen doorway. She was short and, like her husband, compactly built. She had the face of a well-fed rodent, her eyes like black coral buttons and her cheeks puffy. The couple resembled each other so much, people thought they were related. When agitated, Suzi spoke rapidly and in a high voice.

The imminence of the tongue lashing gave the beer a metallic taste. He felt as if there were metal lodged in him, between his stomach and his liver.

The damned cans were made to spill… He looked at the carelessly printed label: silvery aluminum showed through the crumpled colors. In anger he crushed the thin metal, but not so much that more beer spilled, and he didn’t want to cut himself.

Also, he would have to start paying some of their bills at the store.

Their stay in Mougarrie was coming to an end; they would be moving to Tolz soon. First Spig, then Suzi in a couple of days. A lot of business had to be taken care of because of the move—mainly all the stuff bought on credit. Spig’s situation was typical: everyone bought on credit, since there was so blasted little cash. The longer you stayed in Mougarrie, the more the banks trusted you, so you could negotiate better loans. Spig and Suzi had lived here fifteen years now, so they were really solid citizens. They had purchased a lot of things and lived on a fairly decent level compared to other people.

Spig got an idea for avoiding a scene. Especially since the culinary banging in the kitchen indicated that his wife was having a few problems of her own.

He called his upstairs neighbor. The beer, jostled by the sudden movement of reaching for the phone, spilled maliciously on a pant cuff. The rainbow bubbles subsided into an oval stain. He groaned.

Gary Wialic drove a big rig, drove those moving to Tolz. Spig invited him down for a beer. He didn’t really care for the man—he didn’t really care for anybody—but Suzi would like hearing about Gary’s recent trip and that would make it easier for her to take in stride not only the beer on the upholstery but also the beer on Spig’s pant leg. The evening was short (both came home from work late), but Suzi never minded making time for a little socializing.

Gary took a can of Lone Sail. This can, when he opened it, tricked him too; he sucked on the wet cuff of his sleeve. But his green flannel shirt, having black checks, was the kind that made a beer stain unnoticeable. Since the last time it was washed, a considerable amount of beer had got into it. Gary, just returning from a run, hadn’t even changed. He was in dark-gray coveralls with suspenders and a sewn badge that read Emigrant Transport Line.