The Child Goddess Page 13

  “I can’t talk about it yet, Anna. But I was needed here. I’m still needed.”

  A little silence stretched between them, a little live silence, the r-waves erasing the miles as if Anna were only across the street, or across the hall. But the true distance between the two of them, Simon thought, could never be erased, even if they stood in the same room. It had nothing to do with miles.

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I’ll call you when I know. There’s another meeting in six days.”

  “Simon, is . . .” He heard her hesitate, and he knew what she wanted to ask. He dropped his hand, and stood up to walk to the window, struggling against a tide of impatience. Anna’s voice was strained. “Is—is she there?”

  He leaned against the windowframe, gazing out at the rain-spattered solar panels. “Yes, Anna. Isabel is here. ExtraSolar hired her.”

  “I thought so. Her picture was on the news.”

  “I’ll tell you about it when I can, Anna. She’s the child’s guardian.”

  Another silence.

  “Anna, I’m afraid I have to get to work. And you must be tired. Have you eaten?”

  “I’ve only just gotten home, Simon. I was just . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “I know. But there’s nothing to worry about.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll be in touch. I promise you.”

  When the call ended, Simon looked up. Isabel stood in the doorway, and he saw his own guilt mirrored in her face. “Is she all right?” Isabel said in a low tone.

  “Not really.”

  “Is she angry?”

  “I wish she were.” He shrugged. “Part of me thinks it would be easier if she would shout at me, accuse me.” He tucked the wavephone into his pocket.

  Isabel leaned against the doorjamb, her gray eyes darkening. “She’s hurt, of course.”

  “Yes.” Simon turned back to the window. “We all are, Isabel.”

  “I know.” Her voice was full of misery.

  He gazed blindly out into the mist. “Don’t you have some scripture that applies?”

  She sighed. “It’s the seventh commandment that troubles me.”

  “Oh. Right.” He gave her a rueful smile. He went back to the table, and began to sort out the flexcopies he wanted to show her.

  She sat down across from him. “I can’t claim to know a thing about marriage, Simon.”

  He lifted his eyes to her face. “I’m not sure I do, either,” he said slowly. “But Anna doesn’t want to give up on ours.”

  “That takes courage, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose. Or stubbornness.”

  Her lips curved. “Sometimes those are the same, I think. Perhaps Anna is very brave.”

  He dropped his eyes, and stared down at his hands. “Isabel. People change . . . I’ve changed over the years.”

  “Hasn’t Anna?”

  He hesitated. In some obscure way, he thought Anna’s inability to change was part of the problem. “She’s changed in small ways. Superficial ways. She’s devoted to her students, of course, and the school—she’s intelligent, and hardworking. Kind, I think.” And dull. But he wouldn’t speak that disloyal thought aloud. He watched Isabel’s face, and he suspected she understood.

  “Perhaps, if you give it time, Simon . . .”

  “Yes. Perhaps.” He didn’t want to have this conversation, and most especially not with Isabel. He tapped the stack before him. “I need to tell you about Oa.”

  Isabel nodded, accepting the change of subject. “Yes. You knew, didn’t you?”

  “I had an idea,” he said. “But I needed the physical scans. The bone histology.”

  “And did you find it?”

  “The complete file was waiting for me when we got back last night. I’ve been through everything,” he said wearily. He had sat up half the night sifting through Adetti’s confused records.

  “She’s all right, though, isn’t she?” She bent to see the sheet in his hand.

  “Yes, Oa’s fine. But—” He pushed the flexcopy across the table, and pointed to an illustration. “I’d better start at the beginning.” He traced the colored pattern with his forefinger. “This is a photomicrograph of a transverse section of cortical bone.”

  “Cortical?”

  “The solid tissue of long bones. Bone is in a constant state of turnover, called remodeling, during which tissue is absorbed and transformed. The process creates particles called osteons. We can estimate age by counting osteons. A bit dicey without a representative population sample, but otherwise a dependable predictor of age, within a certain range of error.”

  “This came from one of Oa’s scans, then.”

  “Yes.” He picked up a second sheet. “This, too. Adetti did osteon counts from the ribs, the clavicle, the arms, the legs. It looks like he ran them a dozen or more times, and they didn’t change substantially, even allowing for incoherence—that is, discrepancies in different bones from the same subject. And with a live subject—which is rather unusual, by the way—with a live subject we have reliable conclusions because we have all the bone measurements, not just fragments.”

  She took the second sheet, and put her coffee cup down. “What does it mean, Simon?”

  He rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Adetti’s a terrible scientist, Isabel.”

  He managed a sour chuckle. “He should have stuck with emergency medicine. But in this instance, he’s not mistaken. Oa is a great deal older than she appears.”

  “I did ask her, once, Simon. I asked if she could tell me how old she was.”

  “And?”

  “And she held up her arms. She has tattoos, dozens of them, running up and down her arms, over her shoulders, across the back of her neck.”

  “Yes, I know about the tattoos. Adetti called them tribal markings. Did you ask Oa what they were?”

  “I did, but she got tears in her eyes, and she looked so—I don’t know, ashamed, I think. I didn’t have any idea why, and I didn’t have the heart to press her.”

  “Her English isn’t all that good, Isabel. Maybe she didn’t understand the question.”

  “I’m afraid she did. All too well.” Isabel sighed, and slid her palm across her naked scalp. She wore a black wool vest over her shirt, her white collar just showing above it. Rain began to patter against the window. “There’s nothing in the records about tattoos in the Sikassa culture, other than as body adornment. But to Oa, clearly, they have great significance.”

  In the gray light Isabel looked very much as she must have when she first put on her priestly collar, her skin clear and smooth, the lines around her eyes and mouth almost unnoticeable. She leaned past Simon to pick up a third flexcopy, and he had to clench his hand to keep from stroking her cheek.

  He said quietly, “Isabel, look at me.”

  She lifted her eyes to his.

  “I know how shocking this must be. But according to the projections I ran last night, we can estimate Oa’s age within a range of plus or minus twelve years.”

  “Twelve—years?” Isabel’s voice scraped on the word.

  “We can’t be certain of accuracy beyond that window. Too many factors have to be taken into account, including accidents, toxicity, genetic variance, environmental effects.” He saw, with clinical clarity, how her pupils expanded, her skin blanched.

  “God help us, Simon! How old—” Her voice dried and she simply stared at him.

  He couldn’t hold her gaze. He looked away, out into the misty morning. There was no easy way to say this, no gentle way to reveal what he had learned.

  He blurted, “One hundred, Isabel. Oa is somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred years old.”

  14

  SIMON CAUGHT ISABEL just as her knees gave way, and she collapsed in his arms with a little gasping breath. Her pupils swelled with shock, and her face turned ashen. He lifted her, cradling her head on his shoulder, and laid her down as gently as he could on the couch. He tucked a pillow beneath her ankles, and patted h
er cheek gently.

  “Isabel?” Her eyelids fluttered, and she groaned. Her fingers reached for her cross. “Isabel. It’s all right. Take your time.”

  He knelt beside the couch, cursing himself for not finding a gentler way to tell her. He chafed her wrist between his hands until she sighed, and her eyes opened.

  “Oh, Simon. Good lord. I fainted!”

  He smiled at her. “Indeed, Mother Burke. You fainted.”

  She struggled to sit upright. “Good lord,” she repeated. “I’ve never fainted in my life!”

  “Well, it’s a shock. And I didn’t say it very well.”

  She shook her head. “There’s no good way to say such a thing. Did I hear you right, Simon?” Her eyes on him were cloudy. “Did you say one hundred years old? Oh, my God. Poor Oa. Poor child.”

  Simon brought a glass of water from the little kitchen. He sat down beside her, watching to see that her color returned, that she drank the water, that her pupils contracted to their normal size. “Some would say she was lucky, Isabel. Eternal youth.”

  Her eyes widened again, but she was stable now. “Eternal? God forbid!”

  He relaxed. She was herself again. “Why God forbid, Isabel? Doesn’t everyone want to stay young?”

  She shook her head. “Only the old, Simon. Children want more than anything to grow up. Can’t you remember?”

  He chuckled. “I’m very far from being a child now. And there are things about being young that I miss.”

  “But . . .” She paused, searching for words, touching her cross. “But it was so—satisfying—so right—to become a woman. And you, Simon. How could you do the work you do if you remained a child? You saw Oa, you saw how she is! It doesn’t matter if she’s lived a thousand years, she’s still a child!”

  “I agree with you. She has a child’s body, and a child’s mind.”

  Isabel pushed herself to her feet and moved unsteadily to the window, her slender shoulders bowed. “Do you know what they’ll do to her? How they’ll use her?” she choked.

  “It’s why Adetti brought her here, Isabel.”

  “And Boreson allowed it.”

  “I have an idea about that, too.”

  She turned. The soft light from the window haloed her bare head. “Her illness?”

  He shrugged. “I hate to guess at diagnoses, but she obviously has some sort of chorea. If it’s degenerative, then it’s age-related.”

  “So Adetti wants—”

  “What humans have wanted for eons. The fountain of youth.”

  “It’s appalling.”

  “Why, Isabel? Not everyone has your faith.”

  “Simon, it’s not about faith. It’s about morality! Ethics! Who among us is entitled to live forever? The rich? The powerful?”

  “I agree with you, of course, but I doubt the likes of Adetti would. Or even, I’m sorry to say, the regents.”

  Her voice was strained. “We have to do something. We have to protect Oa.”

  “It won’t be easy. We have to start by finding out what is keeping her from aging. What keeps her a child.” He rose, and walked to her side. “That’s what Adetti’s been looking for, of course. Why he kept running scans, though he isn’t clever enough to work it out. I’m going to need to do a scan of my own.”

  “Oh, Simon, those other children.” She pressed her palms to her eyes, and took a deep breath. “Those poor abandoned children. Are they all like Oa?”

  “The deceased one was. And I’m concerned about the hydro workers at the power park.”

  “You think they’re in danger of infection after all?”

  He shook his head. “I just don’t know. We know Oa’s not a carrier, but we still need to discover the source of the virus. We don’t know what its effects might be on a different population. We have to know what we’re dealing with.”

  A sound came from the second bedroom, the creak of a bed, a sighing yawn as Oa woke. Simon watched in wonder as Isabel looked away, rearranged her face, prepared herself. This, he thought, is what it is to be a parent. The parent wears a mask, puts the child’s needs before her own. She makes whatever sacrifices are necessary, for the child’s sake.

  Oa appeared in the doorway, sleepily rubbing her eyes, her mass of curling hair falling around her shoulders, and Isabel, somehow, smiled a peaceful and affectionate morning greeting.

  Yes, Simon thought. Oh, yes. This is what it is to be a parent. Even if the child is a hundred years old.

  *

  “I WILL BE right beside you every moment,” Isabel assured Oa. The girl’s eyes were wide with anxiety, and she clung to Isabel’s hand. The day before she had watched Isabel lie under the medicator as Simon ran a scan, but today her fear had returned. She had put it aside briefly as they rode up the outside elevator, exclaiming over the view of Seattle, lifting her teddy bear to see the scattered domes and spires glittering in late winter sunshine, windows of every shape and size glowing gold and silver. But now, as they passed the office doors in the medical building, she grew silent again, and her hand in Isabel’s was cold. Isabel, glancing down at her, saw her reading the signs on the doors they passed, sounding out the names. Every one of them had “Doctor” before it.

  Simon walked a little ahead, and the omnipresent guard, the pleasant Matty Phipps, came behind. Simon had located an old friend from medical school, and asked to borrow an exam room for an hour or two. Isabel had explained to Oa that Doctor Simon needed to do his own medicator scan. “But just once,” she said firmly. “Only once. And I will be with you.”

  Oa had said she understood, but now the girl’s fear radiated through her hand and into Isabel’s. Isabel said, “Oa. Do you know what a machine is?”

  “Ship,” Oa said in a small voice. “Car. Es-presso maker.”

  “That’s right. Those are all machines. They do only what we want them to do. And the medicator is a machine. Not a spider. A machine.”

  The girl’s great black eyes lifted to Isabel’s. “Doctor Simon needs to—”

  “Yes. Doctor Simon needs to examine you.”

  “Ex-amine.” Oa took a shallow breath. “Examine Oa.”

  “That means to study. Simon wants to understand you, to know things about you. Is that all right, Oa?”

  “Permission?”

  Isabel smiled at the quickness of Oa’s mind, the alacrity of her memory. “That’s exactly right. Permission. Will you give Simon permission?”

  They had reached the correct office, and Simon opened the door and stood back for them to enter. Oa stepped cautiously through it into an elegant reception room. As she passed Simon, she looked up into his face and said gravely, “Oa gives Doctor Simon permission.”

  Simon nodded acknowledgment with the same gravity. “Thank you, Oa.”

  *

  THE EXAM ROOM in this office was much warmer than the one on the ship, or even in the infirmary. Oa lay on the high bed, the paper sheet crinkled beneath her. An arrangement of miniature objects spun in the air above her head, a tiny girl in a scarlet dress, a four-legged beast with a silver horn, a bird with lavender feathers, a flat yellow fish with green eyes. They twirled in an intricate pattern, dodging each other, almost but not quite colliding. Oa decided they were some kind of toy she had not yet seen. She held tightly to Isabel’s hand, her teddy bear in her other hand, and she concentrated on the dance of the little toys. When Doctor Simon bent over her, she flinched, and then forced herself to lie still. She must lie still. She had given Doctor Simon permission.

  His hands were warm on her skin. Doctor’s hands had been cold and dry, like the empty snakeskins the anchens found on the forest floor. Doctor—that other Doctor—had jostled her, pinched her, sometimes pulled her hair as he worked. He had treated her as if he understood exactly what she was.

  Doctor Simon pressed the microneedles to her wrists with a motion so deft she had to glance down at her arm to see that they were really attached. When he fitted the syrinxes to her temples and to her ankles, he spoke to her. �
�Please tell me if there’s any discomfort, Oa. Do you feel this, here at your ankle? No? Good. And now I’m going to patch these to your temples, just so. Is that all right? Good girl. You’re a very good patient.”

  Oa didn’t understand everything he said. When he moved her teddy bear to reach the inside of her arm, she gave Isabel an anxious glance. Isabel murmured, “Here, Oa.” She lifted her cross over her head, and laid it on Oa’s breast. “We will share it.”

  It was the same spider machine, but it seemed different now. Isabel’s cross lay on Oa’s chest with a comforting weight, and the colorful creatures spun above her head. Isabel held her hand, and Doctor Simon chattered easily as he worked. The spider machine made its usual hissing and clicking noises, but Oa found if she listened to Doctor Simon’s voice, even though she didn’t understand most of what he said, the spider machine lost some of its power. She didn’t shudder, or shiver.

  And soon it was over, with Isabel helping Oa down from the high bed. Doctor Simon restoring her teddy bear to her arms and turning to take disks from the spider machine. They were leaving the office, Doctor Simon saying good-bye to his old friend, Matty Phipps rejoining them as they came out of the exam room. The four of them walked down the corridor, free again. Oa felt like dancing herself, spinning and twirling like the tiny girl in the scarlet dress.

  As they floated down to the street in the transparent elevator, Oa admired the great city around her with new eyes, and she smiled at Isabel as they got into the car. “Oa is hungry.”

  Isabel laughed. “Oh, yes, Oa, Doctor Simon and Isabel are hungry, too.” And when Matty Phipps grinned and nodded, Isabel said, “So is Matty, I think. Let’s all have ice cream!”

  And so they had another “outing,” all of them, with a strange cold food that tickled Oa’s tongue and made her head ache at first, but was so sweet and thick in her mouth that she had to eat it fast anyway. When she had finished hers, a pretty concoction of white and brown and red in a clear glass dish, she laid her spoon down with a clatter. “Oa likes it!” she cried.