Fall of Angels

LXXIX

THIS TIME, AT the low cries, and the sense of pain, Nylan had not waited, but followed Ayrlyn up to the third level, and to Istril.

“It’ll be all right,” insisted the silver-haired guard. “It will be. I know.” Her breathing increased, and lines of pain creased her face. “But I feel better with both of you here.”

“You know a lot,” said Ayrlyn. “More than I do.”

“What about me?” said Jaseen.

“You … too …” puffed Istril.

“Don’t push yet,” cautioned the healer. “You’re not ready.”

“Feels that way …” grunted the silver-haired guard. “Want to push … whole body says I should.”

“Don’t … not yet … pant … puff, but don’t push.” Nylan stood beside the bed that had been a lander couch, waiting, hoping he would not be needed, feeling, again, almostlike an intruder, for all that he had promised Istril that he and Ayrlyn would be there.

In the end, besides providing order support, and a touch of healing, he was not needed, and Istril cuddled her son in her arms, and dampness streaked her cheeks.

“What are you going to call him?” asked Ayrlyn.

“Weryl.”

Nylan paused. “Weryl? That was my grandfather’s name, too.”

“I know. I liked the name.” Istril’s hand stroked the boy’s cheek. “So small.” Her eyes closed momentarily. “Tired … worse than riding all day … hurts a lot more, too.”

“You’ll heal fine,” Ayrlyn assured her.

“Just let me finish getting you cleaned up,” muttered Jaseen, adding to Ayrlyn, “That’s about the last of that antiseptic.”

“We’re going to have to develop some local substitutes-something.”

Nylan stepped back away from the couch, then stopped and looked at the boy, another child with the silver fuzz on his scalp, foreshadowing silver hair like his mother’s. Istril’s eyes closed again, and her breathing smoothed, but she opened them and looked at Nylan.

“Glad … you keep promises …”

Although he felt awkward, Nylan stepped forward and touched her wrist. “You just rest and take care of your son.”

“He … I will,” answered Istril, seemingly fighting both pain and exhaustion.

“Just rest,” added Ayrlyn.

Nylan took a last look at the two and then walked to the steps and down toward the now-empty great room. Ayrlyn followed.

The engineer looked at the empty tables, then walked to the one window that was open. He stood there, in the cool wind that carried the smell of turned earth, spring flowers, and damp pine needles into the tower.

“Sometimes …” For a time, he did not finish the sentence.“Sometimes, I feel like there’s so much I should see, like the children.”

“Both Istril and Siret had silver-headed children,” said Ayrlyn. “That’s more than a little strange, since Gerlich is dark-haired.”

“Does Relyn have anyone in his family with silver hair?” asked Nylan.

“I don’t know, but I got the impression that no one has seen anyone with silver hair like the four of you anywhere on this planet.”

“Maybe it’s dominant?” Nylan shook his head.

“That’s asking a lot,” said Ayrlyn. “Our hair colors get changed from this switch from universe to universe. That I can buy, in a weird sort of way. But changing a recessive into a dominant gene? I don’t know about that.” She pauses. “Are you sure you don’t know more about this?”

“I’ve only slept with one person.”

“You’re telling the truth, and that bothers me. Because …”

“I know,” Nylan sighed. “Kyalynn, Dyliess, and Weryl all feel the same, with our senses … don’t they?”

Ayrlyn nodded.

“I need to talk to Ryba.”

“I’ll be here,” Ayrlyn said. “Remember that. I’ll be here.”

Nylan looked at the redhead, but she just repeated her words. “I’ll be here, if you need to talk.”

“Thank you.” He took a deep breath and headed for the steps.

Ryba was easing Dyliess into the cradle. So Nylan waited for a time until his daughter half snorted and slipped into sleep to the gentle rocking of the cradle. Already, she seemed larger.

“How is Istril?” asked Ryba, her tone that of professional concern, even before Nylan could speak.

“She’s fine. So’s her son.” Nylan watched Ryba.

A faint shadow crossed the marshal’s face. “She had a son?”

“She named him Weryl.”

“How touching.”

Nylan swallowed. “Dyliess isn’t the only one, is she? How did you do it?”

“How does it feel? I promised you a son. I didn’t realize it would be this soon.”

“I don’t like it-but how did you manage it? You’re the only one … I mean, I’m not like Gerlich, bedding every willing marine.”

Ryba turned toward the window, walking past the cradle, where Dyliess gave a little snort. Ryba paused and smiled briefly at the infant before speaking. “You don’t have to bed anyone but me. We do have some remnants of medical technology. And I know how to use the local net, or whatever you want to call it, also, at least enough to ensure that our child would be a daughter.” Ryba looked back at the silver-haired girl in the cradle. “I thought that Istril’s child would be a girl.”

Nylan decided against mentioning Istril’s slow-emerging abilities. He walked to the other tower window, and looked out past the folded-back shutters. “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ryba brushed the short dark hair out of her face. “We’re stuck here. We need to prepare for the next generation. Interbreeding with the locals runs risks we don’t even know about. With Mertin’s death, you and Gerlich are the only ones with verifiably compatible genes. You’re hung up on being with one person … which is … reassuring … for me, but not terribly effective. This way we can assure staggered pregnancies. Besides, we don’t have many men. Look what happened to Mertin. At least now we’ve saved your genes.”

“And so many girls?”

“I’m not about to let male brute force undo what we’ve built. There will be a few more sons, though.”

“Stud value,” said Nylan bitterly.

“Eventually, we’ll have to bring in locals, but not until we’ve widened the gene pool enough, and until the girls are socialized the right way.”

“The feminine utopia.”

“You’ve seen this planet. Boys are more fragile than girls;so more boys are born in times of stress. Put those together, and natural selection would have all our daughters barefoot and pregnant in fifteen years. Twenty at the outside. No, thank you.”

Nylan could see dark gray clouds massing on the northern horizon, just above the western peaks. “You could have told me, rather than let me guess.”

“I couldn’t risk it.” Ryba looked down at the floor, then to the cradle. “It’s not you. You’re basically a gentle man … but … I know what works, and there’s too much at stake. Do I tell you, when I know that I’ll have a bright and talented daughter if I don’t? Or that … I don’t dare tell you that, either.” She shook her head helplessly. “I know just enough.”

“You’re a captive of your visions. Life isn’t just following what you know will work. Can’t you dare to make it better?”

“I have,” answered Ryba bleakly. “That’s why three guards are dead. I saw myself being more brutal than in dealing with Mran, and I wouldn’t do it. I wasn’t quite that bad after Frelita died, but I should have been, because more guards died being careless, because people only respect force. You don’t think I’ve tried? Or that it doesn’t bother me?”

“It doesn’t bother you enough.”

“It bothers me a lot! I suggest, and, unless I’ve got a hand on a blade and madness in my eyes, half of them won’t listen. You think I enjoy that?”

“But you do it …”

“You don’t see how much it upsets me, and you never will, and that’s just another reason why I don’t ever want many men around. And you’re one of the best. Most of them are like Gerlich or that weasel Narliat.”

Nylan shook his head. “I’m not them.”

“No, you’re not. What would you have me do? Don’t give me generalities, either. What action do you want?”

“Don’t turn me into a stud through artificial insemination.”

“Fine. Will you promise me to bed three more guards-of my choice-late this summer?”

“I’m not like Gerlich.”

“No. But we need children if Westwind is to survive. And if Westwind doesn’t survive, most women on this planet won’t have a life worth living.”

“You need a purpose, don’t you?” asked Nylan. “You have to have something that makes it all worthwhile.”

“It took you this long to figure that out?” Ryba gave a harsh bark, not quite a laugh, and Dyliess murmured and turned on the coarse sheet. The marshal bent down and rocked the cradle. “I’m not satisfied with mere survival, and you aren’t either, Nylan. You just won’t admit it. You’ll nearly kill yourself to build a tower that will last for centuries, but you won’t admit it. You’ll risk ridicule for being obsessed with building, but you won’t admit you need a larger purpose, too.” The marshal paused, then added, “You still didn’t answer my question. You asked me to do something, and I said I would-if you’d give me an alternative.”

“I don’t know.” Nylan looked down at Dyliess.

“I always thought men liked the idea of harems.” Ryba shrugged. “Or we can keep on the way we are. It’s a little messy, but …”

“I’m not Gerlich, and I need to think about it.” With a last look at Dyliess, Nylan turned and walked down the steps-out through the big south door and out into the shadows that were falling from the cold north across the Roof of the World. His feet carried him to the smithy site, and the rocks and the mortar. At least what he built was solid. At least he could see what happened with mortar and stone and timber.

He needed to talk with Ayrlyn. He needed that, but not yet. Not yet.