Chapter 10

"Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope and love of finished years."

- Christina Rossetti, "Echo"

Elizabeth was deep in a dream. She was skipping along among the desert weeds, her pink trainers lighting up at the heel every time she put her foot down. She was humming a pretty little Bible song she had been taught, when suddenly she tripped on something on the ground before her. She lifted up her seven-year-old hands to find blood upon them. She looked down. At her feet was a child of only three or four, dressed in the simple garb of the tribe, with flies buzzing all over the body, where blood and pus oozed from open sores across the skin. She ran forward and toward the huts in the distance, calling, "Papa! Mama!" As she got closer, she saw her brother emerge from the shack. He was about age twelve, and was wearing sterilized gloves and a mask.

"Liz, Father told you not to leave the house," he said.

"But I had to see them – my book ran out of batteries. John, there's a little girl back there who's sick."

"Where?"

"There." She pointed back the way she had come.

"Quick, sanitize your hands, then put on a mask and some gloves," he said, going back into the hut where four people lay moaning on straw mats, boils covering their bodies. Elizabeth did as he asked and then followed him out to where the little girl lay. John checked her pulse and turned her over, but she was dead.

"Where is her mother?" asked Elizabeth.

"Probably dead too," he responded. "We should take her over to the grave to be buried. No, you don't touch her. I'll take her."

"But where are Mama and Papa?" she asked with tears in her eyes.

"Papa went into town to try to see if there were any more medicine. Mama's visiting a sick family."

"I wish they were here," she wept. She could not help crying over the poor, motherless dead girl.

They were just approaching the giant pit that the natives had dug for the dead, when a tall man, shirtless and wearing the usual loincloth and large circular earrings of the tribe, ran toward them. Over his mouth and nose he wore a medical mask.

"The doctor!" he cried in his own dialect. "The doctor!" John looked frightened. He hurried over to lay the dead child on the heap of corpses. Then he ran after the man, who was motioning them to follow him.

"Come on, Liz!" he cried, taking her hand. She only continued to weep as she ran beside him, hand in hand. They ran on down the dirt road. It seemed to go on and on, and last for hours, as these things often do in dreams. No matter how far they went, their destination seemed to be still just as far away.

The streets were almost entirely deserted. The small wooden houses and the shacks stood empty, some of the doors still hanging open. Bodies in a few cases lay in the gutters and on the side of the road, as if the sick had tried to rise to get help, and had only made it a few steps before dying in the streets.

Finally they reached the hut where the tall man had led them. He rushed in, crying, "Doctor Marie! Doctor Marie!"

Inside lay six ill tribesmen and women on matted beds. They were covered in sores and emaciated to the last degree. On the dirt floor lay a white woman with long, dark-blonde hair which was spread out on the dirt behind her head. She was dressed in a sarong, and had medical gloves and a mask on. But the man kneeled down and removed it from her face. There was encrusted blood on her mouth and down the side of her face where it had pooled on the ground. With a horrified look, the man lifted up her sleeve, and saw a small boil festering there. He leapt back. "Help me! Help me get her on a bed!" he said, and John rushed forward to help. But the little girl backed away, sobbing hysterically, and turned out the door to run into the street. "Papa!" she screamed, tears coursing down her face. "Papa!"

She could hear John calling after. "Liz! Liz, come back!" But she kept running, and in a moment the voice changed. It was soft and female. "Elizabeth!" it said. "Elizabeth!" She felt a gentle touch on her arm, and then she woke up.

She was weeping, and covered in sweat, so that her night shirt was soaked. She was still lying on the couch and sunlight was streaming in through the windows. Dresle was standing over her, looking pale and scared. "What is it?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

Elizabeth cleared her throat and rubbed her eyes to stop crying. "I'm fine," she said.

"What was it? Did you see someone in the shadows? Why were you afraid?" she asked in a frightened voice.

"No," said Elizabeth, confused. "It was just a dream."

"A dream?" Now Dresle looked bemused.

"Yes, a dream," Elizabeth snapped, annoyed. Then, at Dresle's hurt look she softened a little and added, "It happens when we sleep."

"Oh, yes, I've heard of that. We have a word for it – naufrang. But I've never experienced it."

"Never – dreamed?"

"No. We take a drug that prevents it. But I suppose I don't have to take it anymore, now that I'm here!"

Elizabeth slowly sat up, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

"Are you all right? What did you dream about?" asked Dresle.

"Nothing. I'm fine," Elizabeth murmured.

"But you were crying! It was terrible to see! Perhaps you miss your home?"

"Yes, that's probably it," Elizabeth lied. She wanted the focus off herself. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

"Oh, no, you didn't. I've been awake for two or three hours. I've been going through all the clothes they've left us here – I've never seen such variety in all my life! There must be at least six different – what do you call them? Uniforms?"

"Outfits," replied Elizabeth.

"Outfits," said Dresle.

"But – six isn't very many," said Elizabeth, trying to distract herself from the horror of the still-present dream.

"Really?" said Dresle, surprised. "Well, how many do you have?"

"Probably about two dozen – that is, twenty—four – and I have fewer than most women. I don't really care much about clothes. I wear the same type of blouse and pants to work every day."

"But you get to choose what you wear?"

"Well, yes. I mean, there is a certain dress code for places like the office, but as long as I'm dressed appropriately, I can wear what I want."

"Is that true for everyone now?"

"Well, yes. Why? Can't you?"

"No, no we couldn't. Even on the starship we had to wear our uniforms."

"And you had to wear your uniforms all the time?"

"Except for our nightclothes. All the women in my group wore the same kind, white, with a blue band on the arm with their numbers on it. You see, there was a different uniform for each class of people – as a botanist and biologist I was of the highest class and wore grey. All of us in the same class wear the same uniform. The only difference is our official number on the sleeve."

"Official number?" she said, thinking of a Social Security code.

"Yes. You don't have numbers anymore do you?"

"Sort of," said Elizabeth.

"Well, but they don't call you by those numbers?"

"No."

"They call you Dr. Bennet. What does that mean? Is that a type of number?"

"No, it's my second name. The name I inherited from my parents. My brother has the same last name, too."

Dresle looked uncomfortable at this, although Elizabeth could not tell why. "What class are the others of your group in?"

Dresle appeared relieved at the change of topic. "Oh, they're all of the highest class, except for Christoph, who's in the fourth class. He's a language expert. So we all rely on him. And Svaltu. She's of the second-highest class."

"And who is the third-highest class?"

"The third highest are the soldiers."

Elizabeth froze, her hand reaching for her phone. "Soldiers?" she repeated coolly.

"Yes," said Dresle, not seeming to notice her companion's reaction.

Elizabeth pulled the phone from her bag and silently pressed the "record" button. "I thought you said you came in peace."

"Oh, we do," said Dresle, looking confused and flustered. "We would never, ever use any soldiers or weapons against you."

"And yet they found weapons aboard your ship."

Dresle was looking around the room as if in search of an answer.

"Then what are the soldiers for?" Elizabeth continued.

"For – the other countries – on our planet."

"So you're at war with the other countries?"

"Some of them."

"Hmm… if your country's so busy at war, why would they spend all the money and effort on space flight?"

"Exploration," said Dresle.

"I thought you all had said you already knew about Earth a long time ago."

"We did, we did," said Dresle, bursting into tears. "There's nothing else – nothing else out there."

Again this cryptic comment. But Elizabeth felt sorry for her now, at sight of the tears, and knowing how rare it must be. She raised Dresle up from where she crouched by the couch at Elizabeth's feet. She very soon dried her tears, then apologized for her outburst of grief.

"There is no need. You found me blubbering away just now," said Elizabeth. "Tell me about the other classes in your land."

Dresle proceeded to describe the many different classes of people, what class colour they wore and what their duties were. The largest group, it appeared, were the unskilled labourers and farmers, who all wore brown.

"Do they get paid?" asked Elizabeth.

"Paid? What do you mean?"

Of course, Elizabeth thought, They may have no idea of currency. She tried to explain, as briefly as she could, the concept of currency in trading.

Dresle seemed interested. "Is that what you use to obtain things?"

"Yes."

"Where do you get it?"

"I work for it."

"But, then – what do you do with it? Some pieces of paper cannot be very useful."

"It's only useful because we all decide together as a community to regard it as useful. I buy things with it, like food, clothes, books, or other things I want."

"How strange," said Dresle. "Your government does not provide these things for you?"

"No. Although it does take some of the money we make in what we call taxes, and provides public libraries, takes care of the streets and parks. Also for the policemen."

"What are policemen?"

Elizabeth was patient with all these questions, but realized how much the Vellorian had to learn. After her explanation, Dresle said, "Oh. We did not have those."

"Then who took care of keeping the city safe? The soldiers?"

"No one," answered Dresle in surprise. "Each citizen cared for his or her compatriots."

"So you don't use currency either?"

She shook her head. "The state provides all we need."

Just then a knock came at the door, and the kind middle-aged woman who had helped them last night came in. She had a printed note that she handed to Dresle, who glanced at it and then gave it to Elizabeth. "They want us all downstairs for breakfast in half an hour," she said.

The woman offered to help her dress, to bathe her, to fix her hair, all of which she declined. It seemed to Elizabeth that Dresle thought it was strange that anyone would think she needed help doing those most basic of things.

"I would love it if you could fix my hair," Elizabeth said, which seemed to mollify the woman, whose name, she learned, was Mrs. Sun Lee. Elizabeth personally had little interest in how her hair looked, but had wanted to make that crestfallen face brighten.

By the time she was done and could see her hair, Elizabeth was taken aback by the beauty of it. The intricate braids that were wrapped around her head were a work of art. Dresle clearly thought so, too. She was dressed already. "What is this for?" she asked, opening a tube of lipstick. "Is it paint? Or some kind of adhesive."

Mrs. Sun Lee smiled. "Those are for your lips."

"My lips?" asked Dresle, confused.

"To make you look pretty. Although you're already so beautiful you don't need it."

Dresle seemed confused by the concept of makeup or why anyone would try to stand out or look "better." But before she asked more a sharp knock came at her door.

It was Esma and Svaltu. Esma was tapping her foot with impatience. They were both wearing the Chinese clothing prepared for them, but were not wearing makeup and had their hair in simple buns, like Dresle. "Are you coming?" snapped Esma. "We have to be downstairs in five minutes."

"Yes, I'm ready," said Dresle with dignity. She slipped on the very precarious high-heeled shoes and staggered forward from the room.

"Why do you wear those shoes? They will break your ankle," said Svaltu.

"There was nothing else to wear."

"We found these," said Esma.

Elizabeth looked down and could not suppress a smile. They were both wearing slippers.

"Those are to wear in bed," said Dresle superiorly, glancing at Elizabeth who smiled back.

"They are?" said Svaltu.

"I'm afraid they are," added Elizabeth, unable to hide a small smile, glad to see for once their haughty exteriors melt before Dresle.

"We must go change. We will be back."

"Who's going to make us late now?" asked Dresle, smirking, once the door had shut behind the two women.

They went out into the hall and met the five men: Laufa, Darius, Marco, Arjen, and Christoph. They looked distinctly uncomfortable in their robes. Marco muttered something in his own language, and Elizabeth, with the very little vocabulary she had gained, could understand him to say, "We look like females."

Esma and Svaltu appeared a moment later, also staggering from the high heels – as if they needed them, they were so much taller already. They and their escorts all went down in the elevator together.

Elizabeth was tired, suffering from jet lag, although the Vellorians seemed perfectly rested and not at all affected by the time change. She marveled again at their resilience. Breakfast consisted of rice, fish, sweaweed, and different sauces. The Vellorians all ate hungrily, but Elizabeth did not have much of an appetite. She asked for some coffee, and they brought out a tray with a pot of coffee, cream, sugar, and a dozen cups. Marco, Arjen, Darius, and Esma all tried some. Elizabeth noticed they could not keep their masks off long enough to eat several bites before they had to put them back on again.

After breakfast, the Chinese ambassador was ready to show them about the city. Dresle seemed disappointed, Elizabeth thought, and guessed that it was because she had wanted to see the gardens, but she seemed to know her duty as an ambassador herself, and followed her companions and the aides out.

The media was everywhere. Elizabeth had never seen or imagined such gatherings of that vile class – as she termed them. She was glad that the attention was focused on the visitors. There was a mountain of police and guards surrounding them on all sides, yet no one seemed to be attempting to hurt them or harm them in any way. The only danger was that, in their desire to see better, they might stampede and kill someone in their excitement. Elizabeth felt distinctly nervous and uncomfortable, and felt pity for the poor Vellorians who must be feeling even worse than she. But to her surprise they were all calm and collected, and looked superior to the melee around them.

They visited many of Beijing's famous sites, but, perhaps to the disappointment of the Asian ambassadors, the Vellorians did not seem impressed by the great architecture and art or intricate streets and market places. They seemed much more interested in the people. First, by their western clothing – "Why are we not dressed like that?" muttered Marco. "Looks much less feminine." Second, all of them seemed disgusted and pointedly looked away whenever a pregnant woman came in sight. The children seemed to interest them, but only perhaps in a grotesque way. The fact that they were not wearing the same clothes, that they were laughing and shouting, or talking out loud, and finally that they were with their parents all had a strange, almost repulsive fascination with them. Dresle seemed more genuinely interested than the others, so while they were stopped at a fountain, and the guide was explaining the features of the architecture, Elizabeth asked her if she liked children.

She shrugged. "I think so – when they're well-behaved. I remember being a child. It was… quite different from the children I see here."

Several minutes passed, and Elizabeth saw her look almost longingly at some of them. She thought she knew what this meant, so she asked gently, "Do you have any children?"

To her surprise, Dresle's whimsical face turned to one filled with rage and offended pride. "I? Have children? How dare you! How dare you even suggest such a thing? I am no barbarian or whore! I am of a noble race, one that would never stoop to –"

She was speaking so loudly that the others heard and turned back. Laufa looked just as angry at Elizabeth as Dresle was. But it was Svaltu who came up and checked the tirade.

"Dresle, Dresle," she spoke in English so everyone could understand her, in a calm and reassuring voice. "There is no need to get so upset. Our – friend here I am sure did not realize she was asking something so offensive, or she never would have said it."

"No, no, I'm so sorry!" cried Elizabeth. "I had no idea – I didn't mean to –"

"You see? She had no idea. Things are very different here now. Perhaps she has children of her own. So there's no need to get angry."

Dresle had lost her colour and the anger drained from her face. "Of course," she said, rather coldly.

"Dresle, I'm very sorry," said Elizabeth again. "I did not mean in any way to offend you."

Dresle nodded silently, then they continued on their tour, but Dresle did not speak to her again.

As they moved on to another location, Laufa seemed more and more impressed by something about him. His translator/companion, a middle-aged black man named Damian, asked him what it was.

"All these people…" said Laufa. "They're everywhere. How many live here now?"

"Um… I'm not sure." He asked their host. "He says about fifty-six million."

"Fifty-six million?" exclaimed Arjen in amazement.

"Well, of course the world has grown over the many years," said Laufa.

"You mean, since you were last here?" asked Arjen's translator eagerly.

"Well … since our people were last here," he replied evasively.

"And when was that?"

But Laufa did not answer. "Fifty-six million … that's over twice Vellorum's population," said Esma.

"Your entire planet's population is less that twenty-three million?" Damian choked.

"Well, yes. About seventeen million," said Laufa.

"When you asked, I thought you were talking about the population of Beijing."

"You mean – the city we're in?"

"Yes."

Laufa swayed slightly. "Then how many – how many on the planet altogether?" asked Svaltu.

"About nine billion. Two and a half billion died in the Pandemic."

Laufa slowly sank down until he was seated on the edge of the fountain, his head in his hands. He murmured something in his own language.

"Are you all right?" asked Damian, immediately concerned. He told the guide that they needed a doctor, but Laufa waved him away. "No, no, I'm fine," he said in a weak voice. No one had ever seen him appear so vulnerable, except perhaps his own companions. The media was closing in and focusing their cameras on him, but the police forced them back at gunpoint. Finally, Laufa stood up. "How do you feed all these people? How can the land sustain it?"

"We can't, and it doesn't, unfortunately," said Damian.

"No wonder your pollution is so bad," said Darius.

"Your planet must be much smaller than ours," ventured Arjen's companion, but none of them answered.