Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Dancers Like Children.pdf - Kristine Kathryn Rusch - margozap

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Dancers Like Children

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

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First published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, September 1991

Fictionwise

www.Fictionwise.com

Science Fiction

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I lie in this cool bed on Lina Base, my body coated with burn creams

and wrapped in light bandages in the areas where the skin grafts have yet to

take. I told my counselor that every time I wake up, I remember something

else. I told her that I wanted to make notes, to organize my thoughts before

the second round of questions begin. This morning she brought me the small,

voice-activated computer that hangs on the side of my bed rail. I don't know

if someone else can access what I write; I suspect anyone can. I don't care. I

do need to get organized, for myself. I need to write down the entire story my

way before too many questions taint it. I used to counsel my own patients to

do that -- fifteen years ago, when I was Justin Schafer, Ph.D., instead of Dr.

Schafer, the man whose name is spoken in a cool, dismissive tone.

Fifteen years ago. When I had friends, respect, and a future, when

people believed in me, even more than I believed in myself.

--------

They brought me in after the fifth murder.

The shuttle dropped me on the landing site at the salt cliffs,

overlooking the golden waters of the Singing Sea. Apparently, something in the

shuttle fuel harmed the vegetation near the small colony, so they developed a

landing strip on the barren cliff tops at the beginning of the desert. Winds

and salt had destroyed the plastic shelter, so I wore the required body scarf

and some specially developed reflective cream. Before he left, the shuttle

pilot pointed out the domed city in the distance. He said he had radioed them

to send someone for me. I clutched my water bottle tightly, refusing to drink

until I was parched.

A hot, dry breeze rustled the scarf around my face. The breeze smelled

of daffodils, or so it seemed. It had been so long since I had been to Earth,

I was no longer sure what daffodils smelled like.

The desert spanned between me and the domed city. I wasn't sure if the

reflections I saw were dome lights or a mirage. To my left, salt continually

eroded down the cliff face, little crystals rolling and tumbling to the white

beach below. The Singing Sea devoured the crystals, leaving a salt scum that

reflected the harsh light of the sun. I wondered if this was where, decades

ago, the miners had begun their slaughter of the Dancers. The Dancers were a

protected species now, perhaps one one-hundredth of their original numbers.

This place had a number of protected species, but most lived far away

from the colony. The only known Dancer habitat was at the edge of the domed

city. All the materials sent to me on Minar Base pointed to the Dancers as the

cause of the murders. The colonists wanted me to make a recommendation that

would be used in a preliminary injunction, a recommendation on whether the

Dancers had acted with malicious intent. That idea left me queasy and brought

the dreams back.

I glanced back at the barren brown land leading to the dome. The

colonists called this Bountiful. Colonists who escaped the planet called it

the Gateway to Hell. I could understand why, with the endless heat, the

oxygen-poor air, and the salt-polluted water. Just before I left the base, I

spoke with an old man who had spent his childhood on this planet. The old

man's skin was shriveled and dried from too many hours in an unkind sun. He

ate no salt, and he filled his quarters with fresh, cool water. He said he was

so relieved to become an adult, because then he could legally escape the

planet. He had warned me to stay away. And if I had had a choice, I would

never have come.

"Justin Schafer?"

I turned. A woman stood at the edge of the trail leading back to the

dome. Her body-length white sand scarf fluttered with the breeze.

"I'm Netta Goldin. I'm to take you to the colony."

"We're walking?"

She smiled. "The ecology here is fragile. We have learned to accept a

number of inconveniences." The reflective white cream gathered in the lines on

her face, making her appear creased. "I hear they brought you in from the base

near Minar. Minar is supposed to be lovely."

"They closed the planet almost a decade ago." A shiver went through me.

Minar was lovely, and I hated it. "Your name is familiar."

"I'm the head of the colony."

I remembered now. The scratchy female voice over the telecorder. "Then

you're the one who had me brought in."

She adjusted my scarf hood. The heat seemed to increase, but the

prickling on my scalp stopped. "You're the best person for the job."

"I deal in human aberration. You need a specialist."

"No." She threaded her arm through mine and walked down the trail. The

salt crunched beneath our feet. "I need someone who knows human and xeno

psychology. You seem to be the only one left on either nearby base."

"I thought you were convinced the natives are doing this."

"I think the deaths have happened because of interaction between our

people and the Dancers. It's clear that the Dancers killed the children, but

we don't know why. I want you to investigate those dynamics. I also want this

done fast. I want to do something about the Dancers, protect my people better

than I am now. But I understand that you need to investigate the natives in

their own environment, so we have taken no action."

The wind played with my sand scarf. A runnel of sweat trickled down my

back. "I'm not licensed to practice xenopsychology."

"That's a lie, Dr. Schafer. I researched you rather heavily before I

went to the expense of bringing you here. The Ethics Committee suspended your

license for one year as a formality. That was nine years ago. You are still

licensed, and still interested in the field."

I pulled my arm from hers. I had sat by the sea that first morning on

Minar, too. I had been thirty years old and so sure I could understand

everyone, human or alien. And I did understand, finally, too late.

"I don't want to do this job," I said.

"You're the only one who can do it." She had clasped her hands behind

her back. "All the other xenopsychologists in the quadrant have specialized in

one species or refuse to do forensic work. Besides, no one is better at this

than you."

"They charged me with inciting genocide on Minar."

"And acquitted you. Your actions were logical, given the evidence."

Logical. I should have seen how the land encroached, poisoned, ate away

human skin. We learned later that Minaran skin oils were also acidic, but

didn't cause the same kind of damage. The original colonists had died first

because of land poisoning, not because the Minarans were acting on an old

vendetta. All the work the natives had done, they had done to save the

colonists. I had ascribed a human motive -- the wrong human motive -- and had

decimated a sentient race. "I don't want to make the same mistake again."

"Good," she said. The wind blew her scarf across her face. She brushed

the cloth away with a cream-covered hand. "Because then you won't."

--------

III

The cool air in the meeting room smelled of metallic processing. I

shifted in my chair. Despite the reflective cream and clothing, my skin had

turned a blotchy red. My scalp itched. Little raised bumps had formed

underneath my hair. I was afraid to touch them, afraid they might burst.

I glanced at the others. Davis, a thin, wiry man from Lina Base, headed

the laboratory team. Sanders, head of the medical unit, had hands half the

size of mine. I found myself staring at her, wondering how someone so petite

could spend her time sifting through the clues left in a dead body. And of

course, Netta. Her hair was dark, her skin bronzed by the planet's sun. Netta

had brought them all in to brief me. The only person missing was the head of

the city's security.

The artificial lighting seemed pale after the brightness of the sun.

The building was made of old white terraplastic -- the kind colonists brought

with them to form temporary structures until they could build from the

planet's natural materials. Wood and stone were not scarce commodities here,

yet it was almost as if the original colonists had been afraid to use anything

native.

Finally a small man, his hair greased back and his face darkened by the

sun, entered. He dumped papers and holotubes on the desk in front of Netta.

"Thank you," she said. She pushed her chair back and caught the small man by

the arm. "Justin, this is D. Marvin Tanner. He heads the security forces for

this area. If you have any questions about the investigative work prior to

this time, you should direct those questions to him."

Tanner's gaze darted around the room, touching everyone but settling on

no one. I wondered what made Tanner so nervous. He had worked with the others.

I was the only new person in the room.

"Most of what I will tell you is in your packet, for your own personal

review later," Netta said. "But let me give you a general briefing now before

we show the holos." She let go of Tanner's arm. He sat down next to me. He

smelled of sweat and cologne. "They found the first victim three Earth months

ago. Linette Bisson was eleven years old. She had been propped against the

front door of her home like a rag doll. Someone had removed her hands, heart,

and lungs.

"The next victim, David Tomlinson, appeared three weeks later. Same

M.O. Three more children -- Katie Dengler, Andrew Liser, and Henry Illn --

were found two weeks apart. Again, same M.O. These children all played

together. They were the same age. And, according to their parents, none of the

last three seemed too terribly frightened by the deaths of their friends."

She paused, glanced at me. Children often had no concept of death, and

the things they feared were not the things adults feared. That the children

were not frightened had less significance for me than it seemed to have for

Netta

"The Dancers mature differently than we do," Sanders said. Her voice

was soft and as delicate as she was. "They do grow, a little, but their heart,

lungs, and hands work like our teeth. The old ones must be removed before the

new ones can grow into place. They have developed an elaborate rite of passage

that ends with the ceremonial removal of the adolescent's organs."

I turned to Netta. "You said the Dancers interacted with the

colonists."

She nodded. "For decades we've had an informal relationship. They

develop the herbs we use in our exports. We haven't had any trouble, until

now."

"And the Dancers were allowed inside the dome?"

"We restricted them when the killings started, and now they're not

allowed at all."

"We also set up dome guards," Tanner said. "The dome doors have no

locks and can be operated from the inside or the outside. We had done that as

a precaution so no colonist would die trapped outside the dome."

Colonists, colony. Fascinating the way that language had not evolved

here. The "colony" had been settled for nearly a century. Gradually, it should

have eased into "settlement" or "city." The domed area had no name, and even

people like Tanner, who had lived on the planet their entire lives, felt no

sense of permanence.

"We have some holos we'd like to show you," Tanner said. He had set up

the equipment at the edge of the table. He moved chairs and a garbage can away

from the wall, leaving a wide, blank space. He flicked on the switch, and a

holo leaped into being before us.

Laughter filled the room, children's laughter. Twelve children huddled

on the floor, playing a game I did not recognize. The children all appeared

the same age, except for one, who sat off to one side and watched. He appeared

to be about eight. The older children would pound their fists on the ground

three times, then touch hands. One child would moan or roll away. The others

would laugh.

Tanner froze the image. "These are the children," he said. He moved

near the images, stopping by a slim, blonde girl whose face was bright with

laughter. "Linette Bisson," he said. Then he moved to a solid boy with rugged

features who was leaning forward, his hand in a small fist. "David Tomlinson."

Tanner moved to the next child, his body visible through the holos in

front of him. I shivered. Seeing the living Tanner move through the projected

bodies of dead children raised hackles on the back of my neck. Superstition.

Racial memory. My ancestors believed in ghosts.

He looked at a dark-haired girl who frowned at the little boy who sat

alone. "Katie Dengler. Beside her, Andrew Liser and Henry Illn." The boys were

rolling on the ground, holding their stomachs. Their mirth would have been

catching if I hadn't known the circumstances of their deaths.

Tanner went back to the holojecter.

"Who are the other children?' I asked. At least eight were not

accounted for.

"You'll meet them," Netta said. "They still run together."

I nodded and watched. Tanner switched images, and the projection moved

again. The children's clothing changed. They wore scarves and reflective

cream. A middle-aged woman with sun-black skin stood beside them. "Do as I

say," she said. "Nothing more." They turned their backs on me and walked past

trees and houses until the dome appeared. The woman flicked a switch, and the

dome rose. The children waved, and the dome closed behind them. The younger

boy ran into the picture, but an adult suddenly appeared and stopped him.

Tanner froze the image. I stared at the boy, seeing the dejection in

his shoulders. I had stood like that so many times since Minar, watching my

colleagues move to other projects, while I had to stay behind.

"We think this is the first time the Dancers met with the children,"

Tanner said.

"Who is that boy?" I asked.

"Katie Dengler's brother. Michael."

"And the woman?"

"Latona Etanl. She's a member of the Extra-Species Alliance." Netta

answered that question. Her voice dripped with bitterness. "She believed that

having the children learn about the Dancers would ease relations between us."

I glanced at her. "There have been problems?"

"No. The Alliance believes that we are abusing the Dancers because we

do not understand their culture." Netta leaned back in her chair, but her body

remained tense. "I thought we had a strong cooperative relationship until she

tried to change things."

I frowned. The Alliance was a small, independent group with bases on

all settled planets. Theoretically, the Alliance was supposed to promote

understanding between the colonists and the natives. In some areas, Alliance

members spent so much time with the natives that they absorbed and practiced

native beliefs. On those lands the Alliance became a champion for the

downtrodden native. In other lands the group assisted the colonists in

systematically destroying native culture. And sometimes the group actually

fulfilled its mission. The Alliance representatives I had met were as varied

as the planets they worked on.

"How long ago was this holo taken?" I asked.

"Almost a year," Tanner said. "But the children weren't as taken with

the Dancers as Latona thought they would be. I believe that was the only

visit."

"What has changed since then? What has provoked the Dancers?"

Netta glanced at Tanner. She sighed. "We want to take control of the

xaredon, leredon, and ededon plants."

The basis of Salt Juice, the colonists' chief export. Salt Juice was

one of the most exhilarating intoxicants the galaxy had ever known. It mixed

quickly with the bloodstream, left the user euphoric, and had no known side

effects: no hangovers, no hallucinations, no addictions, and no dangerous

physical responses. That export alone brought in a small fortune. "I didn't

know the Dancers controlled the herbs," I said.

"They grow the herbs and give us the adult plants. We've been trying to

get them to teach us to grow the plants, but they refuse." Netta shook her

head. "I don't know why, either. We don't pay them. We don't give them

anything for their help."

"And the negotiations broke off?"

"About a week before the first death." The deep voice surprised me. It

belonged to Davis. I had forgotten he was there.

Another fact that I would have to investigate. I was developing quite a

mental checklist.

"Let me show you the final image," Tanner said. "It's of the first

death. You can see the others if you want in the viewing library. This one

begins the pattern carried through on the rest."

He clicked the image. The scene in front of me was grim. Linette, her

hair longer and sun-blonde, her skin darker than it had been in the first

projection, leaned against one of the terraformed doors. Her feet stretched

out in front of her; her arms rested at her sides. Her chest was open, dark,

and matted with blood. Tanner froze the projection, and this time I got up,

examining the halo from all sides. The stumps at the ends of her arms were

blood-covered. Her clothing was also bloodstained, but that could have been

caused by her bleeding arms. Blood did coat the chest cavity, though. Whoever

had killed her had acted quickly. The girl's eyes were wide and had an

inquisitive expression. Her mouth was drawn in a slight _O_ of surprise or

pain.

"The wounds match the wounds made by Dancer ceremonial tools," Davis

said. "I can show you more down in the lab later if you want."

I nodded, feeling sick. "Please shut that off," I said. Turner flicked

a switch, and the image disappeared. Five children, dead and mutilated. I had

to get out of the room. I had received too much information, and seen too

much. My stomach threatened to betray me. The others stared at me.

"This packet and the information you've given so far should be enough

for me to get started," I said. I stood up and clutched the chair for support.

"I'm sure that I will return with questions." I let myself out of the room and

took a deep breath. The image of the child remained at the edge of my brain,

mingling with that of other dead colonists on a world ten years away.

I heard rustling inside the conference room, and knew I had to be gone

before they emerged. I hurried through the dimly lit corridor. Sunlight glared

through the cracks around the outside door. I stopped and examined the almost

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