Downtime Read Online Free PDF Page A

west
corridor,” the voice synthesizer announced.
    The
jelly beans had picked up Calla’s identity from the crier all legionnaires were
required to wear. Jason could be listening to the rest of the broadcast if he
were wearing his nomenclator in his ear as he was supposed to be, but it was
lying on the trunk with his stellerator. He hated wearing either of them, and
as usual had shed them at the first possible moment when he had retired to his
room for the evening. Was Calla listening to her own? Did she know the names of
the string of backworlds he had been on these last ten years, the dates of his
promotions, that he had been certified as surveyor and marksman among other
things, and that his fiscal administrative abilities were rated superior? Was
that why she was walking so damn slow, so she could listen to the official legionary
crier? Now he cursed himself for taking off his nomenclator and wondered what
she would think of him if she caught him shoving it into his ear. She would
know he was nervous, he decided, and he let the thing lie.
    Calla
stepped over the threshold and went directly to the only comfortable chair in
his room without waiting for an invitation or a salute. That much hadn’t
changed. When she didn’t have to, she didn’t stand on ceremony . . .
or, it seemed now, her legs. In the bright light, her hair shone like freshly
polished copper, giving her a brassy appearance that paled the gold worlds of
rank she wore on her crimson collar. A wave of dizziness provoked a feeling of
panic in Jason. Her hair should be graying, maybe solidly gray. There had been
a few, just enough to tease a young woman about, and her collar used to have a
metal bar.
    “Arthritis,”
she said. He realized he had been staring at her. “I remember,” he said. “The
clinics still cannot help you?”
    “I’m
still one of a kind,” she said, her hand rubbing her genetic tattoo
self-consciously. “The clinics can do nothing for me. There has not been and
will not be any new research; I’m still the only one with this combination of
autoimmunity and allergies, one not being enough to justify the expense. For
anything more serious than a clean laceration, the clinics have the same
recommendation. Euthanasia.”
    “It’s
plain to see you haven’t taken their advice.” He tried to smile.
    “Of
course not. We used to get along on Dovia just fine without cloned spare parts
and the combined knowledge of the known worlds to fix every ache and pain. I
don’t even consult them any more. The shamans can tell me everything I need to
know.”
    He
remembered when they first discovered Calla’s genetic singularity; she hadn’t
had a tattoo then. Treatment for a broken hip, which should have resulted in a
few days’ stay in the clinic, left her near death. As the clinic became aware
of her exceptional problems, they also realized how utterly incapable they were
of dealing with them, and recommended euthanasia. Instead, Jason had found a
backworld shaman who agreed to treat her. That time she had recovered. And
every time since then, he reminded himself, though he had not been there to aid
her. Her durability was not surprising. With the possible exception of that one
time, she never had needed him for anything.
    “Nothing
has changed,” he said.
    “Everything
has changed,” she said, her sable eyes fixed on him before she leaned over to
push a hassock in front of her chair. She propped up her legs before sinking
back and cocking her head, looking for a moment like a quizzical spaniel. “I’m
thirty years older.”
    “It’s
only fair,” he said, pulling up a chair until it was right next to hers. He
straddled it and crossed his forearms over the back, leaning close so that he
could see her hair. “I used to get angry because you were just a snot-nosed
kid, yet you were always smarter than me. Now I won’t mind. You’re the elder,
and you’re entitled to being smarter.” Her hair was solidly copper colored,
right