Dance for the Ivory Madona

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Dance for the Ivory Madonna

(a romance of psiberspace)

by Don Sakers

DANCE FOR THE IVORY MADONNA

This is work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book

are fictitious, and any resemblence to real people or events is purely

coincidental.

If you enjoy this book, share it!

You have permission to post this, email it, print it and pass it along free to

anyone you like, as long as you make no changes or edits to its contents or

digital format. The right to bind this and sell it as a book, as well as all

other rights, are strictly reserved.

If you wish to send the author a dollar or two, you can PayPal to

don@meerkatmeade.com.

Published by

Speed-of-C Productions

PO Box 265

Linthicum, MD 21090-0265

Dance for the Ivory Madonna

takes place in the Scattered Worlds Universe.

In chronological sequence, it falls at 3.75. For more informtion, visit the

Scattered Worlds website at

www.scatteredworlds.com

For a free autographed bookplate, send a self-addressed, stamped envelope

to “Nexus Bookplate” at the above address. Be sure to include the name(s)

to which you would like the bookplate inscribed.

PDF edition 1.0

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

In order that this novel may be stored and transmitted via the

Internet without violating standards of decency, the text has

been processed to render all improper terms harmless. To be

specific, potentially objectionable words have been replaced by

the names of the sponsors and supporters of the

Communications Decency Act, men who are the foremost

fighters in the war against uncontrolled expression: Senators

Exon, Helms, Nunn, and Pell; Representatives Hyde, Bliley,

Wyden, and Gorton; and their ilk.

The author realizes that this is not a perfect solution: these

gentlemen’s names themselves are inherently offensive to many

readers. He begs forgiveness, knowing that

those

readers are not

afraid of being offended, and are not the sort to respond with

intolerance to the free expression of others.

DEDICATED TO

The real Ivory Madonna, Amanda Allen.

Here between starlight and earthdust

We dangle on gossamer strings

Trapped in the web of Desire

Beating our useless pale wings.

High over the bright Serengeti

In the light of a scabrous moon

We dance for the Ivory Madonna

And pray that the Dawn will come soon.

AACC

CCTT

TT II

II::::

DDAA

AANN

NNSS

SSEE

EE MM

MMAA

AACC

CCAA

AABB

BBRR

RREE

AACC

CCTT

TT II

II:::: DD

DDAA

AANN

NNSS

SSEE

EE MM

MMAA

AACC

CCAA

AABB

BBRR

RREE

[01] KAMENGEN 01

Tse Bii’Ndzisgaii

Dinétah (Navajo Nation), North America

19 July 2042 C.E.

If you think the problem is bad now, just wait until we've solved it.

The Navajo girl in pigtails, no more than six years old, crashes into

Damien and leaves great patches of her skin behind. Even through his

protective suit, he feels the heat from her body like bread fresh out of the

oven. She quivers, gasps, and then convulses, coughing. Tattered ribbons of

skin hang from her arms, torso, face. Pustules and scars cover her from

head to toe. In a moment, the convulsions stop, and she…melts in his arms,

slipping to the dusty ground. Where his hands touched her, she peels like

an overripe banana.

His head swims, and Damien forces himself to look away. Don’t pass out.

Don’t pass out.

Hands on his shoulders. “Hey, Nexus, you okay?”

Through clenched teeth, Damien replies, “Fine.” To prove it, he turns his

face toward the voice and wrests his lips into a smile. “Just fine.”

The other, a slender Amerind with chestnut eyes and wide lips visible

through transparent polymer faceplate, pats Damien’s shoulder befor

releasing him. “No disgrace, Nexus, if you can’t handle it.” The slightest

hint of a French accent sounds more than a little accusative. “It’s rough the

first time you see something like this. Look away, and if you feel yourself

going, leave. Just do not take your helmet off. Faint if you must. The evac

team will pick you up.”

A shot of stubborn annoyance clears Damien’s head. “Thanks for the

advice,

Doc

. Is that from experience?” As soon as he says it, Damien is

sorry he did.

The other man nods, conceding the point, and holds out his hand. “No

reason to turn this into a hydeing contest between the Nexus and

Medecins

sans Frontieres

.”

Damien grasps his hand. “I’m twenty-five, you’re…what, thirty?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Helms! My grandmother says that early-adult human males shouldn’t

Dance for the Ivory Madonna

e allowed out without keepers. I guess she’s right.” He squeezes the man’s

hand, then releases it. “Damien Nshogoza.”

“Jamiar Heavitree. Good to meet you. And, yes, I

was

speaking fro

experience. Leave if you feel the need, but keep that helmet locked. A

reath of air is not worth contracting Dekoa virus.” Heavitree sighs. “All

right, we have an epidemic to take care of.”

Quickly but methodically, Heavitree and his three companions— all

wearing the red and white insignia of MsF— move through the small

Navajo encampment, and Damien does his best to keep up and be useful.

It is simple work, as long as he doesn’t think too hard about the

implications. Each Navajo he meets fell into one of three categories: the

dead, those sick with Dekoa, and those who still have a chance. It is easy to

tell: those with blistered, peeling skin, thrashing in agony, are sick

;

everyone else is either dead or healthy. There are too many dead, far too

few healthy.

For the healthy, Damien reaches into the satchel on his left and slaps a

tracer patch on the patient. A later wave of medevac agents will find and

rescue them.

For the sick, there is a syringe from the satchel on his right. Jab, squeeze,

and release. Sometimes, when he pulls the syringe back, skin peels away

from rich, red flesh. After ten doses, he discards the syringe. Damien

doesn’t ask what is in the syringes; he only knows that it brings quick peace

to the sufferers.

He bears no third satchel; for the dead, there is…nothing.

“That’s it for this camp,” Heavitree says.

Damien nods and glances at the display glowing on the sleeve of his suit.

Thumbing the input, he reports, “Team Alpha, Target Six-Three is secured.

Request transport to Target Seven-Niner.”

No sooner has the computer confirmed his message, then he hears an

approaching copter from the south. The doctors— looking more like

astronauts than medical relief workers— gather around.

“Nunn, it’s hot,” one of them says.

“Thirty-five in the shade,” Damien says. “And there ain’t no shade.”

“But at least,” Heavitree says with his unwavering smile, “it’s a

dry

heat.”

“Speak for yourself,” another doctor, a woman, says. “I’m sweating like a

pig. They’ve got to get air conditioning in these suits.”

“Anglos can’t take heat,” Heavitree says, “Never knew one that could.”

His tone is friendly enough, and the other doctor doesn’t seem to mind, but

Dance for the Ivory Madonna

the comment makes Damien uncomfortable. All the more so whe

Heavitree continues, “Isn’t that right, Nexus?”

Damien is spared the necessity of a response by the helicopter’s arrival.

The five of them scramble aboard and they are instantly airborne, just as

quickly setting down again. This time the target is a small settlement of

perhaps three dozen eight-sided log houses with earthen roofs. A few

lonely sheep wander, just meters away; otherwise, the settlement i

deserted. As they jump out and the copter lifts off, no response comes from

any of the buildings.

In silence stirred only by the departing copter's blades, they split up, each

taking a different building. Damien pushes open the first door he comes to

and cautiously pokes his head in. The dim interior is a marked contrast to

right sunlight outside, and it takes his eyes a few moments to adjust.

The spacious room is impeccably tidy, folded blankets stacked carefully,

the hearth spotless. A single terminal, at least two decades old, sits dark

and quiet in one corner; a hand-loom occupies another. In the center, on a

rough rug of earthtone Navajo designs, four bodies are arranged in a row

and covered with blankets. One is a woman about Damien's age, three are

children. Flies and rot have only begun to make a mockery of the care with

which they'd been arranged.

Pushing aside hanging curtains, Damien examines other rooms. Toilet,

what seems to be a tool closet, sleeping rooms with straw mats and hand-

woven blankets. In the second of these, Damien finds the architect of all the

respectful order: a small, elderly Anglo woman, her gaunt, proud face

furrowed with the wrinkles of many lifetimes. Wrapped in a blanket and

decked with silver necklaces, she sits on a straw pallet with her back to the

wall, head down and eyes closed. Damien is on the point of leaving, when

the woman raises her head. Her deep blue eyes, solemn and sad, are

endless as the skies of desert night.

Barely a whisper, she croaks, “Are you real, or a spirit?”

“Real.” He can’t imagine what to say.

The woman nods. “I knew…that if I waited…someone would come.” Her

eyes move, for the barest instant, in the direction of the main room. “I tried

to…make them…comfortable. My daughter…and grandchildren. I don’t

know their ways, but…I tried my best.”

Damien has to look away.

“What should I do?” The woman's voice, stronger but still barely audible,

is preternaturally calm. “Have you come to take me?”

Dance for the Ivory Madonna

“A-Are you…sick?”

She shakes her head, almost sadly. “No.” As if confessing a dreadful sin.

“Watched them all come down with it. Everyone. I never…got…sick.” She

looks up at Damien and asks, with calm curiosity that is far, far worse than

impassioned appeal, “Why didn't I get sick? Why me? Why not…?” She

trails off, then asks again, “What should I do?”

Damien takes out a tracer patch and touches it to the woman's neck. She

makes no move to resist; he can’t tell if she even notices. “Someone will be

here for you in a little while. They'll take you s-somewhere else. Where

you'll be safe.” Lame, but all the comfort he has to offer.

“I'll wait. Thank you.”

Damien backs to the doorway, fumbles with the curtain. “I-I have to go. I

have other houses to check.” And will each hold a nightmare like this one?

“You've been very kind. I'll be perfectly fine.”

He leaves in a hurry.

When he first read of Dekoa's 78% infection rate and 90% mortality,

Damien never expected to see it so powerfully demonstrated. H

remembers thinking, four in five, without bothering to picture what the

statistic really meant in bodies, lives, souls.

Outside, in the sun and the heat, he breathes deeply— even though it is

ottled air, no more or less fresh than he's been breathing all along. To the

north and east, fields and scrub fade into desert, dominated by soaring

mesas in brilliant colors. Between here and the horizon, there is no

movement, no sound. The stillness of the tiny village, the remoteness of the

unearthly landscape, makes Damien wonder for a moment if he

isn’t

spirit

instead of flesh, insubstantial visitor to a ghostly world.

He is shocked from his reverie by the approach of two team members,

Heavitree and the woman whose name he does not know.

“You know,” the woman muses, “this would go quicker if we had

entertainment. Or at least some music.”

“How about it, friend?” Heavitree asks. “I am sure the other teams would

appreciate it as well.”

“I'll have to— ” Damien stops. He was on the verge of saying he would

have to ask the ranking Nexus operative…then he remembered that he

the ranking Nexus operative. The decision is all his. And it is one he should

have made at the beginning of the operation. “I’ll have to see,” he finishes.

Nominally, Monument Valley— indeed, the whole Navajo Nation— is

under Nexus interdict…and will be, until Navajo raiding parties stop

Dance for the Ivory Madonna

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DancefortheIvoryMadonna(aromanceofpsiberspace)byDonSakersDANCEFORTHEIVORYMADONNAcopyright©2002,DonSakersAllrightsreservedThisisworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictitious,andanyresemblencetorealpeopleoreventsispurelycoincidental.Ifyouenjoythisbook,shareit!Youhavepermissio...

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