by S. L. Viehl
“I keep forgetting.” No, I didn’t.
“Program an alarm,” my boss said. “As Senior Healer, you will be required to review intership communications daily. Even,” she said when I tried to interrupt, “the ones to which you do not desire to respond.”
I rolled my eyes. “If you only knew how many times I get invited to someone’s quarters for a meal interval. . . .”
“You are a popular member of our HouseClan.” Tonetka had no sympathy for me. “As Terrans say, get used to it.”
That was the whole problem. My life had never been this complicated before. On my homeworld, for example, I worked, ate, and slept. After I’d left Terra and transferred to Kevarzangia Two a year ago, I made a few friends I never had time for. Worked. Ate. Slept.
However, here on the Sunlace, I found myself up to my eyebrows in nice, sociable Jorenians who had absolutely no intention of leaving me alone. Ever since I’d been formally adopted by HouseClan Torin, I’d been under siege.
They signaled me constantly. Invited me to eat, talk, or spend recreation time with them. Stopped by my quarters to chat. Would have stayed and sung me to sleep if I’d asked.
My biggest problem? Guilt. I suspected all the attention I was getting sprang from sympathy over the death of my Jorenian lover. I was considered a widow in the crew’s eyes. Yet Kao’s death had been my fault.
Then there was the Allied League of Worlds’ failure to recognize me as a sentient being over the matter of my being a genetic construct—a clone. That ruling had ultimately prompted Joren to rescue me from K-2, adopt me, then break off all relations with the League. Added to that was the bounty the League had put on my head, which constituted more credits than a raider could make in ten lifetimes. Half the mercenaries in the galaxy were probably out hunting for the Sunlace by now.
In light of all that, I felt the HouseClan should resent me. They thought I should just ignore the whole distasteful business, and stop by for a meal when I was free.
Eventually (I hoped) I’d get used to it. The Sunlace was currently en route to Joren, HouseClan Torin’s homeworld, in the Varallan Quadrant. Since the journey would take a revolution, equal to a standard Terran year, I had ample time to adjust to my new family. Or to get off the ship.
“Caution.” Tonetka’s vidisplay sounded an alert. “Multiple incoming emergencies.”
The Senior Healer and I dropped what we were doing and hurried out into the bay. Squilyp intersected our path. A pair of female educators limped in, carrying an unconscious child between them.
They were a mess. Shredded garments. White eyes wide with shock. Serious lacerations all over them. A spattered track of greenish blood on the deck trailed behind them back to the gyrlift panel.
“Here.” Tonetka helped them place the limp little girl on an open exam pad. Her experienced eye evaluated case priority in a blink. “Cherijo, the child. Squilyp, with me.”
I performed a visual first. She had a minor head wound, dozens of shallow contusions, and a few deep ones, all on the front surfaces of her body. Her powder-blue skin felt cool and clammy; her respiration sounded jerky and labored. A quick pass of my scanner revealed the rapid drop in her blood pressure.
“I need hands over here!” I yelled as I put aside the scanner, then yanked a thermal cover over the child. One of the junior residents joined me at the exam pad, and monitored while I quickly sterilized, masked, and gloved.
I checked the child’s airways, and found them mercifully clear. “She’s in shock. Oxygen, stat.” The resident took care of that while I attached a fluidic infuser to the small arm.
“Uhhh . . .”
“Easy, sweetheart,” I said as her eyelids fluttered.
“You’re going to be fine.” My gaze shifted to the resident, who adjusted the monitor’s sensors from adult to juvenile levels. “What’s her name?”
“This is Fasala Torin.”
“Fasala.” My hand lightly stroked her brow. “Honey, can you hear me?”
“Yes . . .” Dull with pain, the child’s eyes opened.
Her gaze made a tight knot form in my chest. Had mercenaries attacked the ship again, without an alarm sounding? What else could have done this? Fasala couldn’t be more than five years old. Just a kid. Bleeding because of me?
“Heal . . . er . . . hurts . . .”
I could agonize over the possibilities later. She needed me now. “It’s okay, honey. We’re going to take care of that.” To the resident, I said, “Twenty-five cc’s of pentazaocine.”
After administering the painkiller, I watched the monitors. The vise on my lungs eased as her levels began to stabilize. Although Fasala slipped back into unconsciousness, the immediate danger of traumatic shock was over.
She wouldn’t die. I wouldn’t let her.
The resident rapidly prepared an instrument tray while I ran a second scan series. By then the shallow head wound had stopped bleeding. That was odd; the shallow ones usually gushed like fountains. I frowned when I saw none of the other open gashes were bleeding, either. Jorenians had wonderful physiologies, but their blood didn’t coagulate this fast. Especially not with multiple breaches of the subdermal cartilage layer.
“Tonetka?” I called out. “She’s stopped bleeding. For no apparent reason.”
“This one as well,” Squilyp said.
“Scan the lacerations for foreign material,” Tonetka said. I glanced back and saw her bent over one of the educators with a magniviewer. “Do either of you see anything?”
Squilyp’s gildrells flared with agitation as he scanned the other female. “I cannot find visible debris here,” he said, and glared down at the moaning patient. He probably thought she was hiding it from him.
Tonetka addressed the educator she was treating. “Tell me, ClanCousin, what caused these injuries?”
“I do not know, Senior Healer.” Pain made the patient’s voice sound reedy. “Fasala did not return from our group environome activity. We found her an hour ago, on the fourteenth level. The interior buffer . . .” Her eyes closed briefly. “It shattered.”
I knew vaguely what an interior buffer was—some sort of security barrier inside the hull that prevented accidental decompression. Too bad I couldn’t apply some of that to the Omorr’s mouth.
“That’s impossible!” I heard Roelm Torin yell from his berth across the ward. “No buffer could—”
At the same time, the Omorr said, “Interior buffers are indestructible. No—”
“Quiet!” Tonetka cut both men off, then asked the educator, “How many others were injured?”
“Only the three of us.”
“You are certain it was the buffer?”
“I felt it implode back on us.” The educator shuddered.
“As if we had been slashed by a thousand unseen knives.”
Squilyp stopped probing his patient and stared at the educator in horror.
Roelm gasped. “Mother of All Houses.”
I guessed that meant these buffer things did shatter. The constriction in my chest started to loosen. Maybe it hadn’t been from an attack on the ship. Plus Squilyp was actually wrong about something. The known universe was going to collapse. Right there in front of my eyes.
“Cherijo, Squilyp, set your scans for adaptable sonic alloy debris in the wounds,” the Senior Healer said.
“What, exactly, is ‘adaptable sonic alloy debris’?” I asked.
“It’s what they make buffers out of,” Squilyp said, overjoyed that he knew something I didn’t. “Sonic-based matter. It will not be visible to your eye, nor can you feel it. Use the most sensitive setting.”
Invisible, untouchable debris. Lovely. Could this possibly get any worse? “When we’re done here, I hope someone will explain this stuff to me,” I said as I recalibrated my scanner’s range.
Sure enough, when I made another pass the display revealed innumerable tiny shards lodged in each laceration. Tightly meshed together, which explained the coagulant effect—the ghost-debris had sealed off the wounds.
When I applied my probe tip, the debris immediately surrounded it. Like sticking a finger in water.
“Any suggestions on how to remove something I can’t feel?” I asked. “Or grab?”
“Roelm?” Tonetka raised her head to consult him.
“What is used to fit the alloy during construction?”
“Resonant harmonicutters,” the engine designer said.
My ears perked up at that. “Resonant?” I glanced over the edge of my mask at the engineer. “You mean you cut these buffers with sound?”
My terminology made Roelm look pained. “They are sonically fitted to each vessel.”
Same difference, I thought, then addressed my boss. “Tonetka, remember when I told you about the ultrasound diagnostic imaging once used on my homeworld? We can adapt something like that to remove these shards.”
“Ultrasound?” Squilyp sneered at the archaic word.
“Why don’t you simply hack them out with amalgam blades?”
I ignored him. It was easy, I’d had lots of practice. “We can modify our scanners to emit a low-spectrum sonic field.”
Tonetka saw where I was going. “The buffer alloy will vibrate, but how will we extract the shards?”
“Connect your dermal probes to the scanners,” Roelm called out. “Calibrate them to match the alloy’s frequency.”
The Omorr resident nodded his approval to Roelm. “Buffer alloys are self-restorative. The nature of the matter is to be attracted to itself.” He then gave me a surly look.
Yeah, I thought, the dumb unqualified Terran does it again. Doesn’t it just make you want to scream?
The resident assisting with Fasala urged me in a low voice to make haste.
Once I’d modified my scanner, I connected a dermal probe to it and started on one of the larger wounds. A low sound like tinkling glass hummed as I probed the gash. Gently I tugged, and felt something slide from Fasala’s flesh.
Green blood flowed at once. Got it. A pass with an alternate scanner revealed no more shards in the site. I held up my gloved fist. Saw nothing on the surface of the probe.
“Uh, Roelm?” I raised my head and held up the instrument. “How do we dispose of stuff we still can’t see or touch?”
“Seal the probe in a vacuum.”
It took fourteen more probes before the child’s wounds were completely shard free. Sealed vacuum containers littered the deck. As we worked, a nurse summoned a team from Environment Operations to remove the dangerous shrapnel.
I finished first, so the unhappy task of signaling Fasala’s ClanParents fell on my shoulders. I broke the news to Darea and Salo as gently as I could. Both were on their way to Medical as soon as my signal terminated.
Once I was assured the Senior Healer didn’t need help with the educator (Squilyp would have slit his membrane junctures before asking for my assistance), I went to talk to Roelm. He was staring at Fasala, whose critical-care berth was only a meter away from his.
We both got to watch Darea and Salo rush in and hurry to their child’s side. Salo turned pale the moment he saw her. Darea pressed her fist tightly against her mouth.
“Roelm.” I sat down and patted his good leg to get his attention. The accident might not have been due to my presence on the ship, but I wanted some more details. “Tell me about these buffers.”
Glad for the distraction, Roelm explained the theory behind Jorenian ship construction. How the long, uninterrupted spiral design was so great for interdimensional jaunting. He used terms like “subatomic constants,” and “spontaneous symmetry.”
Quantum mechanical construction, I discovered, was about as riveting as a hematological abstract.
At last the engineer got to the important part. Evidently the exterior hull, while incredibly resilient, could still be breached by extreme forces, such as multiple displacer blasts. When that happened, the ship’s interior adaptable sonic alloy mantle, commonly referred to as “the buffer,” immediately sealed itself over the rupture. No matter how big it was.
“Not today,” I said.
“Buffers cannot be shattered.” Roelm was insistent. “It would require the complete destruction of the ship.”
“This one did. You saw those wounds.”
He muttered and pressed a huge hand over his eyes. Engineers didn’t like it when you messed with the universal principles of matter and interaction.
“Cherijo.” Tonetka gestured wearily for me as she transferred the last educator to a berth.
I left Roelm and joined her. “How are we doing?”
“The women will recover. Fasala?”
“She’s stable,” I said, glancing over. Salo was kneeling beside his ClanDaughter and holding her small hand. His other arm was around Darea, whose face was pressed into his tunic. “We’ll have to watch her, though.”
“Keep her on close monitor. I must report to Command Level. Captain Pnor requires my presence.”
Squilyp hopped over to join us. He was only nice to one person in the Medical Bay, for obvious reasons. “Senior Healer, you need to rest.”
I resisted the urge to make a kissing noise. Barely.
“After I make my report to Pnor.” She was curt; Tonetka disliked being treated like a doddering old woman. Too bad Squilyp hadn’t noticed that. “Have the accident site on level fourteen secured immediately,” she said to me. “Tell Ndo I demand a full investigation be conducted at once.”
The Omorr cleared his throat. Or had a moment of flatulence. It was a tough call. “Senior Healer, surely you don’t believe—”
“It matters not what I believe!” she shouted at him. “No more of our ClanChildren will be carried in here bleeding!”
“Of course.” Nervous, gildrells twitching, the surgical resident hopped away.
Probably off to sterilize some already clean part of the facility. I wondered if the Omorr had a term in their native language for “obsessive-compulsive disorder.” Or “insensitive jerk.”
“Cherijo!”
“Sorry.” I shook my head. I’d been so busy glaring at Squilyp I never saw the data pad Tonetka was holding out to me.
“The statement from the educator.” She thrust the data in my hands. “In the future, attend to me, not the surgical resident, when I am speaking to you!”
Tonetka was right. We couldn’t fool around with this situation, not with all the curious kids on board. I needed to focus on that. Not the insensitive jerk.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll see to it right away.”
As I rose, she put a hand on my arm.
“Your pardon, Cherijo.” She lifted her fingers to push them through her disordered hair. The purple streaks of age seemed more pronounced. “You would think after all these revolutions, I would learn to distance myself from a pediatric case.”
I gently put my hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “I hope you never do, boss.”
I signaled the Ship’s Operational Officer, Ndo Torin, and relayed Tonetka’s orders. I quoted her using the same tone and expression she’d used to singe my eyebrows off. It was the simplest way to let the S.O. know The Senior Healer Was Not Happy.
Ndo, who was second in command on the Sunlace, vowed to conduct the investigation personally. I didn’t blame him. Tonetka in a rage was awe inspiring.
“How is Fasala?” he asked. Like all Jorenians, he was very protective of the kids, and appalled to learn of what had happened to her.
“Serious, but stable. Salo and Darea are with her. We’ll take good care of her, Ndo,” I said. “Let me know if you need any further data from Medical.”
“I would also like to interview the two educators after we inspect the damaged cargo section. Thank you, Healer.”
I made rounds and kept a close watch on Fasala’s vitals. Poor kid. Her small, motionless body huddled in the center of the berth. Her ClanParents said little, and didn’t move an inch away from her side.
I kept thinking about how I’d feel, if she was my child. Kao and I might have had a little girl like tha
t. If I hadn’t killed him, trying to save his life.
After discovering I was the result of a highly illegal genetic experiment, I fled Terra for the multispecies colony on Kevarzangia Two. There I had worked as a FreeClinic Trauma physician, and fallen in love with a Jorenian pilot named Kao Torin.
A mysterious epidemic decimated the colony. I didn’t become infected, but thousands did, including Kao. Quadrant cruisers arrived to enforce planetary quarantine. The colony erupted into hysteria, then violent anarchy. Thousands died. Plans were made to sterilize the planet.
During the worst of the chaos, Kao stopped breathing.
In desperation I injected my lover with my own blood, which revived him and destroyed the contagion. However, my genetically enhanced plasma went on to attack Kao’s own cells, and eventually killed him.
I’d live with that forever.
The Jorenians didn’t blame me for what I’d done. Instead, they seemed to want to help me get over it—even Xonea Torin, Kao’s ClanBrother. Xonea and my Oenrallian friend, Dhreen, spent plenty of off-duty hours with me, the two pilots making it their mission to keep me busy. Xonea tried so hard to be the brother I’d never had.
Speak of the Jorenian. Xonea appeared at my side, his large frame tense as he spotted the unconscious child and her distressed ClanParents.
His gaze went to Fasala’s head wound. “She will live?”
I nodded, lifted a finger to my lips, and led him off to Tonetka’s office, where we could talk in private. Xonea immediately eliminated at least half the available space. Maybe because his shoulders were as wide and solid as a deck support strut. Or the two and a half feet he had on me.
Kao had been almost as tall, I thought, then thrust the image away.
My ClanBrother was still wearing his uniform, which meant he had come here directly off shift. The silver tunic complemented his dark azure skin. A warrior’s knot secured the long, straight black hair at the back of his neck. Like all the Jorenian males, he didn’t wear any ornaments. They didn’t have to.
Compared to him, I resembled a scrawny child. Like the Jorenians, I had black hair, but mine possessed a silvery sheen theirs didn’t, the same “grey veil” passed down from a distant Native American ancestor. My pale Terran flesh made me appear ghostly beside my sapphire-skinned ClanBrother. We looked a lot like disproportionate, negative photoscans of each other.