Beyond Varallan

by S. L. Viehl

  I grinned. The Senior Healer would hate that. “What’s your status?”

  “All cases currently list good or better condition, Healer,” my nurse replied. She looked tired, too. “I will confess we would appreciate your presence, however, if you are rested.” The ship’s skeleton medical staff had been working double and triple shifts since the teams had left on sojourn.

  “I’m on my way.”

  I grabbed a quick meal before I left. Since I’d been drinking my meals over the last week, my shrunken stomach nearly balked at the solid food. As I gulped down a server of tea, I told my belly to shut up and be grateful I wasn’t looking for another syrinpress full of stimulant.

  When I arrived at Medical Bay, I relieved most of the staff and put the remainder on half-shifts. The residents had been spelling each other for nearly a week now, covering for the sojourn and the subsequent, much-needed rest the planet team had enjoyed. Everyone was beat.

  Everyone except the Omorr, who had revived enough to prepare the latest shift schedules for the nurses. I read over what Squilyp had posted, swore, then deleted them. The hours were so long they bordered on abuse.

  I worked out a temporary replacement roster, posted it, and sent Squilyp a copy. If he didn’t like it, I’d be glad to explain it to him. The same way I had the last time we chatted.

  I made rounds, ending with Fasala, whose condition had improved dramatically. After a quick examination confirming that, I turned and nearly collided with the Omorr, who had hopped up behind me.

  “Squilyp.” I made to go around him.

  “I would speak to you, Doctor.” His gildrells were stiff as icicles. So was his tone.

  Guess he’d gotten my schedule revision.

  We retreated from the ward to Tonetka’s office in silence. I watched as he hopped around her desk and plopped down in her chair. Like he owned it. His three arm-limbs folded neatly before him.

  I get it, I thought. He wants to play Senior Healer. Put me in my place. Tell me the way it’s going to be. Everyone has their limits. Did Squilyp know he just pushed past mine?

  “Doctor, I received what appears to be a temporary roster of shifts for the nurses. Half-shifts, I should say. I was told you deleted my schedules and replaced them with this.”

  I love it when I’m right. “Yes.” I crossed my arms and leaned back against a wall panel. Perspiration dampened the back of my tunic. Not surprising, given the amount of hot air I was being subjected to.

  “Scheduling the nurses is my responsibility.”

  “Scheduling, yes. Working them to death, no.”

  He produced a dermal probe and placed it on the desk. “I found this in my personal display. It was lodged in a keypad seam. Perhaps you can explain that?”

  I picked up the probe. “Tonetka has a habit of doing that when she’s in a rush to access the database. She drops what she’s holding and it ends up jammed somewhere. Hadn’t you noticed? Oh, I forgot, you’re usually tied up fawning and simpering over her.”

  His gildrells flared. Muscles tensed. Eyes glittered. The epitome of Omorr outrage. Guess I was supposed to be afraid.

  I yawned.

  “When I attempted to assist you during the sojourn, you physically attacked and threatened me,” he said. “Your behavior directly violated Healer protocol.”

  “Uh-huh.” I picked up a chart and fanned myself with it while I made a rotating gesture with my other hand: Let’s hear the rest of it.

  He drew himself up with dignity. “You made a disgusting parody of my name.”

  I remembered calling him Squid Lips. The Omorr must have accessed the Terran database to find out what it meant. I smiled. I do have my moments.

  He rose from the chair and leaned forward over the desk. For a moment, his stance reminded me of William Mayer, the FreeClinic Chief of Staff back on K-2. Dr. Mayer had chewed me out like this often enough. My smile faded. I didn’t need this kind of grief. Not from a conceited, callous jerk like Squilyp.

  “Have you nothing to say in response?”

  “Plenty,” I said. “Sit down.”

  “I will not allow—”

  “Sit down, Resident.” Those limits of mine really needed some sort of warning beacon. “Or I will sit you down myself.”

  Squilyp sat down. I pushed away from the wall panel and walked to stand before the desk. I caressed the edge with one hand. It was a nice desk. Tonetka had everything arranged very neatly. Someday it was going to be my desk.

  I shoved it forward, hard, pinning the Omorr and his chair against the plaspanel behind him. A foreign flare of satisfaction surged through my limbs as I saw shock round his eyes.

  “I’ve had enough of this. Enough.” I held up a finger for each point I made. “Your schedule was unkind and unreasonable. Your so-called helpful assistance was offensive and vicious. Your name is not God. Your title is not Senior Healer. And you have absolutely no authority over me.” I ran out of fingers.

  He’d recovered by then, and shoved the desk right back at me. Had to admire him, he wasn’t intimidated. The moron. “You have personal issues with me, Doctor.”

  “Oh, knock it off, Squilyp!” I said. “We’re supposed to be professionals, not two kids arguing over who gets the biggest toy!” The door panel behind me slid open, but I was too furious to deal with whoever was barging in.

  “I am not playing with you,” he said. Omorr sneers were remarkably similar to the kind humans make. The gildrells spoiled the full effect, though.

  “Doctor.” Behind me, Reever’s voice carried a distinct warning note to it.

  As if I cared.

  “Really?” I leaned in now. “I disagree, pal. You’ve been itching to do this since Tonetka announced my appointment. We’re going to settle this. Once and for all.”

  “You wish to permanently resolve this matter?” he asked.

  I should have picked up on the wording he used, but I was too angry. “Hell, yes.”

  Reever got loud. “No, Cherijo!”

  Squilyp beamed at me. Like I’d given him a present. “I accept your solicitation.”

  “Accept my—” I was lost. “What are you babbling about now?”

  “You have physically threatened me, and expressed your desire for a permanent resolution. That constitutes a solicitation.” The Omorr stood. “I accept, and will allow you the usual period of preparation—one standard week.”

  Reever came to stand beside me, and I looked from him to Squilyp in complete bafflement. “What?”

  “Consult the database, should you have further questions. Good day, Doctor.” Squilyp regally bounced out of the office.

  I sat down, staring at the empty chair behind the desk. “What the hell is a solicitation?”

  “The Omorr refers to his species’ traditional manner of settling disputes. The challenge to a physical confrontation is called solicitation.”

  On Squilyp’s world, problems were settled by challenging one’s opponent to physical combat. Which was, apparently, exactly what I’d just done. “Wonderful.”

  “Joey—”

  “Stay out of this.” I got to my feet, pushed past Reever, and went back to work.

  As soon as I went off duty, I signaled Xonea from my quarters, filled him in on the latest development, and asked him to help me.

  My ClanBrother wasn’t exactly pleased. “Did you sustain a head injury while on NessNevat?”

  “Very funny.” I glowered at the display. “Well? Are you going to help me train for this fight, or not? Or do you want to beat him up for me?”

  “As it was you who made the threat against the Omorr, I cannot,” Xonea said. “Very well, I will teach you ClanSpar. Meet me in the environome on level nine.”

  Before I could get out of there, Reever signaled me, and offered some gruesome statistics.

  “I don’t care how many Omorr die every year in challenges,” I said when he was done. I was changing into an old tunic and trousers. Jorenian blood might not stain, but mine did.


  Duncan Reever’s voice crackled over the audio. “Squilyp is an experienced competitor. He has advised me that he currently possesses the record for highest number of wins in his homeworld province.”

  “So he’s a jerk and he brags. Big deal.” I braided my hair tightly. No need for it to be flying in my face. I’d have enough problems. Like trying to keep Xonea from breaking my neck while we did this ClanSpar thing.

  “You are a physician with no combat experience.” He was shaking his head, like that was a bad thing. “I will assist you in training.”

  “There’s no need. Xonea already agreed to help me.” It was rather insulting, all these males, offering to protect me. I wasn’t helpless. “And don’t tell Pnor or Tonetka, either.” The last thing I needed was upper management getting involved in this mess.

  He muttered something in a strange language, then abruptly terminated the signal.

  I hated to admit it, but Reever had a point. Physical brawls weren’t in my job description. What sort of doctor inflicted pain and suffering instead of alleviating it?

  A doctor who had been pushed too damn far, a hostile inner voice replied.

  I met my ClanBrother at the environome programmed for warrior training on level nine. Xonea initiated the program, and indicated I precede him into the simulator.

  “So, what do I do first?” I glanced around. The practice area was a flat three-meter square of shorn yiborra grass.

  Xonea pointed to the center of the square. “Stand there, Healer.” As I took position, he reached out and encircled my waist with his hands. “Breathe.”

  I breathed.

  “No, from here.” He tapped my diaphragm. I expanded it. Xonea eyed my torso, shook his head, then let go of me. “Lift your arms above your head.” I did. “Now extend this leg.” As I did that, he made a distinctly unmusical sound.

  “What?”

  “You have less reach than our children.” Xonea walked around me. “No significant mass. Severely limited muscular development.” He picked up one of my hands. “No claws.”

  “I can look really, really mean,” I said, demonstrating.

  “It is a miracle your kind evolved.” Xonea made a double-handed gesture of extreme exasperation. “By the Mother, even jaspforran would do nothing to aid you.”

  My brows rose. “What’s jaspforran?”

  “An herb, taken by warriors before combat. It dampens nerve endings, focuses the mind, and enhances aggression.”

  Lovely. No telling what it would do to a Terran. “So show me what to do, minus the jaspforran.”

  He made me stretch virtually every muscle in my body. When I complained, he warned me that we would be doing this limbering stuff every half hour, to keep my body flexible. After that, Xonea walked up to me and took hold of my arms. The next thing I knew, I was on my back, with Xonea straddling me.

  “You are dead.”

  “That was fast.” I groaned as he helped me to my feet.

  I also learned that there was nothing esoteric about hand-to-hand fighting. There were no body parts that could be used as deadly weapons, no mystical nerve-pinches I could employ to win.

  “In ClanSpar, one strikes to ground the opponent. Lack of body mass is your single greatest disadvantage. Thus, you must not allow me to strike you.”

  I learned to dance backward as Xonea advanced, then counter his attacks with simple evasive movements. I still landed on my backside. A lot.

  “When do I get to hit you?” I said as I rubbed my abused posterior.

  “Your profession requires you not resort to using your hands to strike. Your Terran physiology limits you to short-range strikes.” Xonea studied me for a moment. “You will use your knees and elbows whenever possible.”

  “Where do I hit him?”

  Xonea went to the room display and pulled up the database on the Omorr species. “Since Omorr genitals are extruded only when in the throes of passion—”

  “Obviously, not around me.”

  “—you cannot strike to that area. These are the other unprotected sites.” Xonea pointed to specific areas displayed.

  He made me stretch again. Then we sparred.

  “You learn quickly, Healer,” Xonea said an hour later.

  “You think so?” I pushed a handful of tangled, sweat-soaked hair out of my face. My body was bruised in places I didn’t even know I had. “Let’s hope I heal just as fast.”

  Alunthri paid me an unexpected visit when I came off shift the next day. I had a pretty good idea of why the Chakacat had showed up.

  “Big Mouth spilled the beans, didn’t he?” I asked.

  “Big mouth?” The bullet-shaped silvery head cocked to one side. “Beans?”

  I kept forgetting the vocollars translated idioms literally. “Reever told you about the fight.”

  Alunthri nodded. “He related the situation between you and the Omorr resident, and suggested I discuss it with you.”

  “It figures.” I stepped back and waved a hand. “Come on in, I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Alunthri had adopted a minimal amber garment that allowed it the most freedom of movement. Its silvery pelt shone with health, the sensitive ears were erect and proud. Only months before, the Chakacat had been forced by its owner to wear a collar and sleep on a rug on the floor. I had taken it in. We nonsentients had to stick together.

  I smiled as colorless eyes regarded me with grave concern. “I haven’t gone crazy, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Quickly I related the details of the confrontations with Squilyp, and how they had escalated over time. “It was probably inevitable.”

  “But he manipulated you into making the solicitation!” Alunthri said. Near-invisible whiskers trembled as it added, “I am certain that if you explain this to Captain Pnor, he will force the Omorr to nullify the challenge.”

  I toyed with the idea for a moment, then shook my head. “No. Won’t work. Squilyp thinks if he wins, it’ll prove to Tonetka that he’s the better candidate for her job. On his world, that’s how it’s done.” The Chakacat’s distress over the idea of the fight was pretty obvious. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so, Cherijo. Ah, here is my friend Jenner, come to visit with me.” Alunthri held out welcoming arms as my cat leapt up into its lap. “Have you come to offer greetings, small sibling?”

  “Your little brother smelled the food,” I said. “Guard your plate.”

  His Royal Highness glared at me. That’s enough out of you, impudent serving wench.

  “We will share.” Alunthri offered a crust to Jenner, who delicately sampled, then wolfed it down. “I heard of your efforts during the relief mission for the NessNevat.”

  “Some effort.” I rose to my feet as I recalled all the orphans left behind. “Nothing I did will bring back their dead.”

  “Once lost, those still exist in memory.” The Chakacat was obviously thinking about its parent and litter siblings, which had been killed outright for their pelts on Chakara.

  I hurried to change the topic, and asked what it was currently involved in. The Chakacat had been busy, too. I listened as it related some details from its intense study of Jorenian weaving.

  Hard to believe the intelligent, articulate Chakacat had been considered nothing more than a pet back on K-2.

  “The last time I saw you, you mentioned you had some big decision to make,” I said. “Have you decided to switch your studies from art to something else?”

  “I’ve made my decision, and no, it is not in regard to my studies.” Alunthri put Jenner down and went to my display. “May I access from here?” I nodded, and its claws swept over the touchpad, bringing up the navigational data charts with rapid ease. “There is an interspecies artists’ colony that has been established . . . here.” It used a talon to indicated the region. “It is called Garnot.”

  “Are we planning a sojourn there?” I asked as I examined the screen. It wasn’t that far away.

  “I made a special request of Captain Pn
or.” Alunthri touched my arm with a gentle paw. “Cherijo, I have decided to immigrate to Garnot.”

  I was startled. “Will the colonists recognize you as a sentient?”

  Alunthri nodded. “I have signaled the colonial rulers. As they are not League members, I meet immigration requirements, both for resident status and sentience. They believe I have a great deal to offer with the scope of my studies.”

  “That’s wonderful.” No, it wasn’t. I smiled sadly. “I’m going to miss you.”

  “And I you. If not for your help, I would still be enslaved to the Chakarans. I do not wish to leave my friends aboard the Sunlace, but . . . ” Its colorless eyes moved to the screen. The longing was unmistakable. “Garnot is where I belong.”

  “How long before we reach the colony?” I asked.

  “Some weeks.”

  “Good. I’ll juggle my shift schedule. We can spend some time together before we get there.” I made a face. “If I’m not confined to a berth in Medical, that is.”

  A priority signal came over my console, and I frowned as I switched screens. “Yes?”

  “Healer.” Xonea looked solemn and happy at the same time, and a cold chill inched down my back. I remembered the last time I’d seen that expression. “You are needed here in Medical,” he said. “A path has been diverted.”

  That meant someone was dead. My throat tightened as I thought of the current patient roster. “Fasala?”

  “No. Roelm Torin.”

  Since all the gyrlifts were in use, I ran the two levels up to Medical. I cursed Jorenian engineers and their stupid ideas of construction every step of the way, too.

  Spiral bores into dimensional barriers be damned, I thought. An internal elevator or hover lift would have been really convenient once in a while. Like now.

  Tonetka was halfway out of the bay when I got there. It took me a moment to catch my breath. “What happened?”

  “Come.” She hauled me over to the berth, where members of the medical staff were disconnecting monitors and removing life-support equipment. The techs stepped out of the way as I reached over and drew the sheet back.