Regeneration (Czerneda)

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “You set this up,” she accused, once they’d climbed in and taken seats.

  “The delay?” He nodded and pulled off the goggles he’d worn. “Resume normal lighting.” The increase was gradual, easy on her eyes. “Would you like a drink, Dr. Connor?”

  Kid gloves were never a good sign, Mac decided, now more worried by this midnight meeting than irritated. “Sebastian didn’t know,” she said.

  It wasn’t a question, but he answered anyway. “We didn’t need to involve anyone else. We can always find you, Dr. Connor.”

  At the reminder, she involuntarily rubbed her right arm, though the mark from the implant needle had faded months ago. Its result would outlast her bones. Not a comfort. “I’ll take coffee, black,” she said. “What’s this about, Hollans? Why the secrecy?”

  “Tea.” He regarded her levelly. “Dr. Connor, we’ve had our differences. I’m aware you don’t like me much.”

  “I wasn’t aware I had to,” she countered, then flashed a humorless grin. “You don’t like me either. I’m too—” what was the latest? “—blunt.”

  “That part I like.” His smile was barely warmer than hers. “If you’re going to be wrong, you’ll do it in the open. Saves all sorts of excuses and investigations.”

  Mac shot to her feet. “Is that why we’re here?” she demanded hotly. “I wasn’t wrong to bring my people into this, Hollans, and I’ll defend that to—”

  “Sit down. Please. You don’t have to defend anything, Dr. Connor. Thank you.” This to the black-armored agent, anonymous behind his or her visor, who arrived from the front of the lev with a steaming mug in each gloved hand. Mac took hers absently and nodded her thanks, eyes on Hollans. She sat and put the mug on the arm of her chair to cool.

  Should have asked for ice.

  Hollans waited until the agent had closed the door. “And thank you,” he told her.

  Mac narrowed her eyes, now more than worried.

  Bernd Hollans, the Ministry’s top official in matters of the Dhryn and Myrokynay, which meant representing all humanity in the current fight for survival, sat quietly, sipping tea, and let her study him.

  A trim, tidy man, Hollans wore his usual suit, as if he’d come straight from a meeting at Earthgov or, more likely, the IU Consulate. He’d added a darker-than-usual shirt, with no cravat at its throat, and, she blinked, very sensible hiking boots. Prepared, but in a hurry.

  His face gave her no clues. No surprise. From their first meeting, she’d thought his features well-suited his line of work: smooth enough to appear vigorous and friendly when he smiled, wrinkled enough to crease into imposing responsibility when he frowned. His eyes were the blue of old ice and missed nothing at all.

  He’d been Nikolai Trojanowski’s boss once before, and was again. What Mac had seen of that relationship didn’t imply mutual liking either, but it held respect.

  “You didn’t come here to thank me for having common sense,” she concluded out loud. Then, thinking over where they were, the way Hollans had drugged or otherwise incapacitated both dogs and people to approach her, the lack of guards, Mac nodded to herself, suddenly chilled. “No one else knows you’re here, either. What’s going on?” She heard the anxious edge to her voice and deliberately lightened it. “Don’t tell me you want to come, too. We’re crowded already and we haven’t even left for Myriam.”

  He didn’t bother smiling. “You aren’t going to Myriam, Dr. Connor. Not the planet, anyway.”

  “I’m not?” Mac reached for her coffee, then decided against it. Still too hot. “Where am I going?” she asked numbly.

  “Let me explain the situation, first. Like every species connected by the Naralax, we sent scout ships into the Dhryn System. Haven, not Myriam,” he clarified.

  Hot or not. She took the mug and a cautious sip. “I take it they found something.”

  “Several hundred somethings. Ships, empty and drifting. Freighters, transports, you name it. Some sending out automated distress calls—with Dhryn colony idents. We speculate—what is it?” This as Mac nodded.

  “The Vessel,” she recalled. “When I asked about the colonies, he said they were without Progenitors. That they were lost.”

  “Seems they found their way home. Looks as though they slipped through the gate in the initial chaos, then settled in a distant orbit to wait.”

  “No one saw them?” she protested.

  “We’re talking about spatial distances, not a puddle, Dr. Connor. Do you know how long it takes to sweep even a portion of a solar system for something the size of a Progenitor ship? Forget something a thousandth its size. The surprise isn’t that they could hide—it’s that we found them at all. The initial discovery was made by the Ar, also surprising—” at her blank look, he skipped what he was going to say. “The Trisulians in the system,” his voice became flat, “initially did their utmost to contain the discovery, but the crew of the Ar ship was Human. They raised a fuss, our ships spread it, and details of the find were sent to the IU.”

  Mac realized she still held the hot mug and put it down, concentrating on keeping her hand and voice steady. “The Dhryn?”

  “We don’t know.” She raised an eyebrow at this and he gave a tiny shrug. “I’m told the ships are nonfunctioning: some damaged, most with their doors open to space. Only three have been found so far intact and powered, but there’s been no response from those to any signals. We’ll know more when they’re boarded. Which hasn’t happened yet.”

  “Why?” She frowned. “What are they waiting for?”

  “Reasonable caution, Dr. Connor. Some of the species in the recovery effort believe Dhryn sheathing can interfere with their scanners.” He hesitated. “And there have been certain—jurisdictional—issues.”

  “Idiots.” Mac snorted and picked up her mug again. “Let me guess,” she told Hollans over its rim. “None of them wants the other to go first. Can they really believe we’ve time for this nonsense?”

  “Some delays are useful,” Hollans commented, the corner of his mouth twitching as if she’d amused him. “This ‘nonsense’ gave our Sinzi-ra time to consult with the IU inner council. As a result, the three intact ships—left that way—are being towed to the gates as we speak. To be brought to Myriam. And you, Dr. Connor.”

  Mac’s mug dropped from her hands, tumbling to the floor. She lunged to retrieve it but missed. The arc of hot dark liquid ended on Hollans’ sensible boots.

  Bet he’s glad he wore them. She made vague shooing gestures at the spill and looked in vain for something to wipe it.

  “Leave it, Dr. Connor.”

  She’d been doing so well, too. “Sorry ’bout that,” she muttered, sitting up.

  “More coffee?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Mac blurted.

  Hollans’ lips quirked again. “No coffee, then.”

  “It’s bad enough you people have me working with archaeologists on a desert planet,” she protested loudly, ignoring his comment. “I’m not a bloody starship engineer! I study—” Mac stopped there.

  “Salmon,” Hollans obliged, the quirk fading to something noncommittal. “We’ve engineers en route to Myriam, Dr. Connor. You know why we want you on those ships.”

  She glared.

  He waited.

  Games, even now. “To translate,” she snapped.

  “To translate,” he repeated, giving a smug nod as if she’d pleased him by her startling grasp of essentials. “Until we can produce a full adult Dhryn lexicon, suited to Human sub-teach, we must make do with what we have. Or rather who. You, Dr. Connor.”

  She should have taken that second coffee, Mac thought grimly. And aimed higher.

  “Earth orbit to the Naralax gate is a six-day trip,” Hollans continued, as if unaware—or more likely unimpressed—by her simmering anger. “You’ll be taking something a little faster and more discreet than your originally scheduled transport. I believe you’re familiar with the Annapolis Joy? Her captain remembers you.”

  Th
e ship’s name was misleading. The Annapolis Joy was one of the Ministry of Extra-Sol Human Affairs’ less-than-diplomatic dreadnaughts, bristling with armaments normally used to intimidate would-be smugglers before they entered or left orbit. She had had been among those to engage the Ro at Haven.

  And the Joy had brought Mac home from Myriam.

  “He probably remembers the screaming,” Mac said under her breath. She’d missed the instant, there on the cold sand, when they’d hurriedly removed most of what remained of her arm to stop the continuing digestion of her flesh. She’d made up for it by regaining consciousness on the way to orbit.

  Fortunately, the Annapolis Joy had the sort of medical facility that specialized in battlefield trauma, right to replacement parts. Though she hadn’t made a friend of the ship’s surgeon. He should have asked before preparing skin she didn’t want.

  “Speed isn’t the point, is it?” she countered. “If it were, we’d be at the spaceport instead of here.” Travel between systems might consume no time, but crawling along a planet’s surface did.

  Why else send a ship of war?

  Because someone else was.

  “Oh, no,” Mac said as this crystallized. “Don’t tell me those ‘jurisdictional issues’ are coming with the derelicts. Don’t even think about dropping me in the middle of a squabble between alien governments. Hollans—you of all people should know better!”

  “You won’t be involved in any—”

  “Wrong,” she interrupted. “If everyone, Human or otherwise, is expecting me to translate whatever records, trash, labels, or vids the Dhryn left on those ships, how can I not be involved? Bah!” Mac tucked her knees against her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. “I should pretend I can’t read the stuff. I really should. Starting now.”

  Hollans appeared to hold back a smile. “You won’t be on your own, Dr. Connor.”

  She rested her chin atop her knee to regard him. Hollans was still the image of calm civility, mug of tea in one hand, coffee-soaked boots neatly aligned.

  Who’d waylaid her in the midst of the Yukon for this conversation.

  “You could have told me all this by message, too,” Mac accused. “It’s not as if I’ve a choice.” She lowered her voice. “Why are you here, Hollans? No more games.”

  His almost-smile faded. “I need your advice, Dr. Connor.”

  “My—” Mac’s eyebrows rose. “Really.” She tried, and failed, to imagine what possible advice she could offer Earth’s Person-in-Charge other than to avoid Frow in parks. She tilted her head. “Was this Anchen’s idea?”

  “The Sinzi-ra respects your insight, Dr. Connor. As do I, in this instance.”

  “Our esteemed Sinzi-ra also collects rubber fish,” Mac pointed out somewhat warily. “All this time at the consulate, you never once asked for my advice. Why now?”

  “We’re alone.”

  The implications of that sent a shiver running down her spine. Mac refused to take the bait, if that’s what it was. This man had been Nik’s boss. She was not in that league. And didn’t want to be. So she simply nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  After a deliberate sip of tea, Hollans gazed into the liquid, as if considering how best to phrase his answer. A familiar habit. He’d sip and stare innumerable times per meeting. Came close to getting her imp in his mug once. Before she had to resort to that tactic, he looked up. “It concerns Trojanowski’s latest report.”

  Mac lowered her feet to the deck and leaned forward, her impatience forgotten.

  “The Dhryn—the Vessel—” he continued, “has directed them to enter a region which poses a significant natural hazard to several species on board, Humans included.” He pursed his lips for an instant. “I can’t identify that hazard without risking their security. I’m sure you understand, Dr. Connor.”

  As if it would help her find them on a star chart. Mac didn’t bother saying that aloud. She burned to ask if there’d been a message for her, another ring, but knew better. The lamnas was the most private form of communication she could imagine.

  Nik had chosen it for a reason.

  Love letters, Mac thought wryly, hardly needed alien tech.

  She twirled one finger in the air. “Can’t they go around?”

  “The Vessel claims his Progenitor is inside this region—that Dhryn can withstand it.”

  “A hiding place,” Mac concluded and started to relax until she took in Hollans’ bleak expression. “You think it’s a trap?”

  “It could be. The Vessel assured Trojanowski those on board can be protected in evacsuits long enough to reach the Progenitor’s ship, where they’ll be safe. What if he’s lying?” He held up his hand to silence her instant objection. “Yes, Dr. Connor. According to you, Dhryn don’t lie. Say I believe you.” His tone made that improbable, but he didn’t belabor the point. “Could the Vessel be wrong about Humans surviving this? Dhryn have made mistakes about alien biology before.”

  “I’ve noticed. What do you want me to say, Hollans?” Mac asked, abruptly weary. Should have had that second coffee. “Trap or Dhryn miscalculation. They can’t stop now. There’s too much at stake.” Where on that scale . . . “I shouldn’t have to remind you.” The words left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  “You don’t.” He put down his tea, then laid his hands palm down on his thighs. They were thick-fingered hands, with prominent knuckles and mottled skin. She’d asked Sing-li what Hollans had done before becoming a thorn in her side and been surprised to learn he’d grown up a miner, working first on Earth, then Saturn’s moons. He’d have appreciated the Progenitor’s underground home, she thought irrelevantly.

  His blue eyes bored into hers. “I need to understand the risk I’ve asked my people to take. How far do you trust that Dhryn, Dr. Connor? How far can I?”

  “Irrelevant.” Mac shook her head. “The Vessel’s a biological interface; a way for the Progenitor to disperse and collect information. As well trust your imp.”

  Hollans’ face developed that look, the one he’d get at meetings when she went off on a technical tangent. Usually, Mac admitted, when he’d been sipping and staring and she couldn’t in good conscience throw anything physical.

  “What you can trust,” she explained, emphasizing the word, “is this Progenitor’s will to protect Herself and Her species. She’s resisted the Ro. She sent Her Vessel to find us and learn the truth. To bring it back. And . . .” Mac shut her mouth.

  “And what?” Now Hollans’ eyebrows drew together, resulting in what Mac privately labeled as his don’t-mess-with-me wrinkle set. “Dr. Connor,” he prompted when she didn’t immediately speak. “Please.”

  . . . “Run while you still can!” . . .

  “She warned me,” Mac said reluctantly. “She warned us all. At the time, I took it as the Dhryn fear of the Ro. They’d gone to such lengths to protect their oomlings. Since? I think She had some inkling of what might happen to the Dhryn themselves. Maybe something from their oral history. Maybe more.”

  “I—see.” His stern expression eased into something closer to puzzlement. “Where are you going with this, Dr. Connor?”

  Mac shrugged, uncomfortable speculating. “I’m not sure. This Progenitor’s behaved differently from the beginning. She called Brymn and me to meet with Her, to commit grathnu—a bonding ritual, as much as a reward for service. When I was there . . . something about Her . . . a presence . . .” Mac let her voice trail away, her cheeks warm with embarrassment. “I doubt it matters.”

  Hollans sipped tea, his eyes locked on her. “Continue anyway, Dr. Connor.”

  “What about Sebastian and the rest? The shuttle to orbit?”

  Hollans glanced at the closed door to the pilot’s compartment. “Status of our sleepers?” he asked.

  A disembodied voice answered. “Everyone’s safe and comfortable, sir.”

  “Now, Dr. Connor. Indulge me.”

  It wasn’t a request.

  Mac thought of those vast underground spaces, home and safe
ty for beings at the heart of their kind. The breeze, a breath. “Presence wasn’t the half of it,” she sighed, frustrated by mere words. The landscape, a form. She made herself focus on that small ship, heading into whatever additional hazard space had to offer—as if vacuum and radiation weren’t enough. “The Progenitor wants Her Vessel back, with answers.” The warmth, a smile. “Anyone who helps accomplish Her will? They’ll be considered Dhryn. I’m not saying that guarantees their safety, but it has to be less risky than approaching Her ship uninvited. Best I can do, Hollans.”

  They’d called her Dhryn.

  Mac touched her new arm, and made herself remember that, too. “None of us are safe anymore.”

  “No. But I’m encouraged. Thank you, Dr. Connor.”

  She gave him a searching look and, for an instant, saw only a man worried about others. Someone should, she thought, inclined to envy. “Mac.”

  Gods, a full smile. It threw his dignified wrinkles into disarray. “Mac.”

  “If you didn’t trust the Dhryn before,” she asked quietly, “why agree to go in the first place? Besides the chance to get close enough to destroy a Progenitor’s ship.” Her voice came out calm and level, as if it had become routine to talk about the annihilation of hundreds of thousands of beings, including the person currently inhabiting a large part of her heart.

  Hollans lost his smile. “Remind me to stay on your good side.”

  A year ago, she’d have shocked herself. Where had that Mac gone? “If it comes to that,” she said, flat and cold, “Nik will know.”

  “Not his call,” countered Hollans. “IU mission. He’ll have to get the other representatives on board to agree.”

  Mac frowned. Cinder, the Trisulian. Her reaction to the Dhryn should be predictable. Dr. Genny P’tool, the N’not’k. Despite the alien’s advanced age, Anchen had asked her to go for her knowledge as a no-space theoretician as well as to continue her work on the Dhryn language. Apparently linguistics and esoteric physics were a logical combination for the N’not’k, though Mac suspected this was Anchen’s way of finding something useful for her friend to do. An obligate pacifist. The Imrya. A recorder of events, as well as a renowned designer of servo translations. She wouldn’t have any problem making a decision. Probably would take a while conveying it, though.