Regeneration (Czerneda)

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “They’ll take you off Origins. To work on these ships.”

  So much for how to tell him. She nodded, lowering her voice. No one was close by, but she’d noticed the Cey had superior hearing. Probably the wrinkles. “To start anyway,” she admitted. “Ship controls and systems should be IU standard, Instella, but they’re hoping for Dhryn records, vids. You should go ahead and take charge. I’m not sure how long this will all take.”

  Just then, the Sthlynii contingent went storming past, Mudge in their midst, tentacles and vowels flinging. There was the sound of doors whooshing open and a shout.

  “You might want Oversight,” Mac added thoughtfully.

  “Definitely,” Lyle agreed, whose eyes had followed the group out of sight. “Oh, here. You’ll find one on yours.” He pulled out his imp and activated his ’screen, setting it between them. It displayed their present location within the ship. Mac studied it, unsurprised to see most of what surrounded them left blank. They were passengers, not crew. Lyle ran his finger through the image, highlighting various areas in turn. “Down this corridor is the section entry station—where we can access additional stores, pick up an escort to the medlab, hangar etc.”

  Mac nodded. They’d passed the clear-walled room with its trio of crew sitting at consoles on the way here. Doug and Kaili had waved—likely so their group hadn’t needed to stop and check in. Escorts and guards. She shook off a sense of being trapped. Same side, remember.

  “Here we are. These are your quarters, Mac. We’re all doubled up, so you’ll be sharing with—” He consulted a text list Mac didn’t bother to read. “Oh.”

  “Oh?”

  The pink blotches deepened on his cheeks. “This has to be wrong. Someone’s made a last minute change. I’ll look into it.”

  Mac dismissed his concern. “Doesn’t matter, Lyle. It’s only four nights. I’ll probably work through two anyway. Who is it, anyway?”

  “We’re too cramped,” he fussed. “It’s not just this ship. It’s all the—” a sweep of his fingers illuminated the adjoining set of rooms “—others.”

  “Others? What others?” Then it dawned on her and her eyes widened. “Don’t tell me the Grimnoii talked their way into coming with you.”

  He nodded, as glum-faced as one of the heavyset aliens. “Along with some Frow.”

  Mac wasn’t sure if she should laugh or throw the rest of her sandwich at him. “Anyone else?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Should make for an interesting trip.” She finished her drink.

  “About your roommate, Mac—”

  Before Lyle could finish, dozens of tiny claws fastened into Mac’s back and shoulders. She yelped. Six Myg offspring cheerily yelped with her, then began gumming her neck, scalp, and ears with painful enthusiasm. They’d missed her.

  “Er, that would be roommates.”

  Eyes watering, Mac glared at Lyle as she struggled with the Mygs. “You can’t be serious.”

  He pointed at the text. “Says here Fourteen took a vow of celibacy when we boarded. He’s sharing with Da’a. That leaves—”

  “There you are, Mac!” Unensela swooped up to their table, completely disregarding her offspring or their current preoccupation. “I hope you aren’t a noisy sleeper. I need peace and quiet at night. I must be able to concentrate on my important work.”

  What she needed, Mac decided then and there, was to beg enough Fastfix from Doug and Kaili to keep her awake until Myriam.

  An offspring found her chin and began to chew.

  The Fastfix hadn’t been necessary, although Mac seriously considered the option that first night. She’d gone into her erstwhile quarters in search of her bags from the consulate and found both beds covered in Myg, the offspring curled together on one, purring like sinus-blocked kittens, Unensela sprawled over the other—snoring as only an adult Myg could snore.

  What was it about her quarters being given to aliens?

  With the ship’s lighting dimmed to night levels, she’d hunted another option, prowling up and down the deserted corridor twice before spotting the glow from one of the workrooms. Sure enough, the climatologists—Kirby, To’o, and now Sam—had been huddled in front of their ’screens, talking in excited whispers. She’d poked thoughtfully at their stash of food, then asked when they planned to sleep. Their appalled looks had been most convincing.

  Of course, they’d used their beds as equipment tables, but she’d cleared sufficient flat space on one for herself.

  From all signs to the contrary, Mac thought with amusement when she woke the next morning and truly saw her surroundings, the three intended to stay awake the entire journey. Possibly fine for the Cey, but the two Human males would eventually crash somewhere.

  They wouldn’t be sleeping in their shower, she discovered moments later. And didn’t plan on washing either. Their shower held their outdoor gear.

  Something to mention before bodily odor became an interspecies’ issue.

  Mac made her way down the corridor to her assigned quarters, ignoring anyone awake and functioning—all of whom wisely ignored her as well. She was relieved to find the room Myg-free. Locking the door, she headed for the shower, then stopped.

  Was she sure?

  Five minutes later, having looked in every conceivable—and a few not so much—place where an offspring could wait to pounce, she headed for the shower again.

  There was something essential about being saliva-free first thing in the morning.

  Showered, in clothes she hadn’t slept in at least once, and hungry, Mac whistled to herself as she followed the promising smell of coffee to the mutual dining room.

  Her whistling stopped as she saw who filled the seats.

  Grimnoii.

  With mugs of—she sniffed and scowled—cider.

  “Dr. Connor!” “Dr. Connor.” “Glad we found you.”

  It was like walking into a funeral. Albeit a drunken funeral.

  “Morning,” she greeted, looking wildly for any escape.

  There was a coffeepot. Mac focused on it, cautiously weaving her way between large humped backs and bandoliers studded with sharp objects. Were they allowed to have such things on a starship? Presumably so, unless the beings had smuggled them in to wear at breakfast.

  With the cider.

  “Going to be an interesting trip, don’t you think?” This from the other non-Grimnoii in the room, Mirabelle Sangrea. Mac poured a mugful and weaved through more backs, feet, and sharp objects to squeeze in beside her.

  “I had that feeling,” Mac admitted.

  Mirabelle pushed over a half-full bowl of fruit. “No use trying to reach the kitchen until they leave, Mac. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

  Mac scowled at the Grimnoii. The Grimnoii able to notice lifted their mugs to her and swayed from side to side, very slowly, altogether. “Dr. Connor.” “Glad to see you.”

  “They’re plastered,” she observed.

  “I’d say so. And exhausted. They’ve been working on their quarters nonstop since we arrived. You’d think, putting that much effort into modifications, they’d have stayed in them, but no. We get them.” Mirabelle shrugged.

  Mac grabbed an apple and took a ravenous series of bites, considering the situation as she chewed and swallowed. “Who gave them cider?”

  “They brought their own.”

  Which would be her fault, Mac sighed to herself. Peeling a banana, she did her best to pretend it was toast. “Here’s hoping they remember the way to their own bathrooms.”

  Mirabelle’s eyes twinkled. “Bait them with a jug? Lock all the other doors? Install traps?”

  “I’ve said it before,” Mac grinned. “You are an evil yet brilliant woman.”

  They both sipped their coffee and munched fruit, watching the Grimnoii sip cider and, one by one, settle their huge heads on a forearm or tabletop. A new spectator sport. “How’s Emily?” Mirabelle asked after the third passed out. “We got the report about the Ro—how they’d hidden something at th
e landing site.” Always thoughtful, now she seemed to pick her words with extra care. “It must have been difficult for her.”

  “Em?” Mac thought of the fury in Emily’s eyes, her defiant spin and exit on the walkway, and smiled. “She’s back to work. She’s good.”

  The other woman gave a self-conscious laugh. “I know what you mean. I can’t wait to get back to my ruins. I’ve lost so much time.”

  If salmon are running the Klondike, they’ll be passing Field Station Six.

  With no one there.

  Mac shook her head, but not at Mirabelle. “You’ll make it up,” she said firmly, as much to herself as to the archaeologist. “They’ve promised to set up full access to all the sites this time. That should help.”

  “Oh, it’s going to be amazing. The data—I’ll have to grab sleep now, I swear.”

  A Grimnoii slumped, then slowly fell off the table to the floor to form a boneless brown lump. The gleaming axes through his belt somehow missed puncturing either fur or cloth.

  “Maybe that’s their plan,” Mac mused. “Sleep for four days.”

  “What’s going on here?” The volume of the shout was almost as impressive as the level of outrage.

  And before breakfast. “Oversight. Good morning.” Mac waved.

  Rumnor raised his mug before dropping nostrils first to the table.

  After his shout, Mudge became speechless. He tugged at the nearest unconscious alien, succeeding only in spilling the contents of the mug the being wouldn’t let go.

  “We’ll lock up their supply,” Mac assured him. “Might as well let them sleep it off.”

  “This is unacceptable, Norcoast. Unacceptable!”

  She surveyed the room. “It could be worse,” she judged, having seen it firsthand. Why the Grimnoii drank a substance that caused them such vile bodily reactions was beyond her. “It will be worse,” she amended. “You’d better contact the crew for a cleanup.”

  Mudge made unhappy noises every step of the way to their table. Mac was reasonably sure he could have missed treading on the alien at their feet with a little more effort, but she wasn’t about to say anything. Sleep and a shower had done wonders toward restoring her sense of balance.

  And drunken aliens first thing in the morning weren’t a crisis, on the scale of things.

  “Have my seat, Charles,” Mirabelle offered, standing up to leave. “I’ll stop by the station and pass the word about our friends.”

  “Thanks. There you go, Oversight.” Mac grinned at him. “Apple?”

  “You seem in a better mood this morning,” he half accused. Rather than squeeze in beside Mac, he took the seat opposite, somehow wedging himself between the Grimnoii behind and the table. He shook his head at the fruit. “I had oatmeal and tea in my quarters.”

  “Foresight,” she admired, smiling at her own wit, then proceeded to eat the apple herself, washing down the bites with her now-cool coffee.

  “Experience, Norcoast.” Almost a harrumph. “This hasty change was not part of my arrangements for our journey. I don’t expect, nor have I seen, competence.”

  “Mmmfphlee,” she said around a bite. He was welcome to interpret that as he pleased. Once her mouth was empty, Mac gestured with the apple. “All this looks pretty competent to me. It’s not as if there was much notice.” As far as she was concerned, drunken Grimnoii came under the heading “unforeseeable.”

  “It’s the notice that troubles me, Norcoast.” He put his hands together, just so, on the table and stared at her. Immobile and much too awake for comfort.

  “How so?” She paused with the apple at her lips. Oh, she knew that look. She put down the apple. “I told you, Oversight. I received a message about the Dhryn derelicts being taken to Myriam and that the Ministry would help hurry us there.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  So would she. “It was a read-once message,” she said promptly, patting the pocket with her imp. “My guess is we’ll get a briefing onboard. Maybe—” she had no shame, “—on the bridge.”

  Unfortunately, Mudge on a trail was as distractible as a wolverine. “For all we know, Norcoast, this is some ridiculous collusion between Earthgov and the Ministry. An ill-thought effort to put additional Humans on Myriam, flaunting the IU’s per-species restriction. Who knows what problems could result?” A definitely troubled harrumph. “What assurances did you receive about the source of this message?”

  “Enough, believe me.” Mac’s eyes rested on the silver rings around her finger. She’d hidden the carving deep in her luggage. “Were you always this suspicious, Oversight?”

  “I could ask if you’ve always been this naive, but the answer would be obvious.”

  Mac opened her mouth to argue, when something caught her eye behind Mudge. Trying not to be obvious, she leaned to one side to better see it.

  The kitchen proper was set aside from the dining area by a temporary wall, only chest high. There. Something small, and black, and pointy was hooked over the top, just above the table with the coffeepot and fruit bowls.

  A claw?

  She squinted. Definitely.

  “I would have expected you to at least pay attention, Norcoast. This is a serious conversation.”

  “Oh, I am,” Mac murmured, leaning the other way to follow as the claw slid sideways. It was abruptly joined by a second, slightly longer and bearing nail polish. Both pressed their tips deeply into the material of the wall, as if their owner hung on for its life.

  “Norcoast?”

  Mac focused on her companion. “Sorry. Insufficient coffee.”

  “I don’t understand you,” he complained, heaving a sigh so deep the nearest unconscious Grimnoii echoed it.

  She chewed her lower lip for a moment, then made a decision. “How I found out isn’t the point, Oversight.” Well, he’d disagree about the part where he was drugged unconscious for a good hour or more. As Mac didn’t intend to share that bit, she continued. “There’s been—” she searched in vain for a euphemism remotely relevant and had to settle for, “—some difficulties on the ship with Nik and the Vessel. They’re fine,” unless the radiation or whatever has killed them, “but the—difficulty could also be related to some confusion over investigating the derelicts.”

  The claws, Mac noticed, were still in place.

  Mudge pursed his lips and considered this for a moment. Mac took the last swallow of her coffee. Then he gave a brisk nod. “Sabotage to delay them; jurisdictional issues to slow crucial information; a rush to get us—or rather you—to Myriam. Someone’s on a clock.”

  She forgot about the claws and gaped at him. “Pardon?”

  “Really, Norcoast,” Mudge pointed his forefinger at her. “It’s the obvious conclusion. Do you have any idea who?”

  None that she’d be willing to discuss here, surrounded by possibly conscious aliens and a set of interested claws.

  “Isn’t it time you were busy adding competence to something?” She said it half jokingly, but didn’t smile. Instead, Mac deliberately glanced around the room and then back to Mudge.

  “Ah. Yes. You have a point,” he said, waggling his eyebrows with dramatic flare. “Understood.”

  They were, she judged fatalistically, the worst spies ever enlisted. Good thing there were professionals on the job.

  He rose from the table as she did. Mac hefted her empty cup and nodded toward the kitchen. “I’m going to try my luck. Meet you later?”

  “Later, Norcoast,” with enough emphasis to make any eavesdropper pant and follow.

  Once he was gone, Mac spent a moment planning her approach, walking back and forth to get different angles on her problem. As luck, or the social mores of aliens would have it, the opening to the kitchen area was behind a table with too many Grimnoii. They appeared to have started their binge facing outward. They’d ended it slumped shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, their abundant back ends lined up to form a complete barrier.

  All of the aliens were comatose by this point; a few snoring,
if that’s what the faint whistling sound was. Mac put down her mug and gave the nearest a gentle poke. Nothing happened. A firmer one. When that drew no response, she looked at the group blocking the kitchen and assessed the slope.

  Climbed worse.

  It wouldn’t be long before whomever Mirabelle sent to retrieve the Grimnoii showed up.

  The claws hadn’t budged. If anything, their hold on the wall appeared more desperate than before. Small flecks of paint were coming loose.

  Mac took off her shoes, on the premise that climbing a fellow sentient while wearing them was somehow more rude. She doubted the Grimnoii would notice. Using a chair, she climbed gingerly onto the table in front of the kitchen, stepping through the maze of outstretched hairy arms and hands. Her right foot landed in a puddle of what she hoped was spilled cider and she wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  Three of the Grimnoii were in her path, but only one had a pair of blunt wooden handles thrust through the bandolier that went around his torso. Useful, Mac decided.

  Before she could reconsider, she grabbed the handles, one in each hand, then put her right foot on the most muscular part of the being’s shoulder. When this didn’t elicit a reaction, she slowly increased the weight on that foot until she was supporting herself on it.

  She lifted her left foot and brought it forward, finding her balance.

  Not bad.

  The Grimnoii sneezed.

  With a shriek, Mac went flying over its backside. Somehow she tucked herself into a ball as she landed and slid along the floor on her rump—until her rump hit something that rattled but didn’t give way.

  The back wall of the kitchen.

  Fighting the urge to giggle, Mac stared up at her feet, then rolled her head to take a look at her surroundings. The first thing she saw was the owner of the claws.

  “Se Lasserbee.”

  The Frow was clinging to a set of storage bins as well as the half wall. Like Mac, he was upside down. A position, Mac thought, that looked better on him.