Regeneration (Czerneda)

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Cayhill frowned. “Call someone. I have to make more broth.” He went to the table, his left foot leaving damp prints on the floor.

  Mac looked inside. The Wasted had closed his eyes, but his fingers were now wrapped around the tube as if to make sure it stayed in his mouth. He swallowed regularly. “We could be killing him,” she commented uneasily. Or not helping at all.

  “Do we have a choice?” Cayhill gave her that unreadable look. “Sometimes you have to trust the patient.”

  An apology? Mac let it go. She filled her cheeks, then let the air out through her teeth. “I’ll clean up.” There was a bag of wipes and a vacuum mop by the door. She set to work on the pod, sniffing at the spill. “Is that tea?”

  “Green tea. And macadamia nuts.”

  Herbivore? Fits the migration profile, she pondered as she cleaned the floor. A trip across most of a planet might take a couple of generations of ordinary Dhryn to accomplish on foot, even if the Progenitors could live that long. More rapidly moving prey would elude them.

  She helped Cayhill pour—more carefully—another dose of broth into the tube. “We need something better than this,” he decided. “Wait here.

  Between looks at the Wasted, Mac moved on to sweeping up the discarded leaves and other debris from around the table, putting those into the bins. It was the closest thing to gardening she’d done in years, and she found herself enjoying the feel of stems and peel, the delirious smells of what grew.

  Cayhill backed through the door, pulling something with him.

  “Don’t you ever ask for help?” inquired Mac.

  She could read that look all right. Annoyance. “It’s the middle of the night, Dr. Connor.”

  Sure enough, she glimpsed night-dim lighting in the corridor before he was through the door.

  Time flew when tending aliens.

  He wrestled what turned out to be a stand festooned with empty bags over to the pod. “We fill these,” Cayhill announced, “connect them in sequence, and he can drink all he wants.”

  “What about the—ah—consequence?” Mac ventured.

  A pitying look. “The catheter was the easy part.”

  For whom?

  Working together, they produced enough broth to fill all but one bag. Once he’d checked the system for leaks, Cayhill declared himself satisfied. “Nothing to do now but wait, Dr. Connor,” he finished.

  And stood there looking at her.

  Mac sighed, giving up her untouched bed. “I’ll stay. I’ve reports to read.”

  His eyes strayed to the equipment attached to the pod. Not about to let a mere biologist handle his patient, Mac decided. “No, no,” Cayhill said at last. “I should stay. You go.”

  “I won’t touch anything,” she promised. “You’ve hooked it all to remote monitors, right?” At his hesitant nod, Mac grinned. “Get some rest, or we can play cards. Kudla left his deck.”

  “Call me if there’s the smallest change,” said Cayhill hastily. “And watch for gunk in the tubing. The filters were coarse.”

  “Change, gunk, got it. Go.” Mac let her grin fade. “And thank you, Doctor. Whatever happens.”

  Her gratitude seemed to startle him. “Whatever happens,” he replied gruffly, “I expect to be notified without delay.”

  After Cayhill left, Mac amused herself by walking around the room a few times, straightening this and that. Noticing the bed had fresh sheets, she rolled it from the corner and positioned it alongside the pod, in case she needed a nap. She stared in at the Wasted, seeing no change at all. In case, she switched on the com so they could hear one another.

  Out of excuses not to sit down and work, she stood in the middle of the empty room and closed her eyes to listen.

  The barely heard, self-conscious hum of machines. A drip from within the pod.

  Satisfied?

  Mac checked the door again, then stared up at the unblinking vid in the corner, hating to think this would be public record. So she was obsessive. It wasn’t the first time.

  Despite feeling a thorough idiot, she disconnected the handle from the vacuum mop and used it to carefully sweep the room, including pokes at the ceiling and finishing with a lunge under the pod.

  Done, she positioned two chairs so she could sit in the one and see blue flesh through a window. The other was for her feet.

  She pulled out her imp and set up her ’screen, looking first for updates from Mudge. Nothing. Probably going to stay on the bridge till they kick him off, she thought, glad he was happy.

  There were a few notes from members of the Origins Team, mostly dealing with what had been left behind, or for when she came down. Mac shunted those to Mudge and looked for anything from a little farther afield.

  Finally. She smiled as she called up a set of newly arrived vid messages, from the latest newspacket or courier. She didn’t care which.

  Mac settled deeper in her chair and cued the messages to play.

  CONTACT

  EMILY WAS STANDING outside, lit by sunshine, framed by intense blue. Her head was covered in a large fluffy mass, more like a growth of bright red hair than a hat; a scarf of the same improbable fabric traced the underside of her jaw and cheek. Her nose was distinctly pink and her breath left little puffs as she spoke. “Hi, Mac! Got your message. You sound the veteran spacer. Proud of you, girl.

  “Guess where we are!” The image briefly tilted sideways, catching the ice-rimmed prow of the harvester lev, a flat expanse of sea beyond. “Two tries. Whoops! Wrong!

  “Tracer’s working, Mac. It’s working,” this with passion, her face close. “I knew it would. I’m on its tail—or whatever. Sneaky bastard. It’s been leading me around . . . playing some tricks . . . thinks it’s clever. But I’m not going to lose it. Not now.”

  Quiet, intense. “You should be here, Mac. This is where the answers are. I feel it. Forget that ball of dirt. This is where we’ll learn how to stop Them, once and for all.”

  The image tilted again, this time spinning in a circle as if Emily had grabbed the ’bot for a dance partner. Behind her, more blue sky and ice, frozen metal, distant others wrapped against the cold.

  “C’mon home, Mac,” she urged, becoming still. She brought the ’bot to her eyes, as if trying to see inside, turning the image into a confusion of lashes and dark, dilated pupils. “They’ve never been in a hurry before. They’ve never made mistakes. Something’s started the clock. Not—not at noon. It’s eleven. Mac, it’s eleven. Remember that.”

  The ’bot swung up, as if she’d tossed it, then leveled out and returned to its original position. Emily tucked her chin into her scarf. “Gotta go, Mac. Can’t leave the Tracer for long, not even with Casey-boy.

  “Just . . . come home as soon as you can. Okay?”

  Case was sitting, his back against a curved wall that might have been anywhere along the lev’s inner hull. He’d tanned, or gained freckles; aged, by the fine lines beside his eyes and mouth. But he looked out from the image with assurance. “Hi, Mac. We’ve been at sea a while. Feels good, you know. Being out here. You likely expected that.

  “Em’s gadget is hauling us all over. Sing-li’s always on the com getting clearances. Part of my job is warning civilian harvesters we’re coming through. A couple learned the hard way Em isn’t going to divert course. You ever been on one of these big harvs when it ramps up and over another lev? Whoot! Don’t worry. No one’s been hurt.” A grin. “Maybe a few feelings. Handy having Earthgov and the IU on our side, that’s for sure.”

  The young man rubbed one hand over his jaw, the grin disappearing. “I guess I’m the one to tell you. Em—I caught her taking ’fix. She laughed—boasted ’Sephe was getting it for her, that no one cares, long as she finds their monster. I think—I know she’s right, Mac. Everyone’s too quiet, too focused. Feels like we’re in a whirlpool and don’t know how long till the bottom.

  “About Em . . . I don’t want you to worry. I’m making her take supplements, got her promise not to up the dose. I’ve seen guys
’fix for weeks, Mac. They weren’t good for much by the end, but they pulled their weight for the harvest.”

  Case’s lips quirked sideways and his eyes glowed. “With or without, none of them could keep up to Emily, though. She’s on the trail.

  “Hope you’re okay, Mac. As I said, don’t worry. We’ll find this thing. You can trust us.”

  Hard to tell if Hollans had aged. His wrinkles contrarily defied it. Instead of looking at the ’bot, he stared out over a wide patio, edged by trees; one hand rested on the stone wall that edged the terrace. He took a deep breath before speaking. “Dr. Connor. Mac. They told me what happened on the Uosanah. I never meant you or Sigmund to be in any danger. I want you to believe that.” A pause. “I’ve spoken to Katie, his wife. Those things—doesn’t matter how many times I do it, I never know what to say. But I made sure your family knew you were okay. The media’s got more than I’d like about the whole business. No help for that now.”

  His fingers worked at the stone. “What you did . . . what you both did . . . I’ve decorated agents for less.” A low laugh. “You know, I can picture your face right now. Don’t worry, Mac, I’d never make you accept a medal.

  “I’d like to know how you found out about the walker before we sent the specs to you, but I’m learning not to be surprised by anything you and your people accomplish. Dr. Mamani, for instance. She’s already chasing whatever the Ro left in Castle Inlet. None of our sensors detect a thing. She’s either crazy or our best shot. I’m inclined to the latter.”

  He turned to face the ’bot at last. “I hope you’ve had news from our mutual friend. I know you’ve heard about the mess with the Frow. ‘Mess.’ ” Hollans made a face. “A tragedy, that’s what’s coming. Earthgov’s expelled the Trisulian ambassador. We aren’t the only ones. But you know being politically isolated will send the wrong message to the Trisulians. I feel like a voice shouting in an empty room. We should be finding them opportunities to colonize, maybe even the Dhryn worlds, if it comes to that. Help them believe their coming generation is safe. But you get politics within species as well as between. Anchen’s conducting negotiations around the clock.” He looked away again. “Maybe they’ll work. Regardless, now every species in the IU knows the Trisulians tried to summon the Dhryn. It’s not much of a step to realize the only way to end that threat is to eliminate the Dhryn themselves.

  “So we’re back to that, Mac. The Ro or the Trisulians. Both now hold the Dhryn over our heads.” His voice became very quiet. “You know what I’m asking. You know, I hope, what you must do if you have the opportunity. What Nik must do.

  “For all our sakes.”

  19

  REBIRTH AND RESUMPTION

  MAC CLOSED HER ’screen, hand trembling. The rest of her messages could wait.

  It wasn’t as if any of it was a surprise.

  She’d known. Deep inside, in the place where nightmares festered while she was awake, she’d known Emily was expendable. And the Dhryn.

  And everyone else.

  So long as they stopped this.

  It was hard to remember normal, to think about the way the IU had been before this fundamental threat to its very nature. Not that she’d paid attention to it then, Mac mocked herself.

  She walked over to the pod, and put her hand on its cool surface. “It’s not even your fault,” she said.

  Ureif had seen no circularity.

  Numb, Mac walked to the lighting controls and accepted ship settings. The room dimmed to twilight, the shadows softening the edge of machine and pod, the aroma of crushed plants teasing at the senses, a pretense of life.

  She climbed on the bed and laid down, rolling to face the Wasted through his windows. He no longer swallowed, the nipple stuck to a lower lip as if abandoned. Perhaps he was dying.

  Perhaps he was lucky.

  Mac closed her eyes and wept.

  She’d dimmed the lights.

  Mac squinted, opening her eyelids the barest amount possible.

  The glow wasn’t much, but it was right in her face.

  For an instant, she believed it was a flaw in the pod, its internal lights jumped to some higher setting, ready for an autopsy.

  Then, as she came fully awake, she realized it was something else entirely.

  The Wasted was . . . glowing.

  She slid from the bed, tiptoeing closer, and gasped. Her hands caught at the pod to keep her upright.

  Okay. Not just glowing.

  The creature inside the pod wasn’t what she’d left there. It was no feeder, no normal adult . . .

  Warm, golden eyes gazed back at her.

  “Lamisah. What am I?”

  Luminescence.

  “I don’t know,” Mac breathed.

  The Wasted had . . . changed. Cayhill was right, she thought. An arrested metamorphosis, not a failed one.

  The Dhryn before her was still blue, but that blue was almost painfully vivid. What had been fractures in his skin were now connected into bands wrapping his torso and limbs in softly glowing white. His face and body had fleshed again, the body thicker than before, stronger. The eyes. The eyes were everything Mac remembered about Dhryn, warm, alive, vibrant.

  With a beseeching look. “Can you release me, Lamisah? I no longer fit inside.”

  Her hand reached for the control and froze. The voice! It was higher pitched, with a different cadence.

  It was no longer male.

  “Lamisah?”

  Mac shook off her paralysis, aware the being was right. He—she—now more than filled the inside of the pod. No matter what else, getting out was a priority.

  First, Mac went to the door and locked it from the inside.

  Then she went to the table and picked up the closest thing to a weapon she could find, a thin metal rod.

  Aim for the eye.

  Last, she went to the pod, pushed the release, and moved back.

  There was an alarm. Of course. Lights in the room shot up to normal day, then strobed orange. No sound here, but doubtless abundant bells and shrieks elsewhere. She didn’t have long.

  The pod lid opened and fell back with a clang, knocking over Cayhill’s stand of bags.

  The creature sat up and smiled. “Thank you.” He—she climbed out with ease, power and grace in every movement.

  When she stood on the floor in front of Mac, it was on four sturdy legs, not two. The uppermost arms were now legs, the middle set thicker, more muscled. They’d regrown something almost like hands at their wrists but these were broad, almost webbed. Feet. At the moment, those middle arms were bent at the elbows and carried up against her midsection. When she bowed her head and shoulders back in gratitude, Mac saw the seventh limb, now muscular and with a three-digit hand.

  And when she came upright again—taller now, and solid—and settled to regard her Human companion, skin and eyes aglow even against the brighter light, she was nothing less than glorious.

  Mac dropped her would-be weapon.

  “What are you?”

  The delicate mouth smiled, as if they now shared a secret. “Hungry.”

  “Dr. Connor. This is the second door you’ve locked on me. This is my ship, you realize.”

  Mac winced. Captain Gillis sounded infinitely more reasonable and calm than Cayhill, who’d been first to arrive and shouted himself hoarse at her while waiting for the rest. “Sorry about that,” she said “Hang on.” She unlocked and opened it, but kept herself firmly in the way. “I wanted you to be here,” she explained, trying not to look at Cayhill. He deserved better. “All of you,” this with a nod to Ureif and Mudge.

  Mudge looked as grim as she’d ever seen him. She’d expected that.

  She’d expected the armed guards, too.

  “If you’d come in, calmly.” Now she did look at Cayhill, doing her best to plead with him without saying a word.

  His face was flushed with rage, his eyes fierce. But he gave a curt nod.

  Mac backed slowly, controlling the entry. Not that any of them wante
d to run in—they’d seen on the vid, she was sure, what waited. A new kind of Dhryn.

  Or maybe something else. Her heart hammered as she considered the possibilities.

  She’d done her best to provide a suitable setting for the introductions. Not that she’d had much to work with, Mac reminded herself. She’d shoved the wheeled platform to one side, the bed with it. The worktable joined them, its mass of vials and equipment hidden under a sheet. That left the table and chairs, plus the bins. The bins of used plants were now out of the way. Along with the all-but-one empty bags.

  She’d put the table in the middle, fished out a plant sufficiently intact—in her opinion—to serve as a centerpiece, and arranged the chairs on one side. There weren’t enough, but the Dhryn didn’t need a chair. Neither did she.

  It no longer looked like a hospital room.

  A point not lost on Cayhill, whose lips pressed tightly together. Then he saw his patient and wonder flooded his face. “I don’t believe it.”

  The Dhryn raised her head in a bow. “I am told you are responsible for my current state.” She indicated herself with her flexible limb, the movement as graceful as any Sinzi. “I would give you my name, Human-erumisah, but I do not exist.”

  “Erumisah” was a rank earned through grathnu. Mac supposed providing food qualified. “This is Gordon Matthew Cayhill,” she introduced, having taken a judicious look at the ship’s crew list.

  “Ah.” The Dhryn paused, as if considering how to clap without paired hands. Then she dropped what Mac thought of as her mid-legs to the floor, their flatter feet making a reasonable smack. “Most distinguished. I take the name Gordon Matthew Cayhill into my keeping.”

  “The captain of the Annapolis Joy, Michael—Rupert James Gillis.” Mac hadn’t found his middle names, so she made up a few. Gillis didn’t even blink.

  Another vigorous smack. “Outstanding. I am honored to take the name Michael Rupert James Gillis into my keeping.”