Regeneration (Czerneda)

by Julie E. Czerneda

  The pillow succumbed, coughing up fluff and going flat at one end.

  She’d been exceptionally understanding.

  But hadn’t fooled Mudge. He’d hovered a little too overtly, offering her drinks and running interference when she’d tried—time after time—for some answers.

  At least he’d recovered her salmon from Fy. Mac threw herself down on her stomach, then rolled over to stare at it on the clear shelf.

  “Some salmon you are,” she scolded. The device within the carving had been Sinzi, a little something they’d provided Nik in case he’d been taken aboard the Dhryn ship, with its pre-IU technology. He’d had its partner, ready to coordinate com signals or whatever at the right time. Fy had been very pleased.

  Mac wondered what other little surprises a certain spy had left in her life.

  She pulled the blanket to her chin and stretched out her toes, yawning. The new bed was as comfortable as she’d hoped, the room private and peaceful. And clean, right to an apologetic hint of lilac. The Frow, while not talkative, had been on duty in the ladderway, lifting her with their accustomed flare. The Dhryn was resting, having—according to Cayhill—consumed most of the ship’s supply of raspberries and cashews, shells included, in a new broth. The man was in his element with tubing and a perfusion pump.

  She eased her hips and shoulders, almost hissing with the delicious pain of relaxing muscles. Tense muscles. She needed a good run.

  Or a certain spy.

  Mac smiled wistfully, but pulled her thoughts firmly from that direction. He’d get here when he did.

  She shut her eyes, let her mind drift, intent on that too-brief clarity between committed to sleep and committing it. This was when threads wove themselves together without effort, when intuitive leaps came like breath. She’d learned not to waste it.

  She let her thoughts go where they would . . .

  . . . a Progenitor the size of a blue whale moved across a sere landscape, six powerful limbs churning their way forward. She was less massive than Her bulk suggested, much of Her body composed of immense sacs of gas lighter than the surrounding air. Around Her flew a ceaseless pulse of others, attracted to the glow of her skin, jostling to be next to offer their store of digested nutrients to Her body. Beside her marched others, stout and capable, well-organized. Their low voices communicated well across the landscape. These carried the youngest under their bodies, as well as seeds.

  There was laughter, at the beginning of the Great Journey. The triumph of a species moving how it could, when it must, in a world that relied on its passing for renewal.

  Mac’s eyes shot open. It fit. A body plan that would have worked for the Dhryn. Not that glut of a form, suited only to producing millions more oomlings than one world could sustain.

  She tossed until she found a less comfortable position; she needed to think.

  A reversion to type.

  She felt rigid as the idea took hold. “Is that what you are?” she breathed. They’d need to run the genetic material, see if the Joy’s Progenitor was a match to the current form, but with a different sequence of genes active.

  But some would always be born. The “lost souls.”

  “They’d have to forbid biology,” she whispered. “They’d have to create the myth of the Wasted, shun them, let them die. They’d need a diet that wouldn’t support the final metamorphosis of the original Progenitor.”

  Had this been the terrible price the Dhryn had paid the Ro, for admission to space?

  Or had oomlings been stolen, changed, their own kind unaware until it was too late?

  What did it mean now?

  Ureif promoted this one Dhryn for all the wrong reasons. Non-Sinzi would see that.

  Could there be a right one? Could she be fertile? Could the original form of Dhryn be restored through her and those like her?

  Should it?

  Mac fell asleep before she had answers, dreaming of limbs become hands, of hands become mouths, of mouths counting to eleven and dripping with green, while something laughed.

  Fourteen had sent her three hundred and fifteen messages.

  “Must have cut into their time for sex,” Mac commented, scrolling the list. “And me waiting for my nugget.”

  “Norcoast!”

  She opened one at random. “He’s groveling. But busy.”

  “Good.”

  Mac raised her eyebrow at Mudge. “Good he’s groveling?”

  “Good he’s busy.” Mudge took a sip of tea. “Keeps him out of trouble.”

  She tsked at him, but kept opening messages. No need to rush through brunch. Every reason to keep busy here, too. No news.

  And presleep thoughts weren’t for the light. She needed data.

  Mac opened another. “Whoops.”

  Mudge paused, a cracker halfway to his lips. “ ‘Whoops?’ ”

  “Wasn’t meant for me. I hope. ‘The pale forks of your writhing tongue flutter the tent of my passion?’ ” She slid her finger through the ’screen to close that one. “Hello.” This as she skimmed the next message, then reread more slowly. “I’ll be . . .” She read it again. “You wouldn’t believe what they had for supper.”

  “I hope you appreciate, Norcoast, that there is very little as annoying as being a forced spectator to message reading. Particularly,” Mudge waved today’s carrot, “your message reading.”

  “Sorry,” she said without looking away from the ’screen. Sorting the messages by topic didn’t seem to work. Typical Fourteen convolutions. “Don’t mind me.”

  “You can eat while you read,” he fussed, pushing more vegetables on her plate.

  “This is odd.” Mac squinted at the display hovering between them. The list of messages showed as lines of simple text—simple for someone else—but those three hundred and fifteen lines now formed a perfect zigzag to the right. “See this?” For emphasis, she followed the pattern through the display with her finger.

  It shouldn’t have done anything.

  But the display changed immediately. The text list disintegrated and re-formed into an image—a vid recording. “Look! It’s Fourteen.” Mac moved the ’screen so Mudge could see as well.

  And only Fourteen, his face so close no background showed. He wasn’t moving or talking. “It’s not working,” Mac said.

  “If it’s a private message, Norcoast, he’ll have encoded something to activate it, a way for you to control when it plays.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Mac leaned toward the ’screen.

  “You know what it is?” Mudge sounded surprised.

  “I’ve an idea,” she replied, giving him a wink, then said firmly, “External genitalia.”

  Fourteen’s image animated into a smile. “Idiot! I have none!” Then the smile was gone. “I knew you’d find this, Mac. You’re more clever than you think. Not as clever as I am, but that’s why you need me.

  “You asked me to uncover the purpose of those rushing to Myriam. A simple matter. Boring, boring, boring. The same rush when a new restaurant becomes the trend. Everyone wants to be seen there, even if they hate the food. Irrelevant. Boring scientists and those who want to be boring scientists. With boring messages and no sex. I ignore them all. So should you. Any data of substance is moving freely.”

  His hands came into view, hovering near his eyes. “The Trisulians. I found additional proof of their infamy, of their plot against the Frow. Revolting species, but if we eradicated species for their looks, where would you Humans be, hmm?

  “I gave this to the Sinzi. Fy asked my help in deciphering messages intercepted after the Frow were safe. The Trisulians are resentful beings. They blame the Sinzi, not themselves.”

  Beads formed on his eyelids. “There have been those who answer, privately, secretly. Only I could have found them. Words of fear. What do we know beyond the systems connected by the transects? How do we know the Sinzi aren’t able to travel beyond those limits? What if we are trapped, not freed, by the transects?”

  His hands flattened over his
eyes. “Words of distrust. That the Myrokynay and their history are an invention, that the Sinzi are the Ro, that the unseen walkers are simply more new technology they haven’t shared; that the Dhryn are the Sinzi’s pawns and always have been.”

  Fourteen’s hands moved away. His tiny eyes glistened. His mouth worked. “Words, Mac, from only a few. But now the Sinzi produce a new kind of Dhryn and permit a Progenitor ship to join us here. The Ro couldn’t have done better themselves. For many, it’s a thin line between admiration and envy. There should be no denying the strobis of the Sinzi. Idiots.

  “We cannot survive the loss of the Sinzi. Yet we may be their destruction.

  “In this dark time, I have the comfort of my life’s love, Mac, and I thank you for that. Look after Charlie.

  “I fear for us all.”

  The image fragmented back to the list of harmless messages.

  Mac closed the ’screen, surprised her hand was steady. Surprised her plate held green-and-yellow vegetables.

  Surprised to be sitting still when everything inside screamed in denial.

  “We have to warn the Sinzi,” she told Mudge.

  His head was half bent, his eyes shadowed and fixed on her. “To what purpose? They have no weapons, no fleet of warships. Their protection from the Ro was in being scattered. One, maybe two per system; a homeworld that’s little more than a stopover; the rest in perpetual transit. The Sinzi will be helpless if the IU turns on them.”

  “And without them, the transects will fail.”

  “There are those who might consider that the only way out—safety in isolation.” His palm turned over on the table to rest open and empty.

  Mac’s lips tightened. “Until they discover the Ro are real after all.”

  A miserable harrumph. “Norcoast . . . what if . . .”

  “Don’t say it, Oversight.” She reached out with both hands to take and hold his. “Don’t think it. Trust me. I know the Ro are real. I’ve seen one—felt its voice burn inside me. Emily has, too.”

  His free hand came down on hers, pressing gently. “Then we must find one to show everyone else.”

  The corridor lighting was midday bright. There was a gentle breeze laced with cinnamon and no crush of impatient archaeologists to block it. The temperature, Human perfect, was doubtless set to keep the crew comfortable, regardless of activity. The Annapolis Joy was putting on her best inside face.

  A shiver coursed down Mac’s spine, raising gooseflesh on her real arm. Could cut the tension with a knife, she noted as she walked toward the Sinzi’s quarters. She knew her reasons and it wasn’t hard to guess why the crew she passed failed to smile. Battle stations, then a Progenitor ship for a neighbor might do it.

  She didn’t want to know why the Grimnoii ahead were standing in a clump in the midst of the corridor, instead of standing at attention by the Sinzi’s door.

  But she had to know. “Rumnor,” she greeted, making sure to smile as she approached. “Anyone home?”

  “Mac.” For once, only he replied. The other three, Fy-Alpha and -Beta, plus another of Ureif’s, continued to pace. Pace wasn’t the right word, Mac decided, noticing the Grimnoii weren’t picking up their feet, but rather slid each one forward in turn. Slow-motion skating?

  They were polishing a circle in the already gleaming floor, but otherwise she couldn’t see the point. She looked back at Rumnor.

  “Sinzi-ra Fy is ‘home,’ ” he answered, his expression more doleful than usual. “Ureif is—” He stopped.

  “Ureif is . . . ?” she prompted.

  The others halted, turning as one to look at her.

  They’d always been large and carried more weapons than they had hands to use, but she’d never viewed Grimnoii as menacing. Gloomy bears with allergies who drank too much, yes.

  Mac changed her mind. There was nothing but menace in their present posture and attention. Nothing but the clearest possible signal even to an alien that the wrong move or word would precipitate something she was unprepared to face.

  The Sinzi’s door opened. Monitoring the hall? Mac thought, inclined to be grateful. “Mac,” Fy said, beckoning her within. “I am pleased to see you. Come in.”

  “Gotta go,” Mac told the Grimnoii, walking confidently, if quickly, past.

  When the door closed, she let out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Fy. The Grimnoii seem a little—tense—today.”

  “They have withdrawn their service.” Fy touched fingers to shoulders—mild distress. “Now they protest.”

  The polished floor . . . they wiped the Sinzi’s scent away. Mac sank into the nearest jelly-chair. “The Dhryn.”

  Fy took another chair, her fingers restless. “How can they not appreciate the congruence, Mac? Is it not the most obvious of joys? Do you not feel it?”

  How could the Dhryn not know a Human needed water . . .

  At least this Sinzi asked the question. “I can understand that a Sinzi would be affected by this Dhryn,” Mac said, careful of every word and its impact on the mind behind those glittering eyes. Minds. “I’ve had practice. But I also understand why the Grimnoii protest. They are—concerned—that Sinzi enthusiasm here means less for the goal of protecting the IU and its species.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not qualified to explain it,” she hedged.

  “I have no other!” Fingers flashed, rings sliding like a river of gold and silver. “Consider me your student. Do your best.”

  “We’re both in trouble,” Mac muttered, then pursed her lips in thought. Her student was an engineer and an historian who studied technology. Perhaps if she tried something surely familiar to both.

  Mac climbed from the chair to kneel in the sand before the Sinzi. She swept a patch flat with her hand, then drew a straight line in it. “The Grimnoii.” She drew a second line, parallel to the first. “Humans.” She drew three more then stopped. “The IU. What do you see?”

  “I see failure,” Fy said cooperatively. “Isolation. Stagnation.”

  Mac added an arrow to each of the lines, all at the same end. “And now?”

  “Directionality. Purpose. But isolation and stagnation remain.” A fingertip came down, as if the drawing were irresistible, and drew a complex spiral that crossed all the lines, then met itself. Fy withdrew her finger. “There. Complex, interwoven, interdependent. Is this not better?”

  “That’s not the question.” Mac drew another straight line outside the rest, adding an arrow. “You must remember the components. The IU is made up of cultures who view their progress as linear and isolated, who appreciate the role of the Sinzi and Sinzi technology, but as aids to one thing.” She drove a thick, deep furrow through the complex spiral, putting an arrow at the end. “Survival. Together, or apart.”

  Fy pulled herself back as if the line were threatening, then leaned forward again. Two fingers explored the air above the drawing. “Remarkable. But if true, we are fundamentally different in our understandings and approach. How do we ever communicate properly?”

  The mild complaint made Mac smile. “We keep trying,” she said. “It’s easier when dealing with similar goals. Biology’s helpful that way—living things have a great deal in common.”

  “Technology also.” Fy nodded. “There are rarely protests against physics.”

  She’d fit in at Base. Mac laughed, returning to her seat. “So you get my point?”

  “We shall see.” The Sinzi tilted her head one way, then the other, as if her two minds considered Mac separately. Then she straightened. “The Grimnoii see Ureif’s support of this Dhryn and the Progenitor ship as an indication that all Sinzi could move away from their—direction.” Fy touched the heavy line. “They fear we make a different choice. That we would abandon them, in favor of the Dhryn.”

  Mac was impressed. “And not return. There would be no circularity.”

  The Sinzi shuddered, rings glinting. “No future. They must be so afraid.” Her voice rose. “I must share this with Ureif.”

  Who probab
ly knows and moves ahead anyway, Mac told herself, gripped by the tighter connection, perhaps believing he sees the right course. “He was Sinzi-ra to the Dhryn, Fy.”

  “He bound himself to your promise,” Fy said, as if Mac should realize this by now. “It takes precedence. We must preserve the Interspecies Union.”

  Her head hurt. “That’s part of my promise?”

  “How will you get home if the transects fail?”

  As this was a question she tried to avoid on the principle of there being no good answer, Mac let it go. “There’s another problem, Fy.” She took a deep breath and plunged. “It’s come to my attention—” there was a good euphemism for having a code-breaking, moral-free Myg in your pocket ”—that some within the IU believe—it’s ridiculous, of course—but rumors spread. What I mean is, some believe the Sinzi are—” Mac stopped, staring at the graceful being across from her. She couldn’t say it.

  “They believe we are the Myrokynay?” Fy’s fingers shivered in a Sinzi laugh. “Ah! I am learning your face, Mac. It opens like a flower when I surprise you.”

  Mac shook her head ruefully. “Consider me in bloom. You knew?” Had Fourteen sent his message to the Sinzi as well?

  “The site at Hift has been the focus of debate and controversy long before I began to work on it, Mac. Some groups claim we found the inspiration for no-space technology elsewhere, moving it to Hift to hide other discoveries. Others claim there was no ancient technology to be found, that we planted clues to cover the theft of vital components from other species.” A dismissive gesture. “And, yes, there have always been those who say we are the Myrokynay’s descendants, that Hift was a long-lost outpost rediscovered. How else would we have known where to look? And so forth. My work, in part, laid those claims to rest. The devices at Hift were made of materials previously unknown to Sinzi.”

  “But they are materials used by the Ro?”

  “That remains in question,” Fy replied with an almost Human shrug. “We have had none to compare. The Chasm transect stations were replaced before this was a priority. I await an opportunity to examine samples from the ocean floor of Myriam.”