Regeneration (Czerneda)

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “Definitely yummy,” Mac murmured, following the drops with her hands.

  Good thing she’d locked the door.

  CONTACT

  “LOOK!” “This may be a tedious and menial posting, but those are insufficient to excuse failure to fully utilize the excellent protocols established and prepared for our use.” The seniormost Imrya relished this opportunity to elaborate in a meaningful yet sensitive manner appropriate to the youth and inexperience of her younger compatriot. “To properly request my attention,” she began, “you must first—”

  But her younger compatriot wasn’t listening. Instead, his nostrils were pressed to the viewport. “Have you ever seen anything so glorious?” he gasped. “I must record this. I must write at least a stanza—no, I will surely dedicate the rest of my days to an epic work worthy of this moment, this spectacle, this—oof—”

  The seniormost Imrya, notepad in hand and having successfully deposed her younger compatriot from the only viewport on this side of the station using her ample rump, settled in to see what was worth a life—such moments coming rarely even to a species devoted to the pursuit of literary perfection.

  Slivers of light were converging on the Naralax gate, a region of space both infamous and lately well-explored by playwrights. Other traffic gave way, as was the custom when encountering a Sinzi courier dart.

  But so many darts. They had been flowing in from other gates for weeks now. None had questioned their movement. Frankly, Imrya weren’t roused to attention by the hasty, too-brief messaging of other species. Any news of import required, to their way of thinking, a minimum of ten thousand words to properly introduce the topic. Anything less simply couldn’t matter.

  Yet the flow of information represented by so many darts at once was on a scale to grab even an Imrya by the wattle. The beauty of the small, sleek ships. The way they followed one another, in perfect sync and sequence.

  The seniormost scribbled down adjectives as quickly as she could, hearing her younger compatriot vainly attempting to do the same.

  Neither bothered to wonder where the darts were going.

  That which is Dhryn must make the Great Journey.

  That which is Dhryn must move. It is the Way.

  As before, as before, as too many times, the Call is heard. Insistent . . . dominant . . . demanding.

  That which is Dhryn resists . . . resists . . . then succumbs.

  The Call is the only hope left.

  21

  INVESTIGATIONS AND INVASION

  MAC MIGHT HAVE LOCKED the door to her quarters.

  Didn’t mean the universe would pay attention.

  The com panel was flashing. Someone less patient was knocking. There was probably mail on her imp marked “urgent!”

  Mac glanced at Nik as they dressed and was oddly comforted by his wry grin. “It’s probably Oversight,” she warned, smiling back.

  He pointed to the abandoned tube on the bed. “My money’s on Cayhill.” He closed the neck fastener of the pale green crew fatigues left for him, then deftly checked its pockets, pulling out to show her, in order, an ident chip, an imp, and one of the palm weapons she’d last seen him use on Earth. At her look, he grinned. “I always leave spares behind.”

  She reached into hers and brought out imp, nutrient bars, and the little salmon. “I take mine with me.”

  The knocking, now more like hammering, stopped for a moment, then resumed. Given there was no shipwide alarm, whoever it was could wait.

  “Speaking of Cayhill,” she bent to pull on her shoes, “how do you feel?” This with a twinge of guilt. Somehow she doubted the physician had included certain activities as part of her promise to look after his patient. Though she could testify that the patient was fully functional.

  “Afraid.”

  The word, however matter-of-fact his voice, made her look up in surprise. “Of Cayhill?” This seemed unlikely.

  His face showed unfamiliar strain. “Of waking up in a few minutes. Of finding none of this was real. I know that’s ridiculous.”

  Still shaky, despite the bravado. “If I were you,” Mac replied lightly, “I’d be more afraid of Cayhill. You’re likely to be grilled on our time together.”

  “And me not at my best.” That wicked dimple.

  Mac raised a noncommittal eyebrow. “I’ve no complaints.”

  With a laugh, Nik captured her hand and brought it quickly to his lips. “When you’ve had my best, love, you’ll know the difference. Trust me.”

  She felt the rush of heat in her cheeks, and elsewhere. Words failed her. Banter like this was Emily’s turf.

  Nik reacted at once. He knelt, still holding her right hand and collecting her left, all amusement gone from his face. “Mac—” The hammering intensified. Nik sent the door a baleful look, then turned back to her. “I didn’t mean—damn it, Mac, you know what happened was—” He stopped there.

  Had words failed him, too?

  Mac almost smiled. “I know,” she told him, turning her hands to hold his. Then she did smile. “You do realize, Mr. Trojanowski, that as a scientist I can’t accept any hypothesis without thorough experimentation.”

  His smile was every bit as wide as hers. “Of course, Dr. Connor.”

  The door actually creaked. “I’d better get that,” Mac said. She had to tug her hands free and pretended to scowl at Nik. Who didn’t look the least repentant.

  Mac opened the door. “What is it, Over—” She stopped and stared at Rumnor. The Grimnoii tucked his—yes, he’d been using a hammer—into its sling and bowed slightly.

  “The Sinzi-ra requests you attend Her Excellence, the Progenitor.” As Nik came to stand by Mac’s shoulder, the alien blinked slowly, yellow crystals raining on the floor. “Both of you.”

  “She’s arrived?”

  Wrong Dhryn. “In a sense,” Mac cautioned, relieved to see at least one of the Grimnoii had returned to the Sinzi’s service. Or was spying. She disliked the notion; she didn’t avoid it. “The Progenitor has recently undergone metamorphosis. Remember?”

  They hadn’t had time for much more conversation, but she’d made sure Nik knew about the Wasted and the corpse of the Ro walker. Captain Gillis had provided him with a somewhat skewed version of the entire business. She’d eventually need to add all the details—given Gillis hadn’t thought to mention her being on the Uosanah in the first place—but at least the Ministry’s man on the spot was aware of the players.

  And had no reason to berate her for taking risks. There were, Mac decided, distinct benefits to being anonymously foolhardy.

  “Ah, yes,” Nik said smoothly. “Please tell the Sinzi-ra we’ll be there shortly. We’re expected at the remains first, you see. To provide final identification.” He pronounced this last with such intense melodrama it was all Mac could do not to react.

  Rumnor seemed to find the emphasis convincing, for he nodded and left without argument.

  “ ‘Final identification?’ ” Mac asked, once the alien disappeared down the ladderway.

  “Even modern, space-faring Grimnoii follow tradition,” her companion informed her. “The perished must be named in order to rest. Those who could identify the dead are not impeded in any way.” His expression turned grim. “And I want to see the enemy.”

  “It’s a walker, not a Ro.” Mac made a face. “What’s left of it.”

  “You’ve seen it?” Nik raised a rakishly singed eyebrow. “Do you know where it’s kept?”

  “Yes. Wait. The com was flashing. Let me check. I’m trying to be better about messages.” Mac slipped back into her quarters—funny how pleasant memories warmed a room—then pressed the button.

  It was a sequence of voice messages: Mudge, Cayhill, Mudge, Cayhill, Cayhill, Mudge, and so forth. A nice “hope you feel better soon, Nik” from Court, whom she guessed knew the spy from his earlier sojourns aboard. More Mudge, Cayhill. Both men sounded terse, as if they suspected why they weren’t being answered but hoped she didn’t know they knew and so would ans
wer her com regardless.

  Nothing more urgent. Mac recorded a quick “we’re heading out” reply to any and all, then rejoined Nik in the corridor.

  “Not that way,” he said when she started toward the ladderway. “Through here.” He indicated the door through the bulkhead to the rest of the ship.

  “We’re not allowed—” she objected, then watched him key in the door code. “Okay, I’m not allowed.”

  Her spy grinned. “After you, Dr. Connor.”

  Captain Gillis’ accommodating crew had done a superb job of transporting the Origins Team, despite the quirks that came with archaeologists. They’d risen to the occasion when more aliens were added to the mix, and relished the challenge when one of those aliens turned out to be a Flowering Dhryn. No requirement had seemed too great, not even the need for more rooms and a private hangar for the new Interspecies Consulate on board.

  But they must have been hard-pressed to find secure autopsy space for the Ro walker. Mac surveyed the result with some dismay. No way around it. It was a tent, tucked against one wall of the Sinzi’s hangar. “This was the best they could do?” she asked the nearest of five guards stationed between the cable supports.

  He shrugged. “Handy to the scientists’ transports, Dr. Connor.”

  In her experience, convenience for scientists was a secondary motivation. “And they don’t have to be escorted through the Joy,” she guessed.

  A flash of teeth, but a carefully neutral, “I wouldn’t know about that, Dr. Connor.”

  Nik was heading for the open flap, so Mac nodded good-bye to the guard and followed.

  To be fair, it was quite a tent. Mac was inclined to envy. Beyond the flap was a nicely rigid doorframe, complete with transparent door. Through it, she could see what appeared to be a well-lit metal cage, its upper surface head-high. Nik produced some kind of ident to wave at the guard at the door, gesturing her to follow as he passed that barrier.

  Mac made clucking noises with her tongue, then took a deep breath and followed.

  If an intent focus and the carrying of small, blinking instruments were the hallmarks of scientists, then the inside of the tent was packed with them. Otherwise, there was nothing to distinguish this group from one of Anchen’s outdoor gatherings. Less ventilation. Mac wrinkled her nose, attempting not to breathe through it.

  The cage wasn’t to keep something in—not that she’d any doubt the corpse was exactly that—but an all-species’ access mechanism. Frow clambered across the top. Something for which Mac had no name was fastened to a horizontal bar by curved teeth, its trio of tentacles poking through at the stiffened black remains suspended within the cage. Mac quickly moved her eyes from the corpse. While underneath? She bent over to watch a Nerban on its back, working with apparent comfort, a face shield protecting its proboscis from drips.

  Group insanity or interspecies’ efficiency. She hadn’t made up her mind.

  Nik had stopped, his eyes wide with shock as he stared at the walker. There hadn’t been any way to prepare him, Mac thought sympathetically. At least he didn’t look about to vomit. She had a feeling his default ran more to fight than flight.

  Not that there was anything wrong with flight.

  Especially from a nightmare.

  “Mac!” Fy came forward from where she’d been in conversation with a heavier-than-most Imrya, moving through the crowd with that unexpected speed. “I am pleased you are here. I have made the most remarkable discovery with the help of these fine—ah.” This as she noticed Nik. “You have improved.”

  Nik bowed, almost as gracefully as a Sinzi. “Greetings, Sinzi-ra. My name is—”

  “You are Nikolai.” Fy brought her fingers up to form rings in front of her great eyes. “My apologies for not recognizing you sooner. I participate in your promise as I do in Mac’s.”

  “Mac’s?” Nik turned his head to give her a look that could best be described as appalled. Answering the question of whether he knew what a Sinzi promise meant.

  Mac replied with a helpless shrug.

  Aliens.

  “Your discovery, Fy?” she asked brightly.

  Fy launched herself back to a console beside the cage, leaving the two Humans to make their way through the cluster of researchers. As they did, Nik whispered urgently: “You made a promise with Anchen? Do you have any idea of the possible consequences?”

  “You did it first,” she shot back.

  “I—” He closed his mouth but not, she was sure, because he didn’t have more to say on the subject.

  “Here, Mac. Nikolai. See?” Fy’s delicate fingers were wrapped around a grotesque serrated hook, about the size of Mac’s forearm. The dull black of its surface was scored by regular holes. Sample cores, she realized, even as a more primitive part of her mind gibbered at her to either throw up or run, whichever reaction came first. Simultaneous might work.

  Instead, Mac reached back until her fingers found Nik’s wrist. “What did you find?” Her voice sounded normal, given the background of alto grunts and tenor mutters, but she felt his hand cover hers.

  “Remember our discussion—concerning the Hift artifacts? This—” a triumphant wave of the hook came close to landing on Mac’s nose, “—this is of the same material!”

  “It’s a machine?” This quick and sharp from Nik. “Some kind of construct?”

  “Machine, no.” The Nerban now with Fy spoke up. His long eyelid was opened to its maximum to admit more light in the—to his kind—dim room. The eye itself lay hidden deep within the revealed cavity. Mac didn’t know their features well enough to be sure if this was the individual from the meeting. The silver-and-emerald bangle circling his proboscis was new.

  “Construct? Most definitely. The biological portion consists of conjoined body parts, no two of which came from the same source organism. Despite this, there appears an underlying logic to the result. The sum did have life, as the IU defines it. The technology, the tools, were melded into the flesh. If only it hadn’t been so damaged, we’d know more.”

  And she’d be dead. Mac shuddered and let go of Nik. “Have you compared this one to the one found on Earth?” she asked. The man beside her stiffened in shock. Right. Full briefing overdue. “Buried by the earthquake,” she told him quickly. “The Ro used the landslide to cover the tracks of whatever they put into the ocean. Em’s on its trail.” News at six, she thought inanely.

  “Yes,” the Nerban said. “The components are identical.”

  She’d expected a match. That didn’t make it any more pleasant. Mac closed her eyes for an instant. One of those things had been on Earth, on the slopes of Castle Inlet.

  How many more?

  “Have you identified any of the components?” Nik asked. “The organisms.”

  “Others are working on that. It will be difficult. The genetic material is severely distorted. Mutations, damage, manipulation at the molecular level. For now, all I can say is we’ve found no match to existing species within the IU, but—”

  “There she is!”

  Mac hunched her shoulders, somehow knowing that shout boded nothing good.

  The shout announced the Trisulian who surged through the rest. This one was wrapped in red leather but with a belt of scanning equipment and probes instead of a weapon. Not pregnant, Mac noted, belatedly counting only two eyestalks. Female. And going to stay that way. “You,” the alien continued without pause. “You are Mr. Mac, Mr. Connor. I have a question.”

  Quiet spread outward from their little group. She hated it when that happened. Having no other option, Mac nodded. “What is it?”

  “There are inexplicable marks.” The Trisulian lifted the black limb she carried. “Here. And here.”

  Were they cutting off souvenirs?

  Somehow, Mac kept her feet from moving backward and made herself examine the limb. Easy to see what had puzzled the Trisulian. “Oh. Those are mine.” Without touching the limb, she held her left hand over the marks, spreading her fingers and thumb to show how each fit i
nto one of the indentations. “It’s a prosthesis,” she said, wiggling the fingers in case the aliens mistook Human strength. “I was in a bit of a hurry.”

  “In a—What the—” Nik switched to English for a few choice and impassioned phrases before recovering to think of their audience. “Mac? You were there? On that ship?”

  “You could say that,” Mac hedged.

  “Alone, Mr. Mac captured it. At great risk to herself.”

  Nik’s response to this was thankfully lost as the Frow from atop the cage structure chose this moment to plunge almost to the floor. “You will treat Dr. Connor with the respect due her rank!” he shouted at Nik. Then he noticed the Trisulian and snapped his membranes threateningly. “How dare you approach Dr. Connor! How dare you be in this room! How dare you be on this ship!”

  The Trisulian cowered behind her share of corpse, the Frow kept shouting—the Nerban sweating—while other aliens either paid rapt attention, ignored the fracas completely, or began to edge to the exit, all in their own unique ways.

  Mac shook her head at Nik. “You could have waited,” she mouthed.

  He said something she couldn’t hear over the din—probably just as well—then jerked his thumb at the door. She nodded.

  Time to find somewhere else to cause an uproar.

  “This is a closet.”

  “I know.”

  Mac put her back to a convenient shelf and sniffed. Cleansers, even in space. “Why are we in a closet?”

  Nik had taken her by the hand—her real one—and marched her into the nearest corridor from the hangar, along it past several doors identical to this one, then in here. He knew the layout of the ship remarkably well, she decided.