They had removed her eyefilms. Threat of infection, Morley said. Green-on-green orbs goggled at her, warped to skewed ovals by the tubing surface. She turned away from them repeatedly, only to have morbid fascination draw her back. Judging from the blasé reaction of the nurses, however, her eyes’ appearance bothered her more than it did any of them. A day and a half passed before someone honored her request for filmformer—the male nurse who finally brought it expressed disappointment that she’d decided to cover them. Several of the guys had commented that they liked the way they made her look.
Big pussycat, indeed!
By day two, the headaches eased enough that she could sit up. On day three, they removed the IVs and fed her soup. She shocked everyone on day six by walking the halls. Especially Pimentel.
“Your progress is mind-boggling. I’d ascribe it to the recuperative abilities of youth,” he said as he squired her back to her room. “But you’re older than I am.”
“Watch it, Roger.” Jani kicked off her slippers and perched on the edge of her bed. “So what do you think it is?”
He looked at her with the same hangdog expression he’d worn since she awoke, and left before she could demand he answer the damned question.
“Why did I release the retardant foam?”
“That’s the million-Com question, isn’t it?” Lucien propped his feet up on her bed and tipped back in his chair. “And not just the stuff in the ready tanks, but the stuff in the reserves and in the lines. You activated the synthesizers, too. Overrode the metering sensors. Yup, you shoved a UV finger down its throat and the whole damned system just went blech.”
Jani grinned. “I’m sorry about the cleanup detail.”
Lucien had the decency to look uncomfortable. “Pimentel organized the tag-team talkers. He said you might recall what we said while you were in coma, so we had to be careful.”
“Thanks for not taking the advice to heart.”
“You hand-polish brass fixtures for three weeks and try to restrain your enthusiasm!” He eyed her with an expression of patience sorely tried. “Oh well. Nema says hello.”
“Next time you see him, tell him hello back.”
“He’s inevitable, you know. Inexorable. All those in words.” Lucien hunched deeper into the chair. “Besides, if you came around, you could keep him off my back. ‘Lucien, you must tell my nìa—! Lucien, you must—you must—!’”
Jani studied him for some sign he might be joking, and couldn’t find one. “If it’s so bad, request a transfer.”
“No.” Lucien studied his nails. “It’s still interesting.”
“Haven’t figured out how to work him yet, have you?”
“I’m going to ignore that. What he really wants is to see you. He has to hold off, though. Ceèl is still ticked about being forced to acknowledge you. Nema said he has to throw him a bone or two before he can mention the possibility.”
“Did he really say ‘throw him a bone’?”
“Yeah. That handheld of his has been getting a workout.”
Before Jani could learn more, the door opened and Val sauntered in. He was sharply attired as always—dark green trousers and a patterned shirt in greens and browns. Late summer afoot. “Hello, I was on my way to a meeting and—” His eyes drank in Lucien, and his face lit. “I’m sorry, Jani, I didn’t realize you had visitors. Lieutenant Pascal, isn’t it? We spoke once during the night in question, but we’ve never been formally introduced—I’m Val Parini.”
Lucien cast him a bored glance, then ignored him. “I have to get back to work.” He rose and bent close to Jani. “I’ll stop by this evening.”
Jani tilted her head to receive his now-customary peck on the cheek. She wasn’t paying attention, so she couldn’t slip from his grasp when he wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips to hers. He kissed her so hard she either had to open her mouth or risk a serious bruising. He tightened his grip when she tried to pull away, and nipped her lower lip when she pinched his thigh.
“Speaking of ten-minute head starts,” Jani said in brisk Acadian when they finally broke apart. Lucien answered with a smirk, then brushed past Val as though he wasn’t there.
Val waited for the door to close before speaking. “I don’t think osculation français is on your list of prescribed meds.”
Jani struggled to find a less distracting sitting position—stimulation of one highly sensitive region tended to travel. “You’re just jealous.”
“Nonsense. Merely concerned for your welfare.” His expression grew thoughtful as he strolled around the end of the bed and flopped into Lucien’s chair. “I’ve read his psych evals. Nasty augment he has. You deserve better.”
“I’ve seen him without his shirt—he’s just what the doctor ordered.”
“Not this doctor.” Val adopted a look of serious concentration. “Selfish. Narcissistic. Incapable of sympathy, much less empathy.”
“No sloppy emotions to complicate matters—just the way I like it.”
“You’re not—” Val faltered. “You’re not his only interest. Or his only loyalty, if I can even use that word in connection with him. He can’t be trusted.”
“You have been digging, haven’t you?” Jani met his gaze—he dropped his first. “I have him figured out.”
“Think of the opportunities you’re letting slip away.”
“Keep John out of this.”
“Did I mention a name? I was speaking of life in general—did I once mention my best friend, my business partner, one of the wealthiest men in the Commonwealth?”
“It didn’t work the first time. What makes you think now would be any different?”
“The best amongst us acquire certain traits as they age. Maturity. Patience. The ability to give and take.”
“We’re talking about the same John Shroud, aren’t we?” Jani racked her brain for a suitable change of subject, and pounced on the first thing she thought of. “How’s Hugh? Morley said he was here the night I was admitted, but I haven’t seen him.”
Val’s rakish air vanished. He looked away, hands clenching. “He wants to visit you, but only if he knows he won’t run into me. I’m meeting with Cal Montoya in the city tomorrow, so he’ll stop by then.”
“Emergency ditching in the lovelorn sea?” That had been another one of their Rauta Shèràa jokes. Jani suddenly felt the need to make him smile.
He did. A little. “White chocolate cheesecake—what did I tell you?” He picked at his trouser leg. “And he got upset. About you. Reading the files was one thing, he said, but seeing in the flesh what John and Eamon and I had done . . .” His hand stilled. “He’s submitted his resignation. He’s leaving Neoclona.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” He looked at her, eyes darkened with concern. Fear. “I asked you on Felix, and you didn’t answer. I’m asking you again.” He tapped his fingers against his thigh, faster and faster, as though building up momentum. Or courage. “Do you hate us?”
“You saved my life,” Jani said, jumping at the pat answer. But Val’s desolate look informed her that she wouldn’t slip out from under that easily. How do I feel about you? Master go-between. John’s apologist extraordinaire. She shrugged, catching herself as the scars from the shunt pulled. “Val, if we’d met under normal circumstances, I think we’d have been great friends.”
“Jani?” Val’s eyes dulled in question. “We’re friends now.”
“In a way.” Jani studied her hands. Had the real skin grown darker than the animandroid? More bronze? If she compared herself to Nema, would she see a difference? “But you’re a scientist, and by all accounts a good one, if a little shifty on the follow-through. I think you’re anxious to see how the experiment turns out.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Val said, too softly. “You haven’t been on the other side of that door for the past five weeks.”
“No, I’ve been on the business side.” Jani’s voice thinned as her throat tightened. “Every time I ask somebody a quest
ion, they dodge or clam up. What did you do to me?”
“You’re not in any condition yet—”
“Val.”
“John ordered us not to tell you until he deemed you ready, and he hasn’t deemed you yet!”
“Hasn’t he? Well, the next time you see him, tell him to get off his ass and deem away!” Jani kicked off her covers. “I’m going for a walk.”
Val scrambled to his feet and hurried around the bed to her side. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
Jani eased her legs over the bedside and probed with her toes for her slippers. “Yes. I may even venture outside this time—it’s a beautiful day.”
She found herself the focus of all eyes as she shuffled down the hall on Val’s arm. White coats smiled. Waved. Offered the occasional “Howya doin’, Captain?”
“It’s hotter than hell out there,” Val said as he escorted her to the front entrance. “One circuit around the flower beds and I’m bringing you back in.”
“I thought you had a meeting.”
“Shit.” He glared at his timepiece. “Stay put. I’m going to find someone to go with you.”
As soon as Val disappeared from view, Jani took off in the opposite direction, weakened muscles distorting her walk into a limping skip. She had gotten the lay of the land during her previous visits—she knew exactly where she needed to go. She cut through an empty conference room. Up another hall and down a utilities chase.
The Basic Research Group dominated the east wing of the ground floor. Jani pressed the buzzer of the door leading into the largest, best-equipped lab. It swept open.
John sat at a large desk in the middle of the room, hunched over a recording board. Atop the surrounding benches, analyzers clicked and data-transfer stations chirped. In the background, a hint of music from a hidden system. Elgin. Or was it Mozart?
“Put the sequencer on the bench nearest the window,” he rumbled. “Leave the samples on the cart.”
“Where do you want me to put the violin?” Jani asked as she dragged a visitor’s chair over to the desk.
John’s head shot up. As soon as he saw her, his face colored candy pink. The cruel blush clashed with his jacket, a crossover cowlneck in palest pearl grey.
“Val told me you still play.” Jani sat and swung her feet up onto the desk. The left leg worked fine, but the right still needed hoisting.
“Play?” John blinked in confusion. He’d filmed his eyes to match the jacket—the argent irises glittered like fish scales. He’d have cut a sinister figure if not for his face’s boiled-lobster glow. He sat back and tossed his stylus on the desk. “Oh. Yes. Once in a while. I’m out of practice, though.” He raised his left hand and ran his fingers along an imaginary violin neck. “I’m losing my calluses.”
“Shouldn’t let that happen—it’ll take months to grow them back.” Jani glanced around the lab for something else to comment upon. The featureless white walls? The blaze of summer, visible through narrow windows? Finally, she caught sight of a familiar device atop one of the benches, and shook her head. “Coffee brewer in the lab? For shame. Where’s a safety officer when you need one?”
John’s expression lightened. “I was about to make fresh.” He rose and crossed the floor with the loose-limbed, liquid walk that age hadn’t changed. “Do you want some?”
“Sure.” Jani settled back and watched him brew the coffee. The surroundings were more posh and the circumstances less perilous than they’d been eighteen years ago, but in a way, it was as though nothing had changed. As though they sat in the same basement office and listened to the same recordings. As if nothing existed outside the walls that enclosed them.
She studied him, something she hadn’t yet been able to do. He stood one-nine, but as always, his thin build and penchant for monochrome clothing made him look even taller. His hair shone in the diffuse room light, so white and crisply trimmed it looked like a plastic cap. Jani could still recall its feel between her fingers, like shredded silk.
She pushed the memories aside and concentrated on the man who stood before her now. Time’s passage had done him a favor. Homely had become striking. Strangeness had become style. Congratulations, Johnny—you won. Just like you told me you would.
The brewer gurgled and hissed. Dark aromas filled the room, heavy enough to cut with a Sìah blade. John poured and stirred, then ambled back to the desk and handed Jani her cup. Unadorned ivory ceramic—weighty and solid. “Black?”
“You remembered.” Jani held it to her nose and inhaled the almost solid essence. “I drink this, I won’t sleep for a week.”
John frowned. “Val claims it etches tooth enamel.” One nearly invisible eyebrow arched. “He told me he made you coffee on Felix, and you liked it.”
“I drank it—it was either that or die.” Jani sipped, then tried to think of the words to compare Val’s bellywash with the nectar she tasted. “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about.”
John smiled. “That’s what I thought.” The expression flavored his voice warm brown, like the coffee. He stared into his cup, then sighed. “I’d like to think this is a social call, but I’m guessing you came here for a reason.” He returned to his side of the desk.
Jani nodded. “I waited for you to visit. When you didn’t, I decided it was time for the mountain to come to Muhammad.”
“You needed your rest.” John gripped his recording board by the corner and pushed it back and forth. “Your recovery has progressed splendidly.” He looked at her, and his metal eyes softened. “You look . . . wonderful.”
Jani tugged first at the lapel of her mud blue robe, then at her pillow-mashed curls. She felt the heat flood her face—at least her skin contained enough melanin to obscure matters. “Pimentel thinks I’m healing like a kid. He’s never seen anything like it.” She labored to maintain a casual tone. “What happened?”
John set down his cup and tented his hands. “Your condition, when we pulled you out of the SIB, was extremely grave. Your liver was failing, and your metabolism was deranged. You began seizing—those seizures were of sufficient scope and severity we feared permanent brain damage. The DeVries shunt—”
“—cut my brain off from the rest of my body until the hepatic adjunct cleared toxic metabolites out of my system so I’d stop seizing. That much I extracted from a nurse named Stan, who is quite taken with my pussycat eyes.” Jani flexed her right hand and compared it again to her left. The light was brighter here—did they still look different? “What else?”
John ran a hand along his jacket crossover. “If you’re upset, we can discuss this later—”
“No.” Jani lowered her feet to the floor—the right one hit with a thump. “We discuss it now.”
“You have a new liver.”
“I know that.” She leaned forward and set her cup on the desk hard enough that coffee splashed over the side. “Pimentel was treating me for acute intermittent porphyria, a disease he thought you gave me when you rebuilt me. Is that true?”
“Don’t say ‘rebuilt.’ You make yourself sound like a machine.” John drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Yes, you suffered from a porphyria-like disorder that affects a scant percentage of the idomeni population.”
“An idomeni genetic disorder?”
“Yes.” The drumming altered to a slower turn of finger, as though he pressed a string. “The idomeni tissue we used when we grew the new organ was taken from an unbred born-sect. The born-sects don’t bother to repair manageable genetic miscues until the member is ready to breed. Sometimes, not even then. I didn’t learn that until after you . . . left.” He glared at her. “Ridiculous, but there it is.” Whether he referred to the idomeni practice or her running away, he didn’t make clear.
Jani’s skin prickled in alarm. “Which sect?”
Another curl of finger. “The disease is most common in Vynshàrau. It affects point two percent of their population.”
“Did you use . . . Nema’s tissue?”
“No!” John’s f
ace flushed anew. “Use your head, Jan! I despise him—do you think I’d give you his tissue?”
“Right.” So she wasn’t related to Nema in any bizarre ways. Make that any more bizarre ways. “You repaired this disorder?”
“Of course. Then . . . things snowballed.”
“Snowballed?”
John nodded. “You suffered from one or two arcane connective-tissue disorders, and a defect in glycosaminoglycan metabolism. And a glycogen-degradation defect that I believe accounted for more of your symptoms than the porphyria.”
Jani pressed her hands together. Were the fingers of her right longer than her left? “Human defects or idomeni defects, John?”
John’s hand stilled. “Defects.”
“Human or idomeni?”
“Jani—”
“Answer me! On a percent scale, how human was I when I came in here and how much has that number decreased in the last five weeks?”
John leaned forward. “Jani, your transplant incision is almost completely healed, and you were operated on only two weeks ago. Every patient we’ve seen who was ever treated using a DeVries shunt remained bedridden for at least six months and required extensive rehab. Rehab that, I may add, was seldom entirely successful. Only twelve percent of those patients recovered sufficiently to live unaided.” He nodded firmly, as though that proved his point beyond doubt. “You’re walking around on your own and engaging in complex social interactions after five weeks. And your distinctive personality”—he eyed her in injury—“doesn’t seem changed in the least.” He touched the fingertips of his left hand to the desktop, raising and lowering each in turn, like slow scales. “The advantages of hybridization are becoming more and more obvious, and we’ve learned better how to take what we need and leave the rest behind. You won’t change physically—well, not much more, anyway—and the health benefits—”
“You pushed me farther down the road. Hybridized me at a much faster rate than would have occurred naturally.”
“We had no choice! The disorders you could have developed if we hadn’t—”
Jani held up her right hand. Maybe the skin hadn’t yellowed—maybe it was the light. “If I went to Cal Montoya or one of your other facility chiefs and asked them to make me one hundred percent human again, would they be able to?”
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