by Viehl, S. L.
I went to examine an interesting-looking experiment in progress. “They’re more afraid of her than you.”
“Everyone is,” he agreed. “Don’t open that.”
I studied the contents of the culture dishes. “What is it?”
“My latest batch of epithelial scaffolding cells.” Squilyp hopped over and peered into the culture incubator I was inspecting. “As I suspected. They’re not bonding with Reever’s tissue samples. I’m afraid that so far, nothing has.”
“If the chameleons don’t bond with host cells, then how can they repair and replace damaged organs?”
“When I discern that,” the Omorr said, “I will be the wealthiest surgeon in the galaxy.” He saw my expression and sniffed. “Cherijo was never so gullible as you. The reason I commissioned this lab was to protect my research. No one can know about Duncan’s condition, Jarn. If I can discover how to implant chameleon cells in another host body, they could be used by less virtuous researchers to create virtually indestructible armies.”
We went over the test results, which had yielded little new information. Squilyp had performed a comprehensive series of scans on the chameleon cells I had harvested from Reever’s kidneys and liver, but they did not respond or behave like any other form of human cell.
“My best guess is that in an environment outside the body, the cells become dormant,” Squilyp said. “They may have been engineered to do so to prevent unnecessary growth or accidental transfer. They are not fooled by implantation into simulated bodies, either.”
“You can’t experiment with them on living beings.” I gnawed at my bottom lip. “Have you tried organic stimulants?”
He nodded. “Organic, recombinant, and synthesized. The results are the same. No reaction; no growth. Scans show the cells are alive, but inert.”
That reminded me. “I have some other samples to give you for testing.” I put my medical case on one of the worktables and opened it, removing several vials of blood and cellular samples I had prepared. “These are from my body. While we are gone on this expedition, I would like you to perform some specific tests on them, as well as my husband’s.”
“Of course.” He transferred the samples to a refrigerated case. “What do you want me to check?”
“I want to know how to reverse the bioengineering that Joseph Grey Veil performed on us,” I said. “In my case, I need a treatment to repair the tampering performed on my DNA in utero, and in Duncan’s, a process that will safely remove all of the chameleon cells from his body.”
“What?” Squilyp stopped fiddling with the incubator’s controls and stared at me. “Why?”
“If we can somehow undo Joseph’s genetic tampering, Reever and I would be able to live normal life spans,” I explained. “We could have more children, grow older, and die a natural death.”
For a long moment, the Omorr said nothing. Then he turned his back on me. “No. I won’t do it.”
I had not counted on his resistance to the idea. “Give me back the samples, then, and I will do the research myself when I have time.”
He swiveled around. “Do you even know what you’re asking me? Essentially, you want me to find a way to kill you and Duncan.”
“Not immediately. Barring disease or injury, the average life span of a Terran in good health is ninety to one hundred twenty years.” On Iisleg, we would have been fortunate to live half so long. “That should be sufficient for us. It is for every other Terran in existence.”
“I cannot believe you.” Squilyp began hopping around the lab. “You and Duncan are immortal. Every being in the known universe would wipe out entire star systems to have what you’ve been given. Now you tell me that you wish to throw away this tremendous advantage?”
“We want to be like every other being and live a normal life span.” I gestured toward the incubator. “Whatever you discover in this lab, I can tell you now, immortality is not an advantage. It is death. The greed for it causes madness and war and destruction. If Duncan and I were like every other Terran, no one would fight over us. No one would care.”
“If you were like other Terrans,” Squilyp spat out the words, “Reever would be dead, and so would Cherijo. They would never have met. You wouldn’t even exist. Neither would Marel.”
That hurt, almost as much as Xonea’s hatred. “Do you know what Duncan asked me to do while we were stranded on Trellus?” I countered. “He told me that I should implant chameleon cells in Marel’s body. Do you know why?”
“She has no need . . .” The Omorr stopped and his eyes rounded. “Of course. As you are, you will both outlive her.”
“Undoubtedly.” I folded my arms. “I told him I wouldn’t do it. I would rather give her away to be raised by the Jorenians—by anyone—than force her to endure what we have.”
“Marel is only a child,” Squilyp argued. “This is not a decision you need make now. You have many years before she reaches adulthood.”
I held on to my patience with grim determination. “You built this lab to protect your research because you’re afraid of it being misused. Bounty hunters are out there, right now, looking for us. How much longer do you think it will be before the research is stolen, or we are found and taken and dissected?”
The Omorr’s hide turned a darker shade of pink. “The Jorenians will protect you.”
“If I were a bounty hunter and I knew two immortals lived on this would, do you know what I would do?” I pointed toward the ceiling panels. “I would gather an armada of ships and launch an attack from orbit. I would wipe out every sign of life on this planet. Then I would go down and find the only two people left alive. That would be me and Reever.”
Squilyp’s shoulders sagged. “No one would attack Joren to capture you. No one would dare.”
“They already have,” I reminded him. “Twice. Three times, if you count the patient that was made into a bomb.”
He sat down behind his desk and rested his head against his membranes. “We could arrange an accident—fly a scout into a star and make it look as if you were killed. We could create new identities for you. Hide you on a world where you would not be found.”
“Would you wish to live like that?” I asked softly. “Always running, hiding, afraid of being discovered? Would you wish Marel to do the same, and grow old while her parents remain young? Do you think you could watch your children grow old and die, all the while knowing that you could never journey to the next life with them?”
“Omorr do not believe in a next life.” He rubbed his eyes, and then saw my face. “No, Jarn. I could not bear the burden of it.”
“Then please, old friend, help us.” I sat down in front of the desk. “Find a way to reverse what was done to us.” I reached across and took one of his membranes in my hand. “Give us a chance at life. Ordinary life. One we can live in peace.”
“I will try.” Squilyp gripped my fingers for a moment, and then rose. “Come. I want you to meet one of my new residents.”
I had a great many tasks to attend to in order to prepare for the expedition, including telling my daughter about it. “Perhaps another time. I have much to do.”
“You’ll want to meet Jylyj,” the Omorr assured me. “Xonal told me about this expedition you’re planning, and I think this resident could be very useful. Aside from the fact that Jylyj is a gifted surgeon, he is also Skartesh.”
I frowned. “I was told that world had been destroyed during the war.”
Squilyp hopped out into the corridor. “It was, but many of the Skartesh escaped before the end.” He waited until I came through, and then secured the access panel. “The survivors have recently established a new colony on one of K-2’s moons.”
I recalled what Reever had said about the Skartesh being isolationists. “Why is this Jylyj not in residency there?”
“According to his transfer papers, he left K-2 soon after the Skartesh were tricked into attempting a mass suicide. He does not speak of his people at all, so I imagine it had something to do wi
th that.” Squilyp shrugged. “Whatever Jylyj’s origins, he’s the finest resident I’ve ever trained. Brilliant in and out of the surgical suite. I’ve been assigning him the most challenging cases on the ward, and he’s yet to lose a patient. As it happens, he has a reputation of having a magic touch. All the patients he treats have healed quickly, and with no complications.”
I accompanied Squilyp to the surgical ward, where the nurses were preparing for rounds. I had no difficulty spotting the Skartesh, as he was the only non-Jorenian on the floor.
While Squilyp conferred briefly with the charge nurse, I watched Jylyj assessing a post-op case. He wore a green resident’s tunic, fitting for a four-limbed humanoid male. I had not yet grown accustomed to seeing furred species, so at first glance the dark brown pelt covering his body and face made him seem more like an animal than a person.
After my initial, unfavorable reaction, I saw reassuring signs that my first impression was in error. The dense black ruff of fur surrounding Jylyj’s features had been trimmed short, as had the five curved black claws on his paws. His eye, as solid black as the Jorenians were white, made me wonder for a moment if he were a crossbreed. ClanLeader Sajora Kalea, a crossbreed Jorenian, had possessed solid green eyes. The resident’s ear flaps stood straight up on either side of his head, and small circles of some amber alloy hung from the right flap.
Animals, I knew, did not adorn themselves.
The black coloration of Jylyj’s slanted eyelids, pointed nose, and lining of his long, narrowed-jawed mouth gave him a menacing look, as did the heavy musculature of his frame under the fur. At the same time, he moved carefully, and the low tone of his voice as he spoke to the Jorenian patient sounded warm and pleasant. I noted how gently and efficiently he used the long, clawed digits of his paws to check the surgical dressing and adjust the berth to a more comfortable alignment. He might look like a killer, but he had the air and focus of a natural healer.
Jylyj looked up and met my gaze.
I could not put a name to what I saw on Jylyj’s face and in his eyes. For the most part, ensleg emotions still mystified me. It was what I felt that made me take a step back. I had never seen him, had never encountered his kind here or anywhere, and yet . . . I knew him.
As he knows you, something whispered soundlessly behind my eyes.
“Senior Healer.” After what had happened last night, I did not want to listen to any more voices in my head. “May I speak to you?”
“Forgive me. Two new patients were admitted and I had to schedule their procedures,” the Omorr said as he joined me. “Why the Torin must beat each other senseless in the warrior’s quad to prove their manhood, I will never understand.” He followed the direction of my gaze and stepped in front of me, blocking Jylyj from my sight. “You look terrible. What is it?”
I shook off the unnerving sense of recognition. “Nothing,” I lied. “A minor headache. Please introduce me to your resident.”
For the first time since coming to Joren, I did not impress a fellow colleague. Once Squilyp had introduced me with the usual amount of unnecessary detail, the Skartesh resident made a brief, modified version of the Jorenian gesture of welcome, and immediately returned to attending to his patient.
“No,” I murmured when the Senior Healer began to call him back. Unlike the Omorr, I understood the resident’s behavior, and it had nothing to do with the look we had exchanged earlier. Now that I knew what—and who—I was dealing with, I could act accordingly. “You will perform rounds this morning with him. I will observe.”
“That,” the Omorr told me flatly, “is ridiculous. You are a surgeon, not a student.”
“Indulge me.” I smiled a little at the bizarre sense of satisfaction I felt. At least with this ensleg, I knew exactly what to do.
We made rounds of the ward, and I took care to remain silent and observant, and spoke only when asked a direct question. At first Jylyj treated me with polite suspicion, but when I did not intrude on his conversations with the Senior Healer or offer any unrequested opinions, most of his animosity dissipated.
By the time we had finished assessing the patients, Jylyj was speaking freely. Squilyp’s evaluation of his abilities had been on the conservative side; the Skartesh had a sharp eye for details as well as a phenomenal memory. Not once did I see him consult the diagnostic database to confirm his opinions, all of which were completely accurate.
Squilyp and I left Jylyj calibrating a patient’s boneset ter, and only when we were out of earshot did I abandon my ruse. “I will need to speak to your resident alone.”
“You will first explain this farce to me,” the Omorr countered.
“The Skartesh does not work well with your female nurses, does he?” I guessed. “He likely performs their tasks as well as his own, and refuses to ask for assistance.”
Squilyp seemed taken aback. “I have heard some minor complaints, but who told you about it?”
“He did. Or, rather, his eyes, the way he holds himself, the brevity with which he spoke to me. They told me that my presence on the ward is deeply offensive to him.” I saw the Omorr still didn’t understand. “Squilyp, his kind subjugate their females. Just as the Iisleg did.”
“Not on this planet,” the Omorr snapped, and then made a disgusted sound. “I should have known. Well, if he is to serve as a healer on Joren, he must accept that we value ability and dedication, not one gender over the other.”
I saw Jylyj watching us from across the ward. “Accepting and liking are not the same. He may not even be aware of what he is doing.” I scanned the ward and spotted a small, unoccupied office. “I will wait in there. When he is finished with that patient, send him to me. Alone, please.”
A few minutes later, the Skartesh entered the office. “You wished to speak to me.”
“Yes.” I gestured toward a chair. When Jylyj made no move to take it, I said, “What I did during rounds was a courtesy to you and your kind. Now you will show me the same.”
His blunt claws curled over against the pads of his paws, the only physical reaction he showed to the abrupt shift in my demeanor. He sat down but remained poised on the edge of the chair, as if he intended to rise and walk out at any moment.
“I understand your discomfort with me.” But I had no intention of indulging it, so I remained on my feet. Jylyj had to look up at me; something an Iisleg male would have found intolerable. “On my homeworld, females within the tribes were forbidden most freedoms. Before the rebellion, all a woman could do was prepare food, care for children, sort salvage, and provide physical relief. Until the Raktar came, all of our healers were male. Since I left my homeworld, I, too, have struggled to adjust to these ensleg ways.”
The tight lines bracketing his eyes softened a few degrees. “How may I help you, Healer Cherijo?”
“You may begin by calling me Jarn,” I told him.
He gazed at a spot on the wall just to the right of my head. “How may I be of service, Healer Jarn?”
It was almost, but not quite, an insult. One I would have to overlook, too, if I was to convince him to join us. “My husband and I are leading a scientific expedition to the Saraced system. The Senior Healer tells me that you are a native of that region.”
“I was. Skart no longer exists.”
I could offer him sympathy, which he obviously didn’t want, or get to the heart of the matter. “Our expedition will be traveling to survey a planet called oKia. Have you ever sojourned to that world?”
He sniffed, and at first I thought my question had offended him. Then he did it again, and I realized he was smelling the air itself, perhaps in much the same way the Hsktskt tasted it with their tongues.
He stopped sniffing and reluctantly inclined his head. “I know oKia.”
Doubtless he would be more open with Squilyp or even Reever, but I refused to admit defeat. As healers, Jylyj and I would have to work together on the Sunlace. We could not do that if he would not lower himself to converse with me. “What can you tell me about
this world?”
The black fur around the base of his ears bristled. “It is cold. There are mountains and tundra. The natives are tribal primitives. Your kind call them lupine, like the wolves of Terra.”
How could he know that, and when had he interacted with Terrans? More questions to be answered.
“We are in need of a guide for the expedition.” I took a seat behind the console panel. “Someone who is familiar with the worlds in that region of space, especially oKia.” On Iisleg, females were not permitted to make requests of males unless invited to do so, but there were ways around that. “There is no one else on Joren with your personal experience.”
“I am a surgical resident,” Jylyj said, almost snapping out the words, “not a pathfinder. My duties are here.”
“This mission is very important to us.” I kept my tone level but soft, hoping not to goad him into a rage. “You have knowledge of this world that we do not. You would be a great asset.”
His jaw worked, and I could almost hear his back teeth grinding together. “Healer Jarn, no ship will be permitted to travel through oKiaf space. oKia resigned from the League. They refuse to have any contact with offworlders. Save yourself the trouble and have your husband call off your expedition now.”
“My husband is a talented linguist, and hopes to persuade the oKiaf to make an exception for us.” I sensed something more than anger coming from him now. He was afraid, but of what? “You could still join the expedition as a healer and an adviser—”
“No.” He stood. “I cannot accept. I will not.”
There was one more thing I had to know. “Do you know me?” When he glared, I added, “When I first saw you, I had the sense that you recognized me.”
“I have never met you before today, Healer Jarn, so I could not recognize you. Your pardon, but I have patients waiting for me to attend to them.” Before I could reply, he turned and strode out to the ward.