by Ben Bova
"We are being eased out," Bomeer replied simply. He had expected Fain to protest, and was surprised when he remained quiet. "You and I are part of the old Empire, Commander. There may not be a role for us to play in the improved version, and Javas knows it. Even rejuvenation has its limits. What was it you called me earlier? 'Old friend'? That may be much more accurate than you realize. For both of us."
Fain nodded, and it was obvious to Bomeer that nothing he was saying had in any way come as a surprise to him. Clearly the man must have had many of the same thoughts himself.
"Anyway," he sighed, "you may be right about we academicians being too slow. Perhaps the time has come for me to adopt a speedier attitude toward what's left of my life."
Aboard the Kowloon, Dr. Templeton Rice monitored the equipment and waited patiently for Oidar to return to the open lab, but couldn't stop the growing concern he was beginning to feel at the length of time he'd been gone. Because they had reached a delicate stage in the modeling, the alien had delayed going to the fountain that had been installed for him at the far end of the room. His body moisture and temperature were maintained by his wet suit, but Oidar still needed to dampen the exposed skin of his face and neck frequently in the misty spray of the specially designed fixture. This time, however, in his excitement he had waited too long and needed to return to his quarters when he began to feel dizzy.
I hope he's okay, Rice thought. It's as much my fault as his. I should have reminded him to go.
The comm beeped suddenly, startling him, and he slapped the answer bar anxiously. A haziness coalesced on the small screen and Rice knew it was Oidar even before he could see his features, calling from the comfort of the Sarpan-normal conditions maintained in his room on the Kowloon.
"Are you all right?" he barked into the comm. A swift blur passed suddenly over the image, bringing the picture into sharper focus, and Rice realized the alien must have wiped his hand across the video pickup on his end to clear the moisture that had collected on the lens.
"I have thanks for your concern, Temple, but no worry. I am fine." His voice sounded tired. Oidar had removed his wet suit and reclined now on a small couch as he spoke. He had wrapped a brightly colored towel around his waist, but otherwise wore nothing else. "However, had I waited much longer I would have looked like—what was it you said the last time?"
Rice chuckled. "A dried prune."
"Yes. So." The alien grinned broadly and tilted his head back. Rice saw the gill slits vibrating, and a high-pitched buzzing sound came softly from the comm speaker: the Sarpan equivalent of a laugh.
The thought of comparing him to a dried fruit amused him, and Rice was relieved to see that his counterpart was feeling better, but at the same time was concerned at his coloring. Oidar was only five years old, and Rice was used to seeing his skin a bright greenish-brown color that was normal for Sarpan of breeding age. Now, however, his hue had darkened considerably to the deep gray-brown shade common to males approaching the end of their ten-year life span.
Rice had seen that coloring on only one other Sarpan—Oidar's father, during his last months of life before his role in the experimentation was taken over by his son. "I want you back on the Flisth as soon as possible."
Oidar's smile faded, and he sat upright suddenly. "There is no cause to return to my ship," he said, all traces of good humor gone. The abrupt movement seemed to have caused him discomfort and he crossed his arms and grasped his sides with his hands, gently messaging the twin egg sacks located halfway down each side of his body. "I am fine."
"You are not fine! Look at you; you've nearly dehydrated yourself again."
Oidar's eyes widened and he tilted his head, a confused, hurt look crossing his alien features. "You are displeased," he said simply, a hint of disappointment in his voice as if he had unintentionally offended an elder.
Rice cursed himself under his breath for losing his temper—the aliens simply could not understand how humans could connect anger with concern for another's well-being. He lowered his voice, forcing a smile. "I'm sorry, Oidar," he said, and bowed his head in a Sarpan gesture of apology. "This one is not displeased. But"—he lifted his chin and looked his friend directly in the face—"I'm going to have to insist that you take better care of yourself while in the open lab. You've got to… I can't…" He had trouble expressing the worry he felt in words the alien would understand. In the screen, Oidar waited patiently for him to continue, his head tilting one way, then the other.
Rice gave up. "Look, I can't deal with this over the comm. I'm coming up."
He punched the disconnect bar and headed for the door, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked. The open lab was generally kept several degrees above the ship's normal working temperature, to better accommodate Oidar's comfort, but he knew the alien's cabin would make the lab feel chilly. The cabin was not far, and he arrived at the door at about the same time he'd managed to slip his shirt off and sling it over his shoulder.
Oidar was expecting him and opened the door as soon as he pressed the call button, allowing Rice to enter the narrow airlock that helped maintain the room's internal environment.
The air was so hot and humid that sweat burst forth from his skin the moment the airlock door slid aside and admitted him to the room. The air was thick and dank, and had a vague swamp-like pungency to it; not unpleasant, the scent carried with it the musky odor of vegetation and mud. Other than the Kowloon's captain and members of the crew who had worked with the Sarpan team to set up the cabin, Rice was one of the few people on board who had even set foot inside, much less spent any amount of time with Oidar.
The cabin consisted of a small living room—a receiving room, actually, since Oidar used it only to see infrequent guests—a galley kitchen and bathroom. The largest of the cabin's three rooms, it was the bathroom itself that comprised the main living and sleeping area for the Sarpan. The receiving room was sparsely decorated: There were two small couches facing each other, a low round table between them. In one corner stood a tall plant with snakelike tendrils that crept up the wall, although whether it was a genuine Sarpan growth or something specially bred, Oidar had never said. A sealed lighting strip circled the room at the edge of the ceiling, and Rice noted that it had not been cleaned in some time; algae growing on the glassy surface caused it to cast a soft green glow that glistened off the moist surfaces of everything. The room was quiet, empty; the alien nowhere to be seen.
"Oidar?"
"A moment," called a voice from the galley. "Be comfortable."
Right, thought Rice, using the balled-up shirt to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. He sat on one of the couches and felt the wetness of the plastic cushion beneath him immediately soak through the seat of his pants.
Oidar appeared, and handed him a tall tumbler filled to the brim with ice cubes from the galley freezer. There was no drink in the glass, but Rice knew that none was necessary—in a few minutes, he'd have ice water.
"Thank you, friend," he said, and played the refreshingly cool glass slowly across his forehead and against his cheeks.
Oidar sat opposite him on the other couch, lacing and unlacing his fingers. There was a tiny pop sound as the webbing between his fingers pulled apart each time. "So?"
Rice sighed heavily. "Yes, so." A few centimeters of cold water had already formed at the bottom of the glass and he sipped before continuing. "Oidar, I must be blunt. The modeling is at a very critical stage, and we both need to be at our best if we have any chance of being successful here."
"I know that," he replied matter-of-factly.
"But beyond that, I am concerned for your health and safety." Twirling the ice cubes in the glass to make them melt a bit more quickly, he studied the alien. Was his coloring beginning to return to normal, or was the effect caused by the tinted strip light? "Why won't you return to the Flisth more frequently?"
Until now, Oidar had been sitting upright out of politeness to his guest, but he allowed himself to recline in a familiar slouching posit
ion Rice knew was more comfortable for him. He crossed his arms in front of him again, massaging the egg sacks. He made no attempt to avoid looking at Rice, but said nothing.
He's nervous, he thought, wiping at his neck again with the now-soaked shirt. My God, I didn't even know they could feel that way. He watched Oidar as he massaged his sides, then noticed something. A tiny bump appeared briefly at a spot in the left sack, smoothed out, then reappeared. Oidar massaged the spot and the bump disappeared.
"You're nearly ready to spawn, aren't you?"
Oidar stopped.
"Why didn't you say something?" Rice demanded, then quickly cheeked his voice to keep all traces of emotion from it. "If I'd had any idea, we—"
"A moment," Oidar replied, cutting him off. He hung his head in a shameful gesture, puzzling Rice. "I am… not gladly received on my home ship."
"I don't understand. You mean you're not permitted to make regular transfers over?"
"No, I am permitted. I am even welcome." He shook his head, blinked eye membranes several times. "I am not gladly received, however. I have spent much time with humans, and am"—he blinked, rapidly, struggling for a word—"untrusted socially."
Rice had trouble believing what he was hearing, and sipped noisily at the melting ice while he formed a response. Was Oidar trying to say that he was being shunned? "But many of your family members are there, aren't they? Surely they don't treat you this way."
"I was spawned on the Flisth, yes, but none of my water group remains aboard. They have been reassigned for… political reasons."
"I see." Rice understood. Like Oidar, his entire water group carried much of his father's knowledge and skills, passed on genetically. The Sarpan leadership, eager to gain as much information about the humans as possible, had undoubtedly sent the others to "safe" areas within the Sarpan Realm for debriefing, far away from further human contamination. "And your spawning mate?"
"She has shown little interest in this one since I received the spawn." He sighed, the mannerism and sound remarkably human; no wonder he was considered influenced by his time with humans. "Anyway," he went on, "it has been easier for me to remain here. I will go back to the home ship when it is time to go to the water."
"And when will that be?"
He massaged at his sides again.
"Soon."
Rice lifted his glass, but noticed that the ice was gone. The water in the bottom of the glass was still cold, and he finished the last of it as the two exchanged a few last pleasantries. Finally, the room growing as uncomfortably quiet as it was hot and humid, Rice got up to leave, setting the empty glass on the table.
Once outside Oidar's cabin, he leaned heavily against the door and closed his eyes, relishing the delicious feel of the cool plastic pressing against the sweaty skin of his back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Everything she could see, which was precious little, was a blur. As if that were not bad enough, the blur swirled around her in a sickening whirlpool.
Her mouth was dry, parched, and she coughed hoarsely. Why am I so thirsty? Adela wondered as she attempted to slowly climb her way to full consciousness. She concentrated, trying to remember, and reasoned that she was still on Pallatin, sleeping outdoors in the blistering heat.
The images were confusing, and mixed with one another as they do during a dream. There was a bright light above her that brought tears to her eyes, but she stared at it, blinking and confused, until it assumed a form she was comfortable with. It was Dannen's Star, its hot, orange light bathing her as she lay motionless. She realized that someone stood over her, unrecognizable, and her mind's eye filled in the missing details and the faceless image became Billy, grinning ear to ear.
"C'mon now, Doctor," her mind heard him say, "lyin' about like that this late in the mornin', you'll wind up tucker for the local wildlife for sure. Best to get movin'."
She tried to answer him, but her throat rasped, unable to make any sound at all but the most feeble of croaking noises. But then she saw that the form standing over her wasn't Billy at all; in fact, there was no one there. She blinked, and tried to raise a hand to rub her eyes but found that her arm still refused to work.
Cryosleep, the conscious portion of her mind told her. I'm waking up. Must clear my head. She began counting silently, trying to force herself into wakefulness. One, two, three, four…
"Adela, my love."
It was Javas, exactly as she remembered him—tall, an air of natural command about him in his Imperial uniform. He wore the Imperial sash, the satiny fabric complemented by his deep blue eyes and golden hair tumbling over his collar. She felt herself smile, causing a dry, painful cracking sensation at the corners of her mouth, and attempted to lick her lips.
"Shhhhhh," Javas admonished when she tried to speak. He reached out a hand, touching a fingertip lightly to her lips, then let his fingers gently caress her cheek. "Don't talk; not now. We have plenty of time."
"But we don't!" she heard herself plead, clenching her eyes tightly to hold back unwanted tears. "We have almost no time at all! Please, hold me while there's still time."
When she opened her eyes again he was gone. She managed to turn her head and saw that she was in a room with white cabinets running the length of the far wall. Other than the cabinets and a low countertop beneath them, the room was empty of furnishings but for two chairs and the mechanical bed in which she lay, covered by a thin green sheet. The viewscreen on the wall nearest her was dark and silent. Her eyes blinked up at the overhead light, not nearly as bright now, she realized, as she'd imagined before, but still too intense to look at directly and she turned away. Two white-coated figures talked animatedly near the door—one a man, the other a woman—but they spoke softly and she couldn't make out what they were saying.
She was still aboard the Levant.
"Hel—hello?" Her throat ached at the effort, and she tried to swallow.
They stopped talking immediately and turned to her, smiling. "I'll inform the Commander," said the man, and disappeared from the room. "Well, good morning, Dr. Montgarde," said the other, approaching her bedside. "I'm Dr. Velice. How do you feel?"
"Stiff. Sore. Thirsty." She managed to raise her arm, resting it palm-out against her forehead, and experimentally stretched anything else she could move. She shook her head to clear the mental cobwebs that refused to release their grip. "But not necessarily in that order."
One of the cabinets concealed a small refrigerator, Adela saw, and the woman was already getting out a container of brightly colored juice. She watched the woman, trying to decide if she knew who she was. No, she decided; but that, in itself, was due more to the fact that the Levant was a big ship, with a large crew, and not to her post-cryosleep grogginess.
"Well, I'd say you're feeling normal, then. Would you like to sit up?"
Adela nodded.
Dr. Velice touched a control on the headboard and the bed smoothly came to an upright position. Adela took the offered juice in both shaking hands, grateful that it was in a lidded container with a straw instead of a glass, and sipped heavily of the cool, refreshing liquid. Fruit juice. As her taste buds jarred to life, she tried to identify the delicious mix of flavors that had been used to disguise the electrolytes and medications designed to both rehydrate and nourish her. The juice was, after all, her first meal in nearly twenty years. She recognized sweet mandarin orange. And strawberry, apple, pineapple and ginju berry.
"Are we home yet?" she asked, her throat already feeling a good deal better.
Dr. Velice was manually taking her pulse. The warm touch of her fingertips on her wrist made Adela suddenly realize she was chilly. She pulled the sheet up around her. Beneath the sheet she wore only a loose-fitting gown that was little more than a nightshirt, and long stockings.
"Almost." Velice finished her reading and entered the information into a keyed notepad. "Here, let me take that," she said, reaching for the empty juice container. "We're still eight weeks out from Luna, so you'll have a b
it of time to reorient yourself before we arrive."
And I've got a lot to catch up on, she told herself. Feeling wide awake now, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and was about to begin asking an endless stream of questions when a white-coated figure, the same man who was in the room when she first stirred, leaned through the open doorway. Thinking more clearly now than she had when she first saw him, she recognized him from earlier in the mission.
"You were right, Kinsey," he said to Dr. Velice when he saw Adela sitting up. "She is ready to hop out and get back to work. Hello, Dr. Montgarde. Good to have you back with us."
"Dr…" She searched her memory, quickly finding the elusive name. "Dr. Sumatsu, hello." She smiled and, firmly grasping the edge of the bed with both hands, slid carefully to the cold floor. With no expectation of trusting her legs to hold her up, she was pleasantly surprised to see how steady she was so soon after coming out of the tank. "What was in that juice?"
"It's an improvement on what we've been using for years. We caught up with an outgoing transmission from Luna with the medical specs on the formula when we were still eleven years out. Good stuff, huh?"
Adela had to agree that it was. She tentatively let go of the bed and stretched fully, then bent over and touched her toes. The movement felt good; there was only a little stiffness left in her joints. "Listen, don't think that I'm not enjoying the plush surroundings," she said jokingly, indicating the spartan room, "but when can I get out of here?"
The recording she now watched had not been intended for her, but had been forwarded to her at Javas' request. The report had been sent to him by the science team at the test site many light-years from Earth, using the tachyon burst transmitter. She shook her head in awe at the marvelous efficiency of the device, and realized she would be able to actually be an active part of the current series of experiments from Sol system by using it. Originally she had planned to travel to the test site herself to take part, and she was grateful that many years of travel time could be avoided. More importantly, she could gain valuable lead time for the project. As it was, reports and recordings received instantly on Luna arrived on the starship as fast as conventional communications could relay them, with each batch arriving slightly sooner than the previous one due to their dwindling distance from home. The Levant was still two weeks out, and hence this report was slightly more than two weeks old, but Adela was ecstatic that she was able to get them this "fresh" at all.