Beyond Varallan

by S. L. Viehl

  I gave him an abbreviated report on the child’s condition. “She is so young,” he said, then gave me a thoughtful look. “You are blaming yourself for this.”

  Another annoying thing about Jorenians. They were incredibly perceptive. “Not really,” I lied.

  He didn’t buy that. “The ship was not under fire when this happened, Cherijo. There have been no League vessels within a light-year of our position since our last transition.”

  “A mercenary vessel—”

  “Would still show up on our perimeter scanners,” he said.

  “All right.” I scowled at him. “It wasn’t my fault.” I didn’t say this time, but Xonea picked up on that as well.

  “Cherijo. You must release Kao to his journey.” Easier said. “We did that, Xonea. Remember? I gave part of the eulogy.” I had nearly cracked into a heap of small pieces doing it, too.

  One big hand settled on my shoulder. “We sent his body to the embrace of the stars. Yet his memory remains with you.”

  “I’ll never forget him.” What was wrong with his memory? It was all I had left. The stars weren’t getting it.

  “No.” Xonea’s hand tightened, then drew away. “I do not believe you will.” He made a graceful gesture that was the Jorenian equivalent to shaking his finger in my face. “Only know, Healer, you cannot walk two paths.”

  Jorenian journey philosophy was full of little gems like that. “You cannot walk two paths” (make up your mind); “select the journey to complement your destination” (make up your mind and decide where you want to go); and the ever-popular “a wise traveler knows his direction” (do you even know where you’re going, stupid?).

  What else could be expected from a species whose idea of a good time was to travel a thousand light-years? For no particular reason, either. The mood hit them and wham!, they were firing up a stardrive.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll stick to one path, Xonea.”

  “You are my worry.” Xonea gave me a chiding look. “I remain your ClanBrother, Cherijo.”

  In the usual Jorenian roundabout way, he was saying I didn’t have to be so touchy, and I wasn’t alone. “Thanks.”

  He glanced back through the viewer at Fasala. “What made those wounds on her?”

  “One of the educators claimed a buffer shattered on level fourteen. I know, I know.” I stopped him with my hand before I got another lecture on astroengineering. “The adaptable sonic alloy can’t be breached or smashed.” I thrummed my fingers on the surface of the desk. “Xonea, we spent a good hour picking pieces of this indestructible buffer out of those three patients. What is going on?”

  Xonea regarded me steadily. “A buffer does not simply collapse. It never shatters.”

  Even the laws of science bent, on occasion. “If the hull panel was breached, why didn’t the buffer explode outward, into space?” I asked.

  “The buffer would contract and reform. Any weakness would be immediately arrested by the self-restorative nature of the alloy. Here, I will show you.”

  Xonea used Tonetka’s display to key up a component schematic on the alloy, then programmed it to display the buffer under breach conditions. The simulation resembled something trying to make a hole in a thin sheet of water.

  One long blue finger pointed to the screen. “See how the weak point is drawn inward at once? The expanse closes in upon itself. No alloy material is separated or lost. Nothing may penetrate the buffer thus.” He advanced the simulation, and showed me how the buffer instantaneously reformed over whatever had tried to make a hole in it.

  “Wouldn’t a breach cause at least some of the alloy to detach?”

  “No. Sonic-based alloy bonds at the subatomic level. Nothing can separate it except—”

  I remembered the term Roelm had used. “A harmonicutter?”

  “Yes.”

  My fears about the mercenaries resurfaced at once. “What about a sonic-based weapon?”

  “There are none in existence, to my knowledge.” Xonea collected weapons, so he’d know that. “Harmonicutters require tremendous power to operate, more than any star vessel could generate alone. It would require planetary resources. The buffer did not shatter.”

  We weren’t anywhere near a planet. So it hadn’t been a League attack. “I personally removed fourteen containers of that stuff from Fasala’s wounds. Believe me, Xonea, you lost a good-sized chunk of your impervious alloy today.” He straightened and made a gesture of frustration. “Yeah, I know exactly how you feel.”

  I studied my friend’s face. At that moment, his resemblance to the man I’d loved had never been more acute. Soften the chin, add a few laugh lines, and he could have been Kao’s twin. If only . . . no, I wouldn’t do this. Kao was dead.

  “Caution,” Ndo’s voice said from the console panel. “Transition in fifteen minutes.”

  “I have to see to the patients.” I rose to my feet, and his hand reached out to catch mine.

  “Cherijo, I would speak to you further.” His fingers skimmed up my arm, briefly touched my cheek. An affectionate gesture between Jorenian siblings, one he made often. “What say you meet me at my quarters later?”

  His quarters? With the way I felt right now, thinking about Kao, missing Kao, wishing Xonea was Kao? “Maybe.” Over my dead body.

  “I will see you then.”

  I hurried past him. Later was a flexible word. It could mean hours. Or days. Or months.

  When Captain Pnor relocated the ship from one spacial dimension to another, the transitional effect created stress. Stress some of our patients, like Fasala and Hado, didn’t need. I joined the residents and nursing staff as we raced to prepare our more fragile cases. Once that was done, I strapped myself in next to Fasala’s berth as an extra precaution.

  I never liked transition. The first time I’d gone through it, a League ship had disrupted the flightshield. The Sunlace’s altered molecular structure had allowed them to momentarily focus a containment beam around me. They’d tried to pull me out as the ship transitioned. Luckily, the attempt had failed.

  Unfortunately the resulting strain had caused me to suffer a cerebral seizure and two consecutive myocardial infarctions. Not an experience I cared to repeat. I closed my eyes as the colors and shapes around me began to run together.

  A moment later, we were clear. I went first to Fasala, who emerged from sleep suspension with no ill effects. My hands stopped shaking almost at once. Neither Darea or Salo commented on the fact I had bitten my lower lip hard enough to make it bleed.

  “Doctor,” Squilyp called from Roelm Torin’s berth. The big Jorenian thrashed wildly under the Omorr’s restraining grip. “He was trying to release the support braces harness again,” the surgical resident said when I got there.

  I grabbed one big arm and hung on. “Did you ask him what’s wrong?” He gave me the usual haughty glare. “Oh, for crying out loud, Squilyp. You have to talk to them sometimes! Roelm?” When I could get it close enough, I ran my scanner over him. “What is it? Are you in pain?”

  “The stardrive!” Roelm’s eyes bulged as he grabbed at my sleeve and came close to breaking my arm. “There is something wrong with the transductors! I could hear it as we transitioned!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two Sides of Wanting

  Squilyp hopped off in disgust while I took care of our frantic mechanic. Intimidation and a mild tranquilizer worked just fine. Still, I’d never seen anyone work up to a near-seizure over something that was—what? An engine rattle?

  The drug calmed Roelm. So did my threats to put him into sleep suspension. He agreed to my suggestion and let me relay a message for him to the S.O.

  From Ndo’s reaction when he got my signal, I gathered the way the stardrive rattled was fairly important.

  Ndo dispatched an entire engineering crew to check out Roelm’s claim, then had me set up a terminal by the Engineer’s berth. Relays flew fast and furious between Medical and Operational. Only the threat of plasteel restraints kept Roelm from tearing off h
is suspension harness and going down to inspect the engines personally.

  The remainder of my shift was filled with the usual duties. I supervised the residents. Ignored the Omorr’s irritating sneers and patent condescension. Gave orders to the nurses as they made the daily evaluations. Thought up unique excuses, should Xonea press the “stop by my place” issue. Performed afternoon rounds.

  As she was improving, I updated Fasala’s condition from critical to serious. She woke up once, and I removed the dermal regenerators for a few minutes so her ClanParents could each give her a careful embrace.

  “She is always so impatient to explore,” Darea said to me as her hand smoothed Fasala’s tangled black hair back from her small brow.

  “Ring . . .” Fasala, who had fallen back asleep, muttered under her breath. “Ring . . . light . . .”

  “What is this ring and light?” Salo asked.

  “Probably nothing.” I scanned the child and made a chart notation. “She’s talking in her sleep.”

  “Fasala has an abundant imagination,” Darea said, and straightened the pillow beneath the small head. “Her enthusiasm to explore springs from that, I fear.”

  “She needs to temper such enthusiasm,” her ClanFather said. Salo Torin worked on the Command level as the Senior Communications Officer. Like Xonea, he also wore the warrior’s knot that symbolized combat experience. Both men, according to Tonetka, had served together during several Varallan conflicts. Despite the tough appearance, I suspected this quiet man was as shaken up over Fasala’s injuries as Darea.

  Squilyp bounced by the berth and stopped when he saw me working on Fasala’s chart. He got there in time to hear the last part of our conversation.

  “An extended interval of discipline will do much to curb her inappropriate behavior,” the Omorr said. “Punishment often discourages children from repeating thoughtless acts.”

  I saw the identical reactions of Fasala’s ClanParents as they swung around, and shook my head sadly.

  Squilyp, Squilyp. This was not going to be pretty.

  “You speak of punishment? With my ClanDaughter here as she is?” Darea rose, every muscle on her substantial frame tensed. An assistant in the subexecutive level, she hardly resembled an administrator now. If there had been a pointy object within her reach, Squilyp would have had it sticking out of some part of his body.

  “Omorr.” Salo took a step toward the resident. His six-fingered hands knotted into very large, resident-flattening fists. My vocollar didn’t translate the rest of what he said, much to my secret disappointment. Squilyp’s gildrells twitched and he backed off a good meter. Fasala’s ClanFather smiled.

  I was enjoying this a little too much, I thought. Time to break it up before we finished with Omorr smeared all over the decking.

  “Okay, Mom, Dad.” I stepped between them and the intended victim. Jorenians were wonderfully nonviolent beings, except when someone threatened their kin. Then they made the Hsktskt look like League Armistice Envoys. “Calm down.” I looked over at Squilyp. His derma was turning as white as his gildrells. “Resident, go check on those patients at the far end of the ward.”

  “I just examined those patients.”

  This was the thanks I got for saving his miserable hide? “Do it now, Squilyp, or you’ll end up in surgery as a patient.” I even gave him a push with one hand to start him hopping.

  “Squilyp needs a refresher course on Jorenian HouseClan protocol,” I said to Salo and Darea. “I’ll schedule him for one as soon he untangles his foot from his gildrells.”

  My little joke didn’t make a dent in the thick aura of anger emanating from Fasala’s ClanParents. They eyed each other, with that silent form of communication Jorenian bondmates lovingly shared. Only now it seemed much more ominous.

  “Darea, Salo,” I said, and my sharp tone got their attention. “He’s insensitive and ignorant, but he’s not a threat to Fasala. Stop it.”

  All those bunched blue muscles relaxed a degree. Darea glanced at her ClanDaughter. That gave me an idea.

  “Concentrate on your child. She needs to be lo—” I hastily recalled there was no such word as love in their language. “She needs both of you.”

  I took a cautious step, placed my hand on Fasala’s brow, hoping to draw their attention away from the Omorr.

  “Salo, would you lift her for me?” I asked. “I want to change her bedding. Good. When we’ve done that, Darea can help me put the dermal regenerators back on line.”

  The nurses and I kept the couple busy for the next half hour, while their tempers cooled down. Their stares at Squilyp, however, remained lethal.

  Tonetka came into Medical to relieve me. I could have kissed her. Between Roelm’s ceaseless agitation over the engines and Fasala’s parents being prepared to jump Squilyp at any moment, my nerves were frayed. I updated her on each case, and we examined the child together. She ordered the Omorr go off duty a half-shift early and compose a formal apology to Darea and Salo, then asked me to join her in her office.

  “I spoke to Pnor about the buffer. He agreed with Roelm that it could not be breached so,” the Senior Healer said as she sat down at her desk. “You can imagine his surprise when the Environment Operations Station reported extracting over a kilo of buffer alloy from our containers.”

  “So the educators were right.” Xonea wasn’t going to be happy to hear that.

  “The site has been closely inspected. There was no hull breach or plate damage. The buffer is intact. It is as if it never happened.”

  I described Roelm’s wild reaction after transition, and she decided to have the Captain interview the engine designer personally.

  “I have little knowledge of engine design or tolerance.

  Pnor will sort this out.” Tonetka completed her notes. “Now, regarding your upcoming sojourn.” She handed me a data pad. “Here is a list of your assigned objectives.”

  My first diplomatic mission. Lovely. “Couldn’t you send Squilyp to Ness-whatever instead of me?”

  “NessNevat.” She made an impatient gesture. “Squilyp has created enough difficulties at present. He stays here.”

  “Okay.” I watched her smother a yawn. “Want me to stick around for a while?”

  “No, I am well,” Tonetka said, then sighed. “I look forward to returning to Joren. I can think of nothing better than basking in the radiance of our sun, and compelling my mate to cook for me.”

  “Sounds great,” I said. “Maybe I’ll join you.”

  The Senior Healer snorted. “I do not care for the warmth of mercenary pulse fire.”

  The careless remark stung, but I only sighed. If I wasn’t the most wanted being in the galaxy, I certainly took second place. “Good choice.”

  “Forgive me.” Tonetka made an embarrassed gesture. “I did not think before I spoke, Cherijo.”

  “It’s okay. Besides, even if I left the ship with you, I’d have to eventually find another job.”

  A nurse signaled from the ward and indicated that Roelm wished to speak with Tonetka.

  “Now that gives me an idea,” I said, and grinned. “Maybe I’ll find a new vocation. Something like . . . basket weaving.”

  “I would not consult Roelm Torin about your proposal,” Tonetka said. “His pressures would remain permanently in the red range.”

  Jenner woke me early the next morning, the usual way. Fifteen pounds of Terran Tibetan temple cat landed on my chest. I opened my eyes and got the Imperial Glare.

  “Hungry, Your Majesty?”

  Jenner’s silver fur rippled as he drew himself up and thumped his haunches down on my rib cage. I could almost hear his disgusted thoughts. After nine years of training you, you still have to ask?

  “All right, all right.” I made him his breakfast and a server of tea for me. Once he’d wolfed down his portion, my pet padded off to find a comfortable perch. “Hey, don’t wreck my favorite chair.”

  Jenner ignored me and jumped up on it. Was your favorite chair. It’s mine now. He
began kneading the cushion with his paws, preparing for the first of his hundred or so daily naps.

  “Don’t push your luck, pal,” I said. “I’ll make you take a feline exercise program. You’re getting fat, you know.”

  His large blue eyes became indignant slits. It’s not fat, it’s muscle.

  “I see you . . . running laps around a track.” I grinned.

  “Being chased by Terran hounds.”

  I got my chair back.

  After a light meal, I dressed and I headed out for the launch bay. I still got lost in the spiraling turns of the vessel’s expansive twenty-eight levels. Some crew member always found me and sent me in the right direction. They treated me the same way they would a little kid. It was understandable. I was roughly the same size as Fasala Torin.

  Fasala. She had come close to being cut to pieces. What had happened to make that buffer explode?

  I kept mulling over the possibilities throughout my shift that day. Still lost in thought as I came off duty, I turned to enter the gyrlift, and walked into the only other Terran on board the Sunlace. Startled, I backed into a corridor panel and bumped my head.

  “Reever!” Automatically I rubbed the sore spot on my skull. “That’s it. I’m going to strap a proximity alert beacon on you.”

  “Perhaps you should wear the device.” His voice sounded as bland as his expression. “Your lack of attention invariably causes such incidents.”

  Tall, fair-haired Duncan Reever was a handsome specimen of Terran male, if you skipped the unemotional face and cold eyes. As usual, he was wearing uninspiring black garments. In one hand he carried the portable database unit he was upgrading to allow our vocollars to continue to function away from the Sunlace.

  Reever, who had been K-2’s Chief Linguist, had come on board the Sunlace after my rescue. He’d offered his services to Captain Pnor in exchange for transport to the Varallan Quadrant. Since he was a telepathic linguist, and knew or could learn every language of every species the Sunlace might encounter, Pnor had welcomed him with open arms.