by S. L. Viehl
“He means you were in my brain,” I said to Reever in a stage whisper. The meds were making me goofy.
“Activity in the hypothalamus rose dramatically. You began relaying impulses back and forth. Axon terminals at synapses and neuroaffector junctions subsequently increased production by a factor of ten. Acetylcholine, norepinephrine, and gamma-aminobutyric levels went immediately into red range.”
“You found the memories just where Squilyp said they’d be,” I said. “Triggering the memories released too many chemical transmitters. My central nervous system overloaded.”
“Why is she not in a coma?” Reever asked the Omorr.
“I don’t know,” he replied as he shone an optic light in my eyes. I scowled and tried not to blink. “Perhaps because there were synthetic amounts of both AChE and COMT bombarding the hypothalamus.”
“What?” That cleared some of the valeumine fog from my brain. “You shot me up with artificial enzymes?”
Squilyp snapped off the light and helped me sit up. “No, Doctor, I did not. Linguist Reever is not the only person interested in stimulating your synapses. The enzymes were released shortly after Reever initiated the cortical coupling. I located two dormant pockets of the same in your upper digestive tract.”
“Time-released neurotransmitters.” I held my now-aching head with both hands. “This gets more weird by the minute.”
“What does that mean?” Reever demanded.
I gave him a weary smile. “It means someone dosed me with enzymes that artificially stimulate my brain.” Which explained all the unexpected mood changes I’d been experiencing. No wonder I’d been so hot and edgy all the time.
“I want them neutralized, Squilyp.”
The resident nodded. “I will run a full hematological series, then administer the proper counteragent.”
Reever helped me down from the exam table. That was when Xonea burst into the Medical Bay, thrusting staffers out of his way as he headed straight for us.
Xonea, who’d wanted to protect me. Who’d Chosen me. I’d refused him. Angered him.
Just as I’d refused and angered the one in my dreams.
“Duncan?” I pulled half a dozen hookups from my head. Adrenalin surged in my veins, counteracting the tranquilizer. “Go out through the emergency panel. Now.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him around the platform.
“Cherijo!” The commanding tone halted us both in our tracks.
I turned around slowly. “Xonea.”
“You allowed him to violate you.” My ClanBrother’s black hair streamed wildly down his back. He carried one of the multibladed swords from the display in his quarters in one of his huge fists. From the look on his face, he meant to use it.
“Reever.” I didn’t take my eyes off the enraged Jorenian. “Get out of here. Find some help.”
Only one person could stop two-hundred kilos of rampaging, homicidal Jorenian male. His Chosen. Unfortunately, that was me.
The Omorr hopped between me and the huge Jorenian pilot. Squilyp faced slow death by dismemberment, just to shield me and give Reever time to escape. I’d have to give him a raise, if any of us survived this.
My resident appeared very calm. “May I help you, Pilot Torin?”
“Yes.” He raised the fan-shaped blades and leveled the tips at the Omorr’s thorax. “Remove yourself from my path.”
I glanced behind me to make sure Reever was gone. He was. “Get out of the way, Squilyp.” The Omorr looked back at me. His gildrells were stiff and bristling. “It’s okay. Call Ship’s Operational. Ask them to send someone up here.” Not that they’d be able to do much. Maybe assist in scraping up my remains off the deck.
“She’s been badly injured and is still recovering,” Squilyp said to Xonea. “If you even attempt to harm her, I will challenge you, here and now.”
Xonea nodded once. The Omorr reluctantly hopped out of the way. Now I faced the consequences. I never expected it would be carrying a sword with seven—no, eight—blades on it.
“Problem, ClanBrother?” I asked.
Xonea looked around me. The lines around his nose tightened. “So the coward has fled.” A flicker of pain crossed his face for a mere second, then was gone.
“I assume you’re referring to Linguist Reever. Yes, he’s gone. What’s this for?” I waved a hand at the sword. “You want to hack me up with that thing?”
“I defend my ClanSister,” Xonea said with a distinct snarl.
“Reever wasn’t hurting me, Xonea,” I said. The meds kicked in unexpectedly, and a thick fog muddled my senses. What timing. “Uh, before you kill me . . . would you mind . . . ”
“Cherijo!” The sword dropped from his hand and clattered on the deck. I stumbled back against the exam table. Strong blue hands caught me, lifted me.
Squilyp was there in an instant. He began another vitals scan. “BP and heart rate are too low. Doctor, you must rest now.” He gave Xonea a look that said this was all his fault.
“Good idea.” My fingers curled under Xonea’s. I was too tired to fight him anymore. Let him do whatever he wanted to me. I’d sleep through the whole unpleasant experience.
“Once the drug wears off—” the Omorr began to say, and Xonea cut him off with a growl.
“She has been drugged? Again?”
I listened as the Omorr explained the aftereffects of the link. Everything seemed to be dwindling down into a long, dark tunnel.
“Did he touch her? Did he harm her?”
“I would never harm her.” That was Reever.
My eyelids agreed to open one last time. Duncan and Dhreen were at the door panel behind Xonea. So were about twenty of the crew. Reever had brought the whole cavalry. Captain Pnor stepped up beside Duncan when Xonea swiveled.
“Xonea?” He studied his ClanNephew’s face. “Explain how you knew the Senior Healer and Linguist Reever were here performing this cerebral connection. Why you came here armed.”
Pnor was trying to make him repeat the threat, I realized, so ClanKill could be declared. Xonea’s sword was kicked somewhere out of the way; I heard it slide across the deck.
“No. I will not explain.” Xonea released my hand and stepped toward Pnor. “That is a matter of honor.”
Pnor seemed deeply disgusted. “I dislike being manipulated.” He turned and made an efficient gesture. Three huge Jorenians approached Xonea, took positions on either side and behind him. No one touched anyone else. Jorenians were like that. Without another word the four exited the Medical Bay.
The Captain came to me. “Senior Healer, I regret this.”
“Talk to him, Pnor,” I said, my voice slurred. I couldn’t stop yawning. “Something is wrong with this. With him.”
“Linguist Reever tells me you could not identify the killer.”
I shook my head. “Tried. Couldn’t . . .”
The Captain pulled a coverlet over me and tucked me in like a child. “Rest. We will talk soon.” He disappeared.
“Squilyp?”
The surgical resident came to my berth. “Yes, Doctor?”
“Administer . . . stimulate . . . four hours.”
“But, Doctor—”
“Just . . . do it . . . Squid Lips.” I smiled, and fell asleep.
I didn’t dream—the drugs prevented that—but simply slept the deep, serene slumber of childhood. It was wonderful. My over-taxed body and confused mind were happy to shut up and leave me alone.
I woke up when the Omorr dutifully administered an amphetamine. Artificial vitality sizzled in my veins as I sat up and threw aside the cover. Squilyp made a disapproving noise as he began to strip the monitor portals from me.
“I dislike stimulating your norepinephrine levels,” he said. “Especially after the incident during the cortical coupling.”
“You have another cure for complete exhaustion?” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Did you determine how much was introduced to my system?”
“Enough to kill you several times over, had it not been sep
arated and encapsulized. I neutralized both while you were unconscious.”
“Good, then I can get out of here, right?”
He ignored the question and began scanning me. “Any anxiety?”
“Just the normal amount,” I replied. Actually, I was worried about Xonea. Something about the confrontation with him didn’t make sense. He’d seemed out of control, completely irrational. I defend my ClanSister, he’d said. Could he have been following instinct, rather than reason? Acting exactly like any other, rather overprotective Jorenian big brother kicked into overdrive?
“Delusions?”
“Of grandeur? Probably. Otherwise, no.”
The Omorr persisted. “Hallucinations? Tremors?”
“No, Mommy,” I said. “Can I go and play now?”
Squilyp put down his scanner with a decided thump. “I’d like to be your parent. I’d restrict you to your quarters for another month.” He removed the last of the hookups and helped me down from the exam table. “Xonea has been placed in detention.”
“Has Pnor formally charged him with anything?”
“I don’t know.”
I’d have to speak with the Captain, but that could wait. “Where is Reever?”
“Linguist Reever left two hours ago, but did not indicate his destination.” The Omorr fussed over me, straightening my tunic, checking my eyes again. “You seem to have recovered. If you experience sudden mood changes, dizziness, or any other odd sensations, report back here at once.”
“Yes, sir.” I touched his membranes. “Thanks, Squilyp.”
“For enticing me to commit malpractice? Save your gratitude, Doctor.” He sounded brusque and embarrassed, which made me want to hug him. “Go now, before I am tempted to confine you to a berth.”
I left Medical and went looking for Reever.
The best method of determining the location of a crew member on the Sunlace was by accessing the vocollar transmitter. Each device had an autonomous frequency. By tracking that particular signal, you could pinpoint someone’s whereabouts.
The problem was Reever wouldn’t wear a vocollar. A man who spoke a ka-zillion languages didn’t have to. I started at his quarters and worked from there. It took some time. Most of the crew tried to be helpful. Many of them wanted to thank me for my efforts during the last attack. One of them, the ClanMother who had attacked me on level six, actually apologized.
“Your pardon, Senior Healer.” She made a gesture of supreme embarrassment. “I saw only my ClanSon’s injuries. Only later was I told how you saved him and the other children from sharing Tonetka’s path. I thank the Mother that you came to us.”
“Your ClanSon should have never been hurt in the first place,” I said. “That was my fault.”
She gave me an odd look. “And if it were mine? What say you if these mercenaries pursued not you, but me? Or my bondmate? Would you wish us to leave the ship?”
I frowned. “Of course not.”
“You would protect us, would you not?” She smiled. “As you protected the children. As we will protect you, ClanCousin. No one may divide the House.”
That gave me something to think about for the next eleven levels.
Eventually someone told me they’d seen Reever heading into environome six. When I got there, the entrance was secured. There was a program in progress, I saw, and frowned. It wasn’t as if I could knock, I thought, and accessed the door panel circuits. My inept fiddling quickly shorted out the locking mechanism, and the door panel slid open.
Just wait until someone gave me a hard time about my lack of tech ability next time, I thought, and walked in.
I was standing in a Trauma Assessment center. There were dozens of patients waiting to be seen. Behind the main display, a towering, vermillion, insectile form sorted through charts and rapped furiously on a touchpad.
“T’Nliqinara?”
I stepped back until my shoulders hit the simulated wall of the FreeClinic on Kevarzangia Two. Two humans strolled past me and never noticed. One of them was Duncan Reever.
The other one was me.
“Another altercation with Dr. Mayer?” Reever asked my duplicate.
“You could call it that,” she replied. She looked grumpy.
Sounded grumpy. I didn’t act like that. Did I? Her exotic eyes narrowed as she glanced at him. “Were you listening at the door?”
“It wasn’t necessary. Both of your voices carry quite well.” Reever halted. “Pause reenactment sequence.” The environome’s imaging systems stopped the simulation. Everyone froze. “Return to last inquiry by Doctor Grey Veil.” The program ran backward for a moment, then restarted.
“You could call it that,” the other Cherijo repeated. Same tone, same sideways glance. I studied her. My nose wasn’t that beaky looking. Was it? “Were you listening at the door?”
“No,” Reever said. “I needed to speak with you. May I—”
My twin ignored him and walked away to speak to T’Nliqinara at the Assessment desk. Reever stood there, looking as frustrated as I’d ever seen him.
So this was when he showed emotions. When my back was turned.
My double returned at last. “Okay, Chief Linguist, I can give you exactly one minute,” she said as she picked up a stack of charts. Oh, give me a break. What was he using to project this? A pompous ass imager? “What do you want?”
“Yes, Chief Linguist,” I said. “Just what exactly do you want?”
Reever whirled around. His usual bland mask cracked as his jaw sprang open in stunned disbelief. My arms crossed as I stared back at him.
“Terminate program,” he said. The other Cherijo and the K-2 FreeClinic vanished. “I secured that door panel.”
“I overrode your security code,” I lied. Well, I had, sort of. “Mind telling me what this is all about, Reever?”
“It is an exercise to practice human behavior.”
“Uh-huh.” I walked over and made a circle around him. “You look pretty human to me.”
“Your invasion of my privacy is inappropriate.”
“I’m not feeling too fond of you myself right now, either.” I planted myself in front of him. “Why the simulation, Reever? After all, you’ve got the living, breathing version of Doctor Grey Veil on this ship. God knows you’re not the sentimental type.”
“As I told you, practice.” He went to the display, tapped a few keys. “Access Reenactment Sequence R-1.” I saw a vid of the Trading Center on K-2. I was walking with Ana Hansen. Reever was sitting just outside Cafe Lisette.
“That’s the first time we met.”
He nodded. “I have successfully resolved the conflict during this encounter. Instead of questioning you about your genetic heritage, I make general, nonintrusive comments and offered you a welcome to the colony. Your simulated reaction was much more favorable.”
“Nice to know it worked out for you.”
“Access Reenactment Sequence R-2.” Now a vid of my encounter with Reever outside William Mayer’s office was displayed. “Here you were quite upset after arguing with the Chief of Staff. Rather than making what you may have considered at the time provocative remarks, I offered my services as a sympathetic confidant.”
“Let me guess—my simulation cried all over your shoulder.”
“Actually, we shared a brief meal interval and had a pleasant conversation. Later, after Karas died, you came to my quarters.”
“Right.” I reached over and terminated the access. I didn’t want to know what else he had been doing with my simulation. Especially in his quarters. “Reever, do you know why I left Terra?”
“You discovered the illegal activities Joseph Grey Veil was involved with—”
“And I didn’t want to be an experiment anymore.” I swung a hand at the imager console. “Sound familiar?”
He had the good sense to look faintly guilty.
I took pity on him. “You can’t go back and fix the past, Reever. You have to live with your mistakes, and move on.” A painful lesson
I’d only just learned myself.
“As I have indicated, I am merely practicing methods of successful conflict resolution.”
He had a lot to learn about his own species, but this wasn’t the way to do it. “Duncan, being human means making mistakes. There is no perfect encounter, no ideal conversation. We don’t get to practice. Part of the process is messing up and learning from that.” I eyed the display.
“Have you programmed a reenactment of every interactive problem in your past?”
“No. Only those encounters which involved you.”
I never got to ask why—the environome display emitted an emergency signal.
“Senior Healer, Linguist Reever. Report to launch bay, level eighteen. Disabled Furinac transport vessel is being retrieved. Expect casualties.”
“Good thing we’re close,” I said as we hurried out of the environome. I grabbed his sleeve. “This conversation isn’t finished, Duncan.”
“I did not expect it would be.”
Our path intersected with the medical team on the way to the retrieval. I ripped off my bandages and took one of the emergency packs.
Iolna looked startled. “Senior Healer, are you certain—”
I waved my mostly healed hand at her. “See? It’s a miracle. Let’s move.”
The launch bay on level eighteen was still being repaired from damages acquired during the last attack. In spite of this, Ship’s Operational had managed to send out two launches. They were now towing the crippled transport in to the landing pad. Hundreds of tiny craters scored the Furinac vessel’s hull plates.
“Displacer fire?” I wondered out loud as we waited for clearance to approach. Engineers in protective gear were already crawling over the ship, scanning for dangerous radiation leakage. Had the League taken a shot at the Furinac, too?
“Meteor swarm,” someone said. “Must have flown directly into it.”
The Furinac had barely made it out alive, from the look of the transport. I counted three cracks in the hull that looked deep enough to compromise the internal compartments. One of the engines was so badly battered it was literally hanging on by component wiring alone. A gaping hole between the thrusters was all that remained of the stardrive. Cracked viewports also indicated the interior pressure may have been breached.
