Slumping onto an awkward and uncomfortable Myssari seat, Ruslan let Kel’les begin the process of extricating him from his visitor’s sterile suit. He paid little attention, not caring and not helping. Having returned to the excavation site in hopes of encountering revived fellow humans, he had instead been confronted with living but empty bodies. He had no doubt that the dedicated if diffident Wol’daeen and her colleagues would try their utmost to successfully revive some of the other cold-stored humans. It would be a scientific triumph for them if they could do so. But having seen what he had seen and heard what he had heard, he was not sanguine.
As for Cor’rin’s comment, he couldn’t halt the Myssari in their efforts any more than his parting words would prevent the senior scientist and her counterparts from digging into more and more bodies in hopes of finding the means necessary to revive conscious human beings. Failing that, they would seek to extract the means necessary to create new ones. Artificial insemination into an artificial womb would be simple enough. All the Myssari needed was the necessary raw material.
He could at least refuse to help with that. He had agreed to cooperate in a process of cloning; nothing else. The thought of what might be asked of him if Wol’daeen and her team succeeded in extracting viable human eggs from one or more of the frozen non-revivable bodies left him feeling queasier than when he had asked to leave the chamber. He wouldn’t do it. They could force him to cooperate, but he doubted it would come to that. Desirous as they might be of attempting such a procedure, he did not think they would compel his participation. Given his age, any such effort might well fail anyway.
Cloning. Impersonal and distant. Let them stick with that if they insisted on restoring humankind. If they did try to force him to assist with any other procedure, he’d…he’d kill himself.
No, you won’t, he thought tiredly. The drive to survive was more powerful than any abstract sense of ethical outrage. He might resist, but in the end he would probably comply.
He knew himself well enough to know that he was too much of a coward to do otherwise.
6
One did not need to possess Kel’les’s level of expertise and experience in dealing with a live human to see how depressed Ruslan was on the return journey to base. At Cor’rin’s suggestion the driftec detoured to pay a visit to a newly discovered geological phenomenon. The presence of scattered human ruins near the base of the thousand-meter-high waterfall was proof that the spectacular sight had long been appreciated by Treth’s inhabitants. Now the vertiginous panorama was the sole province of a small group of Myssari scientists. Even its undeniable magnificence, however, failed to rouse the disconsolate Ruslan from his bereavement.
The pool of depression in which he felt himself foundering was his own fault, he knew. It had been wrong of him to raise such expectations. To imagine that the Myssari were any more adept than humankind in reviving the long preserved. Such techniques had been little more than theory in his own time. But desperation leads people to take desperate measures. It was difficult to imagine anything more desperate than having oneself voluntarily committed to cryostorage, knowing that the technology for revivification did not exist at the time the process was carried out, and might never.
The exhibition of failure he had just witnessed was proof that never was still now and might well be forever. Better to try to store human personality and memories in a fluxbox than in the fragile, fleshy form in which they originated. Possibly somewhere, on some unknown human-settled world, desperate citizens had tried to do just that. Given his age, he was unlikely to learn whether anyone had ever been successful in such an attempt. Even if they had been, any such effort could only be considered a partial success. The resultant revived individuals might be capable of speech, and remembrance, and conversation. But they would not necessarily be truly human. The warmth that was likely to be missing would be more than physical.
While he appreciated the effort on the part of his Myssari friends to distract and revitalize him, he was glad when they reached the base and he could isolate himself in the small cubby he had been allotted. Alone with his thoughts, he was more attuned to his kind than when in the presence of multiple Myssari, however considerate they might be. Kel’les, for one, could not understand how Ruslan could handle so much solitude. In such a situation a lone Myssari would become mentally unbalanced far more rapidly than any human.
“I talk to myself,” he had once explained to his minder. “I have conversations with myself. I debate with myself.” He remembered smiling. “Sometimes I even win the arguments.”
They did not understand.
The door chimed softly for his attention. Responding to his query, it went transparent on the inside so that he could identify his visitor. A sigh of resignation escaped his lips. It was Kel’les again. That much he expected. Seeing to the human’s health and happiness was the intermet’s responsibility. Despite that, Ruslan would have sent the minder away except that s’he was accompanied by another. Cor’rin was with him. The xenologist had been particularly struck by the human’s despondency. Further flinging his depression in her face would be impolite. Not that he much cared. Not at this point. If he died leaving the Myssari thinking his frequent cynicism and disdain were typical of all humans, so be it. But he liked the young scientist. So he directed the door to admit them.
They had not come to offer additional sympathies. There was no need. Empathy had been proffered all the way from the archeological site back to the base. The xenologist got right to the point.
“We have just received word that Wol’daeen is going to try another double resurrection tomorrow, and we need to know if you wish to attend. An alternative procedure will be employed. We are informed that she has a list of several varying techniques, ranked in order of descending theoretical success.”
He did not stir from the special improvised bed on which he lay. “When she runs one that has real instead of theoretical results, let me know. Otherwise I’d rather not go back there.” Memories of wandering the silent, death-filled streets of Seraboth’s cities rushed through his mind, an unavoidable tsunami of sorrow. The early decades of his life had been spent stepping over or around the dead and decaying. He had no wish to relive those moments now, not even if surrounded by the cool white comfort of advanced Myssari technology.
“What’s the purpose of it all, anyway?” Rising from the edge of the bed, he walked over to a food dispenser. The liquid he called forth took a moment to brew. He credited the Myssari with accepting without question his insistence that he required the periodic ingestion of alcohol to function properly. Taking a too-long draft from the modified fluid container, he regarded his visitors.
“I’ve said it before and this seems a suitable time to say it again, no matter what the Science Sectionary feels. Why put so much effort into bringing back a species that’s responsible for its own extinction?”
“You know why.” Kel’les held his stance as well as his stare. “You have been told repeatedly. The knowledge of and about your kind is important.”
“Why, why? Remind me again.” He took another heady swallow of the drink that had been concocted to his specifications.
“Because all knowledge is important,” Kel’les told him.
“Yeah, right. Lot of good it did my kind.”
“Motivation, right or wrong, exists separate from knowledge.” Cor’rin was unexpectedly forceful. “It is the knowledge that matters, not what motivates the acquiring of it.”
Ruslan grunted, swaying slightly. “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake.”
“If you will,” she shot back. “On one thing, I believe we can agree.”
“What’s that?”
“You are not the most qualified individual to decide on the validity of that conclusion.”
A broad smile creased his face. “Why, Cor’rin, I do believe there are those of your kind who would consider that frank
assessment to be borderline uncivil!”
Kel’les stepped forward. “I am more aware than anyone, including probably yourself, of the effect the too-rapid ingestion of alcohol has on the human system. Already you are having difficulty cogitating clearly.” The intermet turned to the other Mysarri present and, with as much firmness as Ruslan had ever heard from his minder, said, “Please leave now, Cor’rin, in order to deprive our plainly troubled human charge of any opportunity to further embarrass himself.”
She hesitated, then as she turned to leave executed a gesture that managed to convey both compliance and understanding. In a moment she was gone, leaving Kel’les to cope alone with behavior that only further underscored Ruslan’s frequent lamentations regarding human fallibility.
* * *
—
He was unsure what woke him first: the distant mechanical hum that suggested the presence of large machinery operating in an area of the base where it ought not to be present, or the subtle but insistent chiming of the door. Verbally activating the one-way view showed Kel’les standing outside. That the intermet looked more agitated than the human had ever seen motivated Ruslan to swiftly rise from his sleeping platform. Without taking the time to dress, he admitted his handler.
Having viewed it on numerous occasions both in person and via detailed biological schematics, Kel’les paid no attention to the biped’s nakedness. Nor did s’he comment on what to a Myssari would be the difficulty of dressing oneself with only two hands instead of three. S’he had scarcely allowed the door, which automatically opaqued once more, to close before s’he began speaking.
“I hope you are fully recovered both mentally and physically from your physiological diversion of the previous day, as this morning brings with it a potential awkwardness.”
Ruslan frowned as he wrestled a lightweight shirt down over his chest. “What kind of awkwardness? Don’t tell me Wol’daeen insists that I watch another potentially botched revivification?”
Further emphasizing that something out of the ordinary was in prospect, his minder’s responding gesture involved simultaneous movement of all three hands.
“This has nothing to do with Wol’daeen or the human cryostorage facility. The Vrizan are here.”
The vestiges of sleep that were pawing at Ruslan’s thoughts vanished like mist caught in sunlight. “The scout who encountered me is here?”
“Not the scout. Many Vrizan.” Kel’les glanced back in the direction of the doorway. “There was talk by San’dwil and the other base supervisors of spiriting you away, but there was not sufficient time. The Vrizan arrived without notice. Their craft came in using military-grade concealment and revealed itself only when ready to touch down.”
Now fully awake, Ruslan’s mind was awhirl with possibilities, most of them disagreeable. “I don’t understand. Are we under attack?”
“Not overtly, no. At least, so I have been led to believe. No hostile gestures have been made and no weapons have been brandished. Oppositely, those bent on friendly concourse tend not to arrive under cover of military-rated camouflage.” S’he whistled significantly as s’he inhaled. “These are Vrizan, not Myssari. It is difficult to comprehend their reasoning in coming here in such a fashion.”
“Maybe they’re shy.” Sitting on the edge of the sleeping platform, Ruslan eased his feet into the special sandals that had been fashioned for him.
“Whatever else they may be, the Vrizan are not shy.” Kel’les’s tone was reproving.
“You think they’re here after me?”
“Doubtless we will learn their purpose shortly. San’dwil and the others have been theorizing. As you are the most valuable asset at this location, and quite unique, the intent was to move you to a place where your presence could not become an issue. That now cannot be done. Any driftec departing the base would immediately come under scrutiny by the Vrizan.”
“I suppose it’s flattering to know that I’m still considered that important.” He rose from the platform. “I don’t want to be the cause of any fighting.”
Kel’les’s expression, such as was permitted by his less flexible face, did not change. “That decision is not up to you.”
Ruslan’s lips pressed tightly together before he replied. “I see that something else hasn’t changed, either.” He nodded toward the door. “Since I am not the master of my destiny, what happens now?”
“We wait.”
He could only fume quietly while wondering if he would be allowed to hear whatever decisions were being made concerning his welfare or if they would simply be forwarded to Kel’les to convey to him. He might be nominally independent, but he was also property. Of one thing he was certain: the Myssari would not surrender him easily.
Now he was the one hypothesizing. Notwithstanding the Vrizan’s stealth arrival, his alien minders and mentors might be overreacting. The unexpected Vrizan visit might have nothing to do with him.
Via a tiny communicator, Kel’les was listening to words that were not being sent the human’s way. The minder eyed him evenly. “We are to make our way to the central meeting chamber. The Vrizan know you are here. They insist, rather forcefully, on seeing you.”
Ruslan frowned. “Seeing me? That’s all?”
“That is all they have requested. San’dwil has consulted with his aides. It has been decided that under the circumstances, refusing would risk more potential harm than good. Neither the Myssari nor the Vrizan have succeeded in codifying a final claim to Treth. Until ownership has been granted to one or the other, our respective scientific teams must share this world. It is better that this be done on a cordial basis. Also…”
“It would be impolite to refuse, given their insistence that they know I’m here,” Ruslan finished for the intermet.
Kel’les gestured affirmatively. “With the exception of your regrettably inadequate physique, you have acquired all the makings of a good Myssari.”
S’he was trying to be encouraging, Ruslan knew. In return he offered up a smile of his own that was as reassuring as it was fake. As the door opened and they started out, he tried to prepare himself for whatever might come. Somewhat to his surprise he found that it didn’t matter. On the heels of Wol’daeen’s failed efforts to resurrect any of the preserved humans, it seemed that nothing mattered much anymore. Not to him, anyway.
To the Myssari his continued existence among them still mattered very much indeed.
In contrast to the single individual he had encountered under dark and difficult circumstances, the half dozen Vrizan who awaited him in the meeting room were patently of a different standard indeed. In place of the lone scout’s camouflaged field attire, the majority of the visiting aliens were resplendent in silklike garb of some electric-blue material. A few were differentiated from their comrades by garments fashioned from an intense turquoise-hued fabric that shimmered whenever their wearers took a step. The latter also featured a vertical line of rotating gold orbs embedded in the upper left shoulder of their clothing. The optical effect was striking. Despite San’dwil’s change of attire into something more suited to a formal meeting, the duty dress and uniforms of the assembled group of Myssari were dull by comparison.
Daylight defined the external anatomy of the Vrizan sharply. Bipedal, they were basically two conjoined ovoids topped by a severely flattened sphere. Bright eyes glistened at either end of the wide skull. The exceptional multiplicity of joints in their legs was matched by a similar number in their arms. These limbs were not quite human, not quite tentacles. Studying them as they moved, an intrigued Ruslan reflected that a Vrizan snapping its joints would generate a veritable symphony of pops and crackles.
The few gasps that came from them as he entered the room were unsettlingly humanlike.
A Myssari technician was about to pass out translators when one of the taller Vrizan clad in the brilliant turquoise garb stepped forward.
&nbs
p; “Conversational instrumentation will not be necessary. I and several of my colleagues speak Myssarian.”
“Quite well, too.” Grateful of the opportunity to respond with a cost-free compliment, San’dwil advanced to meet his counterpart. The wariness with which he approached was well considered.
“I don’t suppose any of you speak Vrizan?” the visitor added before his host could continue with an official greeting.
San’dwil maintained his poise. “Several of us are fluent in your language. However, the human is not. I am assuming that in addition to seeing him and verifying his existence for yourselves, it would please you to speak to him. Absent translation equipment, this can only be done in Myssarian.”
Startling Ruslan, the Vrizan’s long, narrow mouth parted at opposite ends while the center section remained tightly closed. Even though the lone human in the room could not properly interpret its meaning, from an anatomical standpoint the alien expression was fascinating. Was it the equivalent of a smile? A grimace? Or something unknown?
“When working in the field, all scientists must adapt to the circumstances of the moment,” the Vrizan murmured. This time only one corner of the extended mouth opened. “We will speak in your language.” The widely separated eyes shifted to focus on Ruslan. He met them evenly—or as evenly as he could given their remarkable degree of physical divergence. “How conversant is the…creature?”
Bac’cul spoke up. “Fully fluent. He has resided among us for some time now.” If the Vrizan recognized the scarcely muted pride in the Myssari scientist’s voice, the visitor gave no sign.
“We desire physical contact.” One of the other turquoise-clad visitors was unable to restrain herself. “If only to know for certain that the creature is not a cleverly constructed artifice designed to mock us.”
“I’d think that the scout I encountered who reported my presence would be able to give you confirmation enough of that,” Ruslan told the anxious researcher.
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