by S. L. Viehl
“Could it be some type of plague?” Vlaav asked me, afraid to touch the adolescent Meridae.
“Not according to my scans.” His agitated shuffling was wearing on my nerves. “Get a grip, will you?”
The smell of their bodies took some getting used to, but I found after several hours I no longer noticed it. To deal with the ulcerations, Vlaav and I set up an impromptu aid station and began performing routine examination scans.
I examined the painful raw spots on several young male Meridae, and concluded it was likely due to excessive grooming. They were in their first season, and acting like love-struck teenagers do all across the galaxy. Doing dumb things, trying to impress some desirable but unusually fickle young female. I pointed out the betraying marks left by the comblike bristles, and prescribed an emollient to facilitate healing.
“I’ll leave a supply of it with you,” I said, after I’d treated the last of the males. “It might help if the young lady decides who she wants to mate with. Soon.”
One of the older females chirped, “Preening until they bleed, the young paramours! I’d give my wing to be in first season again.”
“Hush, you will embarrass our visitors,” another female said, and eyed me and Vlaav with obvious pity.
Another one peered behind me, as if to make sure I wasn’t hiding a wing somewhere. “How do you bear being planet-bound?”
They thought we were handicapped. “We’re ground-dwellers,” I told her. “Most of us aren’t born with wings—um, a wing.”
Vlaav finished recording his scan data. “Haven’t you seen other offworlders without wings?”
“No other visitor has ever come to our epicenter,” the older female replied. “The escort teams say it is because they fear they will be dropped. Such ill-bred behavior!”
Glad I hadn’t spoken up back at Transport. The females weren’t done asking questions. On the contrary.
“How do you secure a mate without wing?”
“How can you hunt? Do you remain on the ground always?”
“Does it not hurt the bottoms of your feet?”
In the end I had to promise to leave an in-depth report on ground-dwelling humanoid cultures and physiologies for them to study at their leisure.
While discussing dietary particulars, we discovered the only source of vegetation on Te Abanor grew in the caverns beneath the surface. Apparently all surface flora and topsoil had been eradicated during the volcanic prehistory of the planet.
The caves, however, hosted thousands of plant species and a horde of mammals which fed on them. The Meridae preyed on the smaller mammals, which they caught while combing the network of caverns in organized hunting packs. Their quarry was either consumed on wing, or brought back to the aviaries to be divided.
Vlaav and I politely refused their offer of a meal. It was easy. Vlaav was a vegetarian, and I personally had treated too many types of patients to eat the flesh of anything. Plus my stomach was definitely upset, to the point of knotting with cramps.
What appetite I had disappeared when I learned exactly how and from what the Meridae built the aviary structures.
“Throngs are made up of nonrelated broods, to ensure proper breeding,” I was told. Sensible enough. Over time, inbreeding had destroyed countless species in isolated areas on other worlds. “When a throng reaches capacity, a new throng is initiated, and we collect for a new aviary.”
“Collect what?” I asked.
“The throng members defecate in a clearing until the proper amount of material is accumulated, shaped, and dried.”
Yuck. The structures were nothing more than hardened, sculpted waste. I remembered not to make a face, and surreptitiously scanned for contaminants. I found none; the fecal material was extremely sanitary.
“Would you care to ascend?” one politely offered.
“No, thank you.” Sanitary or not, no way was I going to stand on a pile of dried-up, decades-old Meridae droppings.
Remembering Alunthri’s request that I check into any obscure, artistic expressions I came across, I asked about the Meridae forms of entertainment.
“Let us perform for you,” one throng leader offered. And up they went.
The Meridae danced in the air. Their movements were unbelievably fast, intricately weaving patterns as groups flew up. Soon the sky above us was filled with throngs, floating, diving, winding around each other. Others flocked to join them, until it seemed the sunlight itself would be blocked out by their mass. My neck muscles strained. I couldn’t have cared less.
The crowd above parted, and each Meridae made a brief, personal promenade. Some fluttered slowly, drifting like a feather without aim or purpose. Others tightly spiraled down to the surface, only to swoop up at the last moment and soar into the heights.
The young Meridae were particular geniuses when it came to comical acting. A group of them began making the oddest movements, lurching and jerking, turning their heads, and flapping their chin lappets. I laughed until my sides ached.
Reever stood next to me. He wasn’t laughing, but I could see a flicker of warmth in his eyes.
“That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen a non-Terran do,” I gasped, holding my ribs. “I wonder what they call it?”
A throng member murmured to Reever, who told me, “An Imitation of Our Visitors.”
Vlaav looked indignant. I tried to. It was even funnier, now that I knew where they had gotten their material from. We must have looked pretty strange to the Meridae, with our walking, gesturing, and talking. I burst into laughter again, and the throng member chirped along with me.
The sky had gradually turned from tangerine to crimson as the performers finished their acts and spiraled down to perch on the aviary. Finally there was only one group left in the air, and a noticeable hush fell over the throng.
“Is this the grand finale?” I asked the Meridae next to me.
She stroked one of her face flaps. “You could say that, Healer.”
The group above us arranged themselves in an almost-stationary circle, while two other Meridae occupied the center. One was obviously a female, the other a fledgling with a still-discernible wing wobble.
The little one began circling the female with odd, clumsy movements, which gradually slowed as if the fledgling was exhausted. A male broke out of the circle just as the small Meridae stopped flying. I started to yell just as he caught the child in his forelimbs. The female cradled the fledgling from the other side, and they revolved together. The others moved in, and the entire group huddled together around the trio.
Then it became clear, even to my offworld eyes. The throng comforted the male and female. The fledgling didn’t move.
It was a dance of death.
I touched my stomach. Oh, lump, how am I going to tell him?
“Cherijo.” Reever was there beside me, and slipped his arm around my waist. “You are upset.”
“I’m okay.” I let him lead me a short distance from the others. “Did you tell them what they needed to know about the war? Are they going to get involved?”
“That is not important. What is wrong?”
“I’m just tired. Tell me about your meeting.” Do anything, I thought. Keep me from crying my eyes out in front of these people. Another stitch bit into my side and I gasped, alarmed at how severe it felt.
“What is it? Cherijo!” He caught me before I doubled over, then turned his head to the side. “Dr. Irde!”
Vlaav hurried over, agitation making his nubbly hide pockets swell. “Dr. Torin? What happened? Are you ill?”
Wrenching pressure began to build in my lower abdomen. I knew what it was, but I didn’t want to say it. “Pain. Here.” I grabbed onto Reever. “Duncan, get me—”
That was when one of the Meridae fosterers swooped down, and plucked me up in her talons. I screamed. Felt the desperate hands clutch at me as Reever and Vlaav tried to grab me back. A moment later I was soaring straight up, far from the ground and any hope of help.
“Pl
ease,” I said, trying not to scream. “Please, take me back down … I need …”
“I know what you need,” the female said. “This will help.”
Gravity clawed at me, making the cramps worse. I felt a hot trickle between my thighs that quickly soaked the crotch of my trousers. Lack of oxygen made my eardrums press in and black spots appear before my eyes. My hands and feet went numb.
The baby—
CHAPTER TWO
Separations
I came to on the floor of the launch, with Vlaav hovering over me. I already knew from the rhythmic pains and the blood seeping from between my legs that I was having a miscarriage.
“Duncan?”
“He is taking us back to the Sunlace.” Vlaav eased a folded tunic under my head and adjusted the thermal wrap over me.
I took a couple of deep breaths as the cramping got worse. “What happened?”
“You’re hemorrhaging. We’ll get you to Medical as soon as we arrive.”
I closed my eyes. My baby. “Why did that bat thing grab me?”
“I’m not sure. Apparently it was an attempt at some kind of native medical treatment.” Vlaav ran a scan over my lower abdomen. “Your uterus is contracting and there is placental matter and amniotic fluid in the blood sample I took.” He met my gaze. “I—I’m so sorry, Doctor.”
“Save it.” No tears. Odd, I should have been crying my eyes out. “Give me that scanner.”
I fumbled with the instrument until I could run another series on myself, and confirmed everything Vlaav had said. The pain became a deep, tearing agony that seemed to gouge at my spine from the inside.
“You’re right,” I gasped the words out, and dropped the scanner.
Vlaav gave me a reproachful look. “Of course I was right.”
I controlled my breathing and panted through the next contraction. Coming down off it made me snap at him. “Resident, if you mope every time someone follows up on your work, you’re never going to be happy in this job. Right now I’m having a miscarriage—concentrate on that. You can sulk another time.”
Duncan left the helm as soon as we landed inside the Sunlace‘s launch bay, and lifted me up in his arms.
“Put me down. You’re getting blood all over your tunic,” I said as he carried me out. His arms tightened and he walked faster. “I’m all right, get a gurney.”
“Signal Medical,” he said to Vlaav. “Have them prepare for her.”
His voice had turned positively glacial. Belatedly I realized the Meridae’s “help” must have scared him, too. I reached up and awkwardly touched my husband’s face.
“I’ll be okay, Duncan. But the baby”—my throat tightened—”we’re going to lose the baby.”
“We can have other children.” Now he looked at me, and his eyes were anything but cold. “I will not lose you.”
A team of nurses helped Reever get me on a trauma berth when we reached Medical, and Vlaav and Squilyp took over. I tried to relax as the Omorr performed the necessary pelvic scan, but discomfort and fear made me bite the inside of my cheek. Duncan never let go of my hand, even when Vlaav asked him to.
“Residual fetal tissue?” I asked.
“Placental matter, yes.” The Omorr looked at me over his mask. “No residual fetal tissue detected, Healer.”
We’d talked about what we’d do, Squilyp and I, in a worst-case scenario. This was as bad as it got, and I had no options.
I tried to let go of Reever’s hand. “All right, Squilyp. Get me prepped.”
The Omorr glanced at Reever. “Did you tell him?”
Reever’s hand tightened on mine. “Tell me what?”
In that moment, I could have cheerfully cut Squilyp’s heart out with a blunt probe. “No time like the present, I guess.” I took a deep breath and addressed my husband. “Duncan, things started to go wrong with the baby a few days ago. We tried a couple of drugs to stop it. But … nothing worked.”
His eyes never left mine. “What happens now?”
“Squilyp is going to have to perform a dilatation and curettage on me.” I ignored the small sound the Omorr made. “It has to be done, to prevent infection. I’ll be fine.”
Reever touched my face. “I’ll go in with you.”
“No.” I put my hand over his. “No, you can’t. It won’t be pretty and you know how squeamish you are about surgery.” Before he could say anything else, I closed my eyes. “Please. Please do this for me. Please wait for me in recovery.”
A few minutes later, Squilyp leaned over me as I was being wheeled into the surgical suite. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Don’t worry about me.” The effects of the sedation made me miss him when I swatted at him. “Worry about being perfect, because that’s what I need you to be. Right now.”
The operation went off without a hitch. An hour after it was over, I woke up in recovery, with Duncan at the side of my berth. His coloring looked grayish, and dark half-circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes.
I wasn’t feeling too great myself. “Hey. Haven’t they chased you out of here yet?”
“You’re awake.” He stood up, and signaled for a nurse. “How do you feel?”
“About as good as you look.” I tried to sit up, but some Doctor who was going to get my fist in his gildrells had put me in full limb restraints. “Where’s my chart?”
Squilyp came in, released me, and picked up a syrinpress. “Shall I sedate you now, or will you behave yourself?”
Without a word I held out an arm.
He put the instrument down on a tray table with a thump—Omorr are lousy bluffers—and turned to Reever. “Captain, would you give me a few moments alone with your wife so I can examine her?”
Reever hesitated, then nodded and left the room.
As soon as the door was closed, I tried to sit up again. “Let me up. I’ll do the scans myself.”
“You will stay in that berth and let me scan you, or I will go out there and tell that man exactly what happened in surgery.”
I scowled. “You try, and I’ll spray your face with skin seal.”
“Cherijo.” He heaved a sigh. “At least allow me to perform the postop examination. There is much we have to discuss. Particularly the reasons why you are lying to your husband.”
“I’m not lying. I’m just not volunteering information,” I said through gritted teeth, then relaxed and let him scan me. As the minutes ticked by and he remained silent, I lost my patience. “Well? Did it work? Were there any complications? What happened?”
“It went much the way we anticipated. There are no apparent complications. Your immune system has already begun to heal the damage.” He noted something on my chart, then caught me inching up. “Don’t even contemplate getting out of this berth.”
“Okay.” I dropped back against the pillows. “For now.”
The Omorr sat down beside my berth and took my hand with one of his membranes. Since Squilyp’s people practiced touch-healing, I didn’t object. But he wasn’t interested in healing my physical injuries. “Cherijo, you must tell him.”
“What? What precisely do I tell him? That I’ll never be able to carry a child full-term? That my own body will kill any baby I try to have? That I’m a monster?” Tears streamed down my face. “No, Squilyp. I’m not going to tell him what we’ve done. Not now. Maybe not ever.”
“Very well. I will respect your wishes. My advice remains the same—tell him the truth. He will need time to adjust to the idea.”
I wasn’t going to think about it. I couldn’t. I wiped the back of my hand over my eyes. “Did you determine the gender?”
“Yes. Female.”
I touched my flat belly. “A girl. We had a little girl.” Reever would have loved that.
“Do you want to see—”
“No.” I looked over at the room console. “Signal Xonea. I need to talk to him right away.”
“Why?”
“Just ask him to come down here for a minute. Tell him it
’s HouseClan business.”
Xonea arrived a few minutes after Squilyp sent the signal. Like all Jorenians, my ClanBrother was nearly seven feet tall. His sapphire skin contrasted sharply with his all-white eyes. He wore his Captain’s tunic, and had his long black hair in its customary warrior’s knot.
He made a handsome, if somewhat intimidating, big brother.
After touching my brow with his in an affectionate manner, he sat down beside my berth and took my hands in his. “I cannot rejoice in what has happened, ClanSister.”
Jorenians normally celebrated death, so it was a gesture of sensitivity and understanding I’d never expected from him.
“Xonea, lock the door.” I considered how I was going to phrase my request as he did that. When he sat back down, looking even more worried, I gave him a wan smile. “It’s not that bad.”
“Nothing good ever comes of your securing access panels.”
“I only have one request, and you probably won’t even have to do it. You’re my ClanBrother, the one I trust most to carry out my wishes.”
He knew what I was going to ask then, and got to his feet. “I will speak to the Omorr. There must be more that can be done—”
“Relax, I’m not dying. I’m fine. Sit down.” I waved him back down to his seat. “Xonea, I know HouseClan protocol. I can do this any time. I can invoke it any time.”
“You said you remain on the path.” His troubled white-within-white eyes met mine. “Why do you insist on this now?”
I thought of my premonition of disaster, and shuddered. “Because there are all kinds of separations on the path, ClanBrother.”
“I know I am in trouble when you quote journey philosophy.”
“You’re not in trouble. You’re simply going to be my Speaker.” I sat up a little straighter. “Now, this is what I want you to do.”
Reever and Alunthri came to visit me later that day, but I slept through most of it. When I woke up twelve hours later, I felt as if nothing had happened.
That was exactly how I intended to handle it, too.
While I looked for my clothes, Squilyp hopped in. Omorr have four limbs, but use three like arms. That left one to get around with. My former nemesis did it with a peculiar, dignified sort of bounce I admired.
