Judgment at Proteus q-5

by Timothy Zahn

  A blue-clad Filly gestured to Bayta. {Has the female anything to add?}

  To my mild chagrin, Bayta didn’t wait for Wandek’s translation. “I was unconscious even before Mr. Compton and the others arrived,” she said. “I woke up only after Asantra Muzzfor was already dead.”

  Blue One shifted his eyes back to me, his blaze darkening. {So in other words, we have only Mr. Compton’s word for what happened.}

  “Were there any other witnesses to these events?” Wandek asked.

  “No one who lived through them,” I said, letting a little indignation into my voice. It was time I started getting annoyed at being interrogated like this when I’d merely been doing a Filiaelian santra a favor. “Look, I’m sorry he’s dead, and I honor his memory and all that. But if I’m going to finish the job I’ve started and get on with my life, I need to get back to Ms. German.”

  Once again the Fillies exchanged glances. Blue One looked around, and I caught a small twitch of his ear. “You may go,” Wandek told me. “We may have other questions to ask later. If you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you to Ms. German.”

  “Thanks, but we’ll find her ourselves,” I said, taking Bayta’s arm and backing toward the door. The watchdogs, who’d been standing patiently at my sides, came along with us.

  Wandek’s hand lanced out and again caught my arm. “Forgive us if we sound harsh,” he said. “It was a terrible blow to lose such a close colleague. Naturally, we wish to know all we can about his death.”

  “I understand that,” I said, dialing back on my annoyance. “You’ll forgive me in turn if I’m not in the best mood. It’s highly unpleasant to have come all this way only to be immediately put under arrest for crimes I didn’t commit.”

  “Yes, we heard about that,” Wandek said, letting go of my arm. “If there’s any way we can assist in your defense, please don’t hesitate to call on us.”

  “Thank you,” I said, letting my eyes drift around the group.

  It was like looking at a group of sharks. These Fillies were my enemies, every one of them. They knew who I was, or were ninety percent sure of it. They knew about my war against their ally the Modhri, they knew I was lying about what had happened to Muzzfor, and they wanted to kill me.

  The only thing keeping them from doing exactly that was the small sliver of doubt that I was not, in fact, lying about Muzzfor’s death and how it related to the murders aboard the super-express. If there was another player in this game, someone who had in fact tried to get Terese German away from them, they needed to find out the who and the what and the why. Right now, I was the best source of information that they had.

  But I was only valuable as long as they thought such information might actually exist. The minute they were convinced otherwise, Bayta and I would be in serious trouble.

  We had to make sure we were finished with our own investigation and far from Proteus before that happened.

  Predictably, I suppose, Wandek followed us out of the building. “As a small gesture of gratitude for your time,” he said as we headed toward the building Terese and Aronobal had disappeared into a few minutes ago, “allow me to escort you to Ms. German.”

  “That really isn’t necessary,” I told him. “We saw where she went. We can find our own way.”

  “Of course you can,” Wandek said. “But this way you will not need to deal with questions or forms at the reception desk.”

  We had made it halfway there when Doug suddenly stopped, turned his head, and gave a sharp yip. I was starting to look down to see what the trouble was when there was an answering yip from the distance.

  I turned to look. Near the edge of the dome another watchdog was striding along at the side of a Filly, this one not in simple doctor’s garb but dressed in the usual upper-class set of ancient-Mongolian-style layered tunics. The watchdog was peering across toward us, the Filly himself ignoring us completely.

  I was trying to figure out what another criminal would be doing here, especially such a well-dressed one, when Ty gave a yip of his own. Once again, the other watchdog answered.

  And with that, all three animals went back about their original business. “What was that all about?” I asked Wandek.

  “You mean the greetings?” he asked, gesturing down at the watchdogs.

  “Yes, if that’s what those were.”

  “The sounds function as a greeting and identification between msikai-dorosli,” he explained. “Each burst contains a wide range of ultrasonics unique to that particular animal.”

  “Some kind of jailer-to-jailer code?”

  “That Filiaelian you saw was not a prisoner,” Wandek said, a little stiffly. “Many citizens, even aboard Kuzyatru Station, keep msikai-dorosli as companions.”

  I looked dubiously down at Doug’s non-furry and decidedly non-pettable back. “They’re considered pets?”

  “They’re considered companions,” Wandek repeated, leaning on the word a little. “They can be trained to assist their owner with various tasks.”

  “Like what?” I asked. “Making tea? Calling up the morning mail?”

  “They can perform simple tasks such as fetching objects, particularly for those with post-operative weakness,” Wandek said. “They can also be fitted with harnesses for carrying medium-weight items.”

  I looked down at Doug. I hadn’t considered the possibilities of him as a pack animal. “How much weight can they carry?”

  “Why all the questions?” Wandek asked, frowning. “They’re really very simple animals.”

  “I have a very simple curiosity,” I said. “How much weight?”

  “I don’t know,” Wandek said, a little impatiently. Clearly, he had more important things on his mind right now. “If you really wish to know, you can look them up on the computer in your quarters. Everything there is to know about msikai-dorosli can be found there.”

  We reached the building and went inside. Unlike the Shonkla-raa nest, this one was bustling with activity, with doctors in tan striding purposefully along or holding conversations in corners. Other Fillies in the full range of colored outfits manned desks or pushed carts or joined the doctors in their consultations. I spotted a couple more of the enlarged throats that I’d seen back in the other building with our Gang of Ten, but everyone else seemed normal. Or at least, what passed for normal in this genetics-crazy society.

  A receptionist at one of the desks looked up as we approached. {We’re visiting Terese German,} Wandek said.

  {Room 22, Usantra Wandek,} the Filly said, and gestured us down a side corridor. Midway along it was an open door with half-audible English mutterings emanating from inside. We reached it and went in.

  In the middle of the room was a diagnostic bed similar to the Fibibib models common elsewhere in the galaxy but with some distinctly Filiaelian modifications to its design. Terese was lying on the bed, dressed now in a loose hospital gown, her eyes locked rigidly on the ceiling above her. Three doctors were standing around her, busily hooking up sample-taking equipment, while a blue-clad Filly was seated at an electronic console in one corner. Aronobal was off in a different corner, watching the procedure closely.

  Trying to keep out of everyone’s way, Bayta and I slipped around to Aronobal’s corner. “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “They have begun the preliminary tests,” Aronobal murmured, her eyes never leaving Terese.

  “And then the treatment starts?”

  “Once the tests have been evaluated, yes.”

  I looked at Terese. She was still gazing at the ceiling, her face stony with nervous determination. “What sorts of tests are you running?” I asked.

  “Tests that are none of your freaking business,” Terese bit out before Aronobal could answer. “Can someone throw them out? Please?”

  “Hold still,” one of the other doctors said brusquely.

  I frowned, taking another look at the activity around Terese. There was a hard edge to it all that I hadn’t noticed before.

  I took a step clos
er to Aronobal. “What’s wrong?” I asked quietly.

  She looked sideways at me, then nodded silently toward the door. I nudged Bayta, and together the three of us sidled along the edge of the room and escaped out into the corridor, followed by the watchdogs and Wandek. “Well?” I asked as Aronobal led us a few meters farther away.

  Aronobal looked at Wandek, as if seeking permission to speak, then turned back to me. “The problem is not with Ms. German,” she said, keeping her voice low. “What I mean is that, although she has many physical problems of her own, our immediate concern is with her child. There appears to be some kind of unexpected stress in his heartbeat and brain-wave pattern.”

  I looked at Bayta. Her face looked a little pinched. “How bad is it?” I asked. “Better question: what are they doing about it?”

  “They will begin by taking samples of the fetal tissue and of the fluid in the birth sac,” Aronobal said. “Unfortunately, until this is settled we cannot begin work on Ms. German’s own problems.”

  “Which are what exactly?” I asked. “I’ve never gotten a straight answer on that.”

  Aronobal sighed, a soft whinnying thing. “She has at least four genetic disorders,” she said. “Possibly more—we have not yet done a complete mapping. Any one of the flaws could prove fatal to her over the next thirty years. Together, they are a virtual promise that her life will be cut tragically short.”

  “Can you fix her?”

  “We believe so,” she said. “But our knowledge of Humans and Human genetic structure is still woefully incomplete. That is indeed one reason she was invited to Proteus Station: to see whether we could map her genetic flaws and correct them.”

  “But that’s now on hold?”

  “It is the only safe way,” Aronobal said. “The work on Ms. German is extensive and deep, with the potential to put additional stress on the child. Were he healthy it would be a simple matter of screening out the treatment chemicals and monitoring his condition. But until we know what is causing these other anomalies we cannot risk any action that might precipitate his death.”

  “And Ms. German cares about that?” I asked. “As I understand it, this child is the product of a vicious attack on her. Yet she still wants it to live?”

  “We want it to live,” Wandek put in firmly. “Despite what some Human cultures believe, all sentient life is sacred and must be protected and nurtured to the fullest extent of our abilities.”

  “Very noble,” I said, watching him closely. “Yet the baby is Ms. German’s, not yours. Doesn’t she have a say in the matter? Especially since the baby is now getting in the way of her own treatment?”

  Wandek drew himself up, his blaze mottling again. “The baby will be protected,” he said curtly. “We have not—” He broke off. “All sentient life is sacred,” he repeated.

  “Of course,” I said, ducking my head humbly. I’d gotten what I’d been looking for. Time to backpedal. “Naturally, I agree. It’s just that there are many regions on Earth, with laws that vary widely from place to place.”

  “This is the Filiaelian Assembly, not Earth,” Wandek said frostily, the mottling of his blaze slowly fading back to normal. “Only Filiaelian law has any bearing.”

  “Of course,” I said again as I turned back to Aronobal. “Any idea how long the tests on Ms. German’s baby will take?”

  “No,” Aronobal said. “If you like, I can put your name and comm number on the list of those to be informed of progress.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” I gave her my number and Bayta’s and watched as she keyed them into her comm. “Can you tell me who we talk to about getting accommodations somewhere in this sector?” I asked when she’d finished.

  “That has already been arranged,” Wandek said. “Speak with the receptionist at the door where we entered.”

  “Thanks.” I started to turn away. “Oh. Does she happen to speak English?”

  “You Humans,” Wandek said, his tone more resigned than angry. “So many of you seem to believe the galaxy must necessarily accommodate your needs and desires.”

  “Yes, we’re funny that way,” I agreed. “Does she speak English, or doesn’t she?”

  Wandek made an impatient-sounding rumble deep in his throat. “I will send an English-speaker to meet you at her desk,” he said, pulling out his comm. “I must return now to my work.”

  “And I to observe the work on Ms. German’s child,” Aronobal added.

  “Of course,” I said. “Thank you. Both of you.”

  Whatever else one might say about Wandek, he definitely got fast results. By the time we reached the receptionist’s desk there was a young Filly in a pale green outfit already waiting for us. “You are the Human Compton?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I acknowledged.

  “Come with me,” he said, walking toward one of the corridors and motioning for us to follow. “Your quarters have been assigned.”

  “Are they near Ms. German’s?” I asked, making no move to follow. “They have to be near Ms. German’s.”

  “Your quarters have been assigned,” he repeated. “Come with me.”

  He headed down the corridor, not checking to see if we were following or not. Taking Bayta’s arm, I headed us off after him.

  We retraced our steps out of the dome, down the ramp to the traffic corridor, along the glideway, and back to Terese’s room. The door our guide led us to was two doors farther down. “Here,” he said, gesturing toward a plate beside the door. “It is already keyed to your nucleics.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I touched my hand to the plate, and with a soft click the door slid open. With my watchdogs crowding at my sides, I went inside.

  And stopped. The room was a photocopy of Terese’s, right down to the color scheme on the blankets on the bed.

  The single, barely double-size bed.

  One.

  I felt the movement of air as Bayta came in and stopped beside Doug. “Cozy,” I commented.

  She didn’t say anything. But I suspected that she wasn’t looking at me just as hard as I wasn’t looking at her.

  I should have expected this, of course. I hadn’t, but I should have. One of the Modhri’s best and most insidious methods of infiltration was through something called thought viruses: subtle suggestions—sometimes not so subtle—that were passed telepathically from a Modhran walker to an uninfected person. Usually the suggestion was geared to get the victim to touch a piece of Modhran coral, which would get a polyp hook into his bloodstream and eventually grow him an internal Modhran colony of his own.

  The most horrific part of the technique was the fact that thought viruses transmitted best between those who already had emotional attachments. That meant friends, allies, confidants, and coworkers.

  And lovers.

  I stared at the single bed, feeling a cold and angry sweat breaking out on the back of my neck. Did the Modhri think Bayta and I were lovers? We weren’t, and weren’t likely to go that route any time soon, either—we both knew how thought viruses worked, and neither of us was stupid enough to increase our risks that way. We’d shared only a single kiss, and even that had been driven more by lingering fear and pain and exhaustion than anything else.

  Even now, I still wasn’t sure how much of that kiss had been affection on Bayta’s part and how much had simply been that same shared fear and exhaustion coming through. In many ways, the deepest core of Bayta’s mind was still a mystery to me.

  But she and I had been living and fighting side by side for a long time now, and the Modhri certainly knew enough about human biology to know we were ripe for that kind of attachment if we weren’t there already. Apparently, he was hoping a little nudge might be enough to push us the rest of the way.

  Well, he could just keep hoping.

  I turned to the Filly, waiting expectantly in the corridor like a dit-rec comedy bellhop expecting a tip. “Unacceptable,” I told him. “This room is designed for one. We are two.”

  It was clearly not the response he�
��d been expecting. He drew back a little, his eyes darting uncertainly from me to the room to me again. “Call your superiors,” I said. “Tell them we need a larger room or a second room in this same area.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, finally unfreezing enough to pull out his comm. {The Human wants a larger room,} he reported to whoever picked up at the other end. He listened a moment— {No, he also wishes it to be near the Human Ms. German.} There was another pause, and I watched his blaze for signs of emotional distress. But the blaze remained unchanged. {I’ll tell him,} he said, and shut down the comm. “There is a second room available,” he told us. “But it is on the other side of the medical dome, the inward side.”

  I looked at Bayta. The far side of the medical dome would put whichever of us took that room over half a kilometer away from Terese. More importantly, it would put us that same half kilometer away from each other. “I’m afraid—”

  “Would you show it to us, please?” Bayta asked.

  “Certainly,” the Filly said. “Follow me.”

  He led the way to the glideway, and we wended our way back to the dome. The receptionist looked up as we passed, but neither she nor our guide said anything to each other. The Filly led us into the dome, past the building where they were presumably still working on Terese and her unborn baby, and out into the corridor on the far side. Two corridors later, he stopped at another door. “This is the one,” he said, gesturing to it.

  I nodded. “Open it.”

  “It is not yet keyed to your nucleics.”

  “I realize that,” I said patiently. “That’s why I asked you to use your passkey.”

  For a moment he hesitated, perhaps wondering if he was supposed to admit he even had a passkey. Then, silently, he pulled a card from inside his tunic and waved it past the touch plate. The door slid open, and he gestured us through.

  The room, as I’d expected, was exactly like the other two we’d already seen. “This is good,” Bayta said briskly, turning to block the Filly as he started to come in behind us. “We’ll take both rooms. How long will it take to key the lock to our nucleics?”