Regeneration (Czerneda)

by Julie E. Czerneda

  They’d gone to their respective beds as if nothing had happened.

  She’d dreamed of interstellar war.

  And now Mudge, who had every right to know and who knew her well enough to sense she was hiding something important from him, was pressing for answers.

  Spy games. Mac was growing acutely aware of their cost.

  “I’m sure something’s come up,” she said, as close to the truth as she dared. “Their budget, not ours. We should both try for some more sleep.”

  His eyes glittered. “I’m not tired. Amazing how quickly we all fell asleep last night. I was sure this young fellow’s squirming about would keep us awake for hours.”

  “That Yukon air,” Mac offered, but her own yawn spoiled it.

  Mudge fell silent and she settled back into her seat, head back and eyes shut. Mac could feel his reproachful stare through her closed eyelids, but refused to do anything but pretend to sleep. After a while, pretense gave way to reality and she drifted off.

  “Mac.”

  “Not here,” Mac mumbled, curling into a defensive ball.

  “Yes, you are,” the voice insisted, “and so are we. We’ve docked with the transport ship. C’mon, Mac. Rise and shine.”

  While she had no intention of shining anytime soon, Mac peered at Sam Schrant’s eager face, registered the flaming orange backpack already slung over his shoulder, and decided rising was likely inevitable. “Where’s Oversight?” she asked, her mouth feeling as though she’d acquired a layer of barnacles. Probably snored for the last hour.

  “It’s not as if I could have left, Norcoast,” came the caustic reply.

  Man was consistent, she’d give him that.

  Mac sat up, rubbed her eyes, and looked around. They’d docked? Nothing had changed within their tiny compartment, except for the stiffness of a certain salmon researcher. She rose to her feet and edged through their stack of luggage to reach the space between the pairs of inward-facing seats. Once there, she began stretching as best she could without hitting either of them on the head. “How long was I out?” she asked, bending left. “And how do you know we’ve docked?” Right.

  “Long enough. Mr. Mudge timed it.” This with distinct admiration.

  Mac stopped stretching to give Mudge a look that was anything but admiring. “Why would you do that?”

  He harrumphed and crossed his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed with disapproval. From the bags under those eyes, he hadn’t slept at all.

  The meteorologist replied happily, “Mr. Mudge has a complete list of the capabilities of orbital shuttles. There’s a grav unit on this one, so the only way to tell when we’d reached orbit was to figure out travel time. And he was right. We just heard the clang—Mr. Mudge told me it was the clamps locking on to our air lock.”

  By this point, “Mr.” Mudge was doing his utmost not to look overtly pleased with this thorough description of his cleverness. Mac lifted one eyebrow, but refrained from saying anything. After all, she’d slept through the “clang.”

  She climbed back to her seat and made sure her own bag was close at hand. She wasn’t sure how she felt about returning to the Annapolis Joy.

  That wasn’t exactly true. Her stomach was busy informing her.

  As if nausea was helpful.

  Mac swallowed hard, doing her best to push away the past at the same time. So what if the Joy had remained in orbit instead of rushing her home? They’d established a firm Human presence among the species scrambling to explore the Dhryn home world. So what if she’d spent those weeks in a haze of loss and pain, her questions buried under the urgent onslaught of everyone else’s? She’d made it home eventually.

  Where no one could know where she’d been.

  Done was done, Mac told herself. She swallowed again, relieved to find it easier. She’d take anything positive at the moment.

  “Will you hurry up?” This from Mudge, who was fuming as Sam repacked his belongings. Mac grinned. It looked as though the meteorologist had wanted something from the very bottom of his pack during their flight and had taken the easy route, dumping the contents over Mudge’s neat stack. “Who knows how far we’ll have to walk through the way station?” that worthy continued dolefully. “Our original plans took us into the same loading dock as our transport. Now? We could be facing a considerable journey. Perhaps requiring a skim.”

  Mac made a face. Really should have told him before snoring. “This isn’t the way station.” Oh, she’d seen that look before. Before Mudge could launch into full volume accusation, likely involving a litany of her past indiscretions at Castle Inlet and how could she be trusted? she said calmly, “You’ve heard of the Annapolis Joy, Oversight?”

  “The J—” His mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ and his hands groped in midair, as if trying to grab the name to look at it for himself.

  The side of their compartment chose that moment to slide aside to reveal a sunlight-bright hangar, the Joy’s half of the air lock equation. Complete with welcoming party.

  “Mac!”

  She froze with her hand about to close on the handle of her bag, then recovered, hoping no one had noticed. “Doug. Kaili,” she greeted. “Nice to see you again.”

  In a sense it was. The two orderlies in light green coveralls had cared for her during her stay. They’d been kind, efficient, and friendly. Not their fault her stay had been . . . Mac found a smile. “Doug Court. Kaili Xai. Charles Mudge III and Sam Schrant.”

  The four exchanged hellos. Doug resembled a sturdy, younger version of Mudge, with an upright brush of red-blond hair and a neatly-trimmed mustache above his wide smile. Midnight-black Kaili was taller and willow-thin. Mac remembered her as the quieter of the pair, rarely expressive. Now she was beaming with pleasure.

  “This is the Annapolis Joy, dreadnaught class,” Mudge then informed them, seemingly oblivious to the name embroidered in gold on their uniforms. “The very latest. Top of the line. Twinned Ascendis-Theta in-system drives, multiplexed transect-capable sensor arrays. Why she’s capable—”

  “Oversight,” Mac interrupted. “You’re drooling.”

  He shot her a desperate look. “I simply must see her bridge, Norcoast. I must—”

  While having Mudge reduced to this state had its plus side, Mac was too unsettled to enjoy it. “Later. Are we supposed to have a medical?” she asked the orderlies, curious why these two had been sent to meet them. She grimaced. “I do know the way.”

  “Nah. We’re surplus at the moment, Mac,” Kaili grinned. “Off shift.”

  “And we asked,” Doug added. “Wanted to be the first to welcome you back. How are you?” His eyes flicked to her left hand.

  Guessing what he wanted, Mac pulled up her sleeve and held out her prosthesis for inspection. “Been through a bit,” she explained, although it was unlikely even these two could see any of the repairs without a scope. Noad, Anchen’s physician self, had done a superb job of reinstalling the finger she’d broken fending off the Trisulian male. Then there was the touch-up to the burns where she’d caught spit from their visiting Dhryn.

  Maybe she should have asked for souvenir scars.

  She glimpsed Mudge’s stunned expression as he realized which ship this had to be and kept her voice steady. “Doug and Kaili were my coaches.” Mac wiggled her fingers. “See? Haven’t lost my touch.”

  “Cayhill has some new—” She shook her head, just once, and Kaili stopped, finishing with, “If you want, I’m sure he’ll take a look.”

  “We’re here on other business.”

  “You’re right.” Doug snapped to attention. “Sorry, Mac. We’ll catch up another time. This way.”

  For a ship whose external purpose was to intimidate, the interior of the Joy had surprised Mac with its attention to comfort—until she’d learned a typical patrol could keep the crew in space for months. The lighting resembled that received on Earth, from its spectrum to the length of a shipday. The air temperature varied accordingly. Doug had tried to convince her that on very l
ong hauls the captain would occasionally drop it below freezing for a week or so, with everyone reporting to duty in mitts, but Mac hadn’t swallowed that one. She had admired the lightly scented breezes that would randomly rush down certain corridors. What furnishings she’d seen were covered in a wide range of materials, having in common functionality as well as variety to the touch.

  Sound was the only Human sense the ship’s designers had seemingly neglected in their search for ways to stimulate the crew. Then again, the first and possibly only warning of a serious problem would be the shriek of an alarm or the cry of orders.

  Mac, Mudge, and Sam followed the two orderlies from the hangar to a corridor, then to where a sequence of arched doors marked internal transit tubes. They were reserved for crew; in all her time aboard, Mac hadn’t used them. Now, she shot a questioning look at Doug, who’d stopped by the first.

  “Captain’s in a hurry,” he said in answer. “Wants you and the rest stowed as quickly as possible.”

  “The rest?” This from Mudge. “Do you mean to say all of our people and gear are aboard?” His eyebrows were on a collision course. “They were waiting for us at the way station. By whose authority—”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” Doug replied politely.

  Mudge turned to her. “Norcoast?”

  Mac indicated the tube door. “We’ll find out faster if we go, Oversight.”

  What she found out first was why the tubes were usually reserved for crew. Once they entered, a process requiring both a code and recognition of one of their escorts, Mac climbed into what felt like a stomach. The space had no straight lines, or rigid walls. Instead, her feet sank ankle-deep and her hands, as Mac groped for support, disappeared within whatever pale substance they’d used. There was something solid a few centimeters in, but it took an effort to reach and even more to free her hands.

  She sniffed. Clover. “Nice touch.”

  The others climbed in with her, the crew adeptly bouncing their way to the far side where they leaned their backs against the wall. Mac copied their position, seeing her companions do the same. “What about our bags?” she asked, having dropped hers to the floor in her first startled step.

  “Leave it there, Mac.”

  The door didn’t so much close as the walls flowed together where it had been.

  “How does—” Sam began to ask, eyes bright with curiosity, when the flexible wall beside him suddenly developed a pronounced curve, as if it were being sucked away.

  The sensation of movement came at the same instant. Mac felt herself being pressed deeper into the yielding surface. The others were, too, as was her bag. Doug grinned. “It’s called a bolus.”

  As in lump of food being digested? Mac laughed. “Perfect.”

  “Thought you’d appreciate it,” he said. “They bud from each entrance to the tube system.” Just then, the bolus turned sideways and dropped, but Mac felt only an instant of vertigo. Her body stayed firmly in place, as though the wall was now holding onto her. Which it was, she realized, after attempting to pry free her hands. Doug kept lecturing, presumably to keep the novice passengers distracted. “The tubes themselves are part of the recycling system within the ship. A constant stream of water, heat, wastes, you name it, travels through. Any freed bolus is whisked along with the rest until snatched from the flow at the next transit stop.”

  Mac grinned back. “Gotta love biology.”

  Doug chuckled. “The engineers will bend your ear about hydraulics and closed systems, but we know the truth.”

  “A flush a day,” piped up Kaili.

  “The bolus itself applies interior suction when in motion. The ride can get a little bumpy, but once you’re used to it? Nice break from walking corridors, believe me.”

  “Fast and secure even if gravity fails,” Mudge commented. “And practical, given the type of ship. A web strung with beads, Norcoast. Remarkably flexible design. How many pods is the Joy carrying now?”

  The two spoke in unison. “You’ll have to ask the exec, sir.” “Really can’t go into details, sir.”

  “You’ll have four days. You can ask all the questions you want, Oversight,” Mac said without thinking, then winced inwardly.

  Mudge’s face glowed with that familiar “gotcha” expression. “I wasn’t aware you were privy to information about the capabilities of a Ministry dreadnought, Norcoast.”

  Before Mac had to cover her tracks, Doug spoke up. “Oh, Mac knows the Joy. We brought her home.”

  She’d counted every hour from the gate to orbit.

  “Home from where, Mac?” Sam asked, eyes wide.

  Mudge harrumphed. “This isn’t the time for trading memoirs, Dr. Schrant. You’ll meet your colleagues on the Origins Team shortly. I trust you were able to familiarize yourself with their work beforehand?”

  Grateful for the distraction, if not for the questions Mudge was no doubt stockpiling to fire at her when they were next alone, Mac listened to Sam’s animated listing of Kirby and To’o’s work, all of which sounded more than familiar to him. Enthusiasm was a refreshing switch from desperation, she thought.

  The bolus snapped to a full stop between one breath and the next, shuddering along its every surface. The shudders conveniently slid passengers and bags to what was now the floor. An arch formed a new door, the original having melded into the rest of the spongy wall surface sometime after they’d “budded” and joined the waste stream. She smiled to herself at the image.

  “Status check?” Doug asked Kaili, who went to the arch and flipped open what was now a control panel.

  “Other side’s secure,” she said after a second. “Clear and opening, now.” With that, the door slid aside on an expanse of warm yellow.

  Doug, moving nimbly, picked up her bag then offered his hand. Mac smiled and shook her head. She stepped out, pulling one foot at a time free of the tender grip the bolus still had on her feet, and managed not to stagger. “I can see it takes practice,” she told him.

  That wide, ready smile. She’d seen it every time he’d arrived to check her new arm.

  It wasn’t Doug’s fault seeing him brought back such vivid memories. Mac made herself smile back. “Which way now?” she asked, glancing around.

  “Idiots!!!” The bellow echoed from wall to ceiling. “I told you she would be coming!”

  “Let me guess,” Mudge said dryly.

  The Origins Team was very glad to see them. The climatologists had swept away Sam Schrant, having arranged to share quarters so they could begin working on his model systems. They’d hurried off in a rosy glow of incomprehensible math. Mudge was accosted by all the Sthlynii at once, who over-voweled at him in anguish about the changes to the schedule they’d originally anguished about at the consulate. Not to mention the risk of lost equipment and did he notice they now had to change their quarter assignments? The Annapolis Joy was much larger than the transport the Sinzi-ra had promised, but their portion of it was smaller. It was all too much to bear.

  If Mudge hadn’t looked so thoroughly officious, Mac might have felt sorry for him.

  The Origins Team had been put in an area of the ship unfamiliar to Mac. Not hard, considering she’d spent most of her time in the medlab. Meant for passengers, beyond doubt, though there was no evidence of who the Joy might normally carry. Maybe they used her for conferences, Mac decided, remembering that the ship hadn’t seen combat until the attack on the Ro.

  Their section was separated from the rest of the ship by a pair of heavy bulkheads that could be air locks at need. Once past this point, the long, gently curving corridor was lined with a series of identical doors, each leading into compact and efficient living quarters with their own biological accommodations. The walls between were removable, allowing some quarters to be larger than others. Mac counted fourteen doors on the left-hand side of the corridor, seven on the right, but was advised to knock first. The Sthlynii remained unsettled about their quarters and were turning up anywhere.

  To the right, after the fir
st two doors, the corridor bulged outward to provide a common space, itself split into dining and recreation areas with mem-wood tables. Someone well-versed in transporting scientists had further divided the recreation areas with sound and light screens, creating four workrooms, already in use. Past that point were the remaining five living quarters. The corridor ended in a closed bulkhead.

  Feeling oriented, if not truly here yet, Mac munched on a sandwich, contents unknown. She’d joined Lyle Kanaci in the dining area, at a corner table. He wasn’t happy about the change either.

  “I tell you, Mac, I’ve been afraid to ask why we rated an upgrade.” Always pale, he leaned so close Mac could see the delicate vessels pulsing beneath his skin. He pitched his voice to her ears only. “Can’t be good news.”

  “It’s not bad,” she assured him, swallowing. “They’ve found ships from the Dhryn colonies.”

  He sat back, lips pursed in a silent whistle. “Haven?”

  Her people weren’t slow. Mac smiled and toasted him with a bottle of juice. “Haven. The ships are derelicts. Abandoned.”

  “We could use a look,” he said eagerly. “We don’t have much in the way of modern technology references—trade items, some catalogs. The modern Dhryn didn’t export much of their own manufacture.”

  “Shouldn’t be hard to arrange. They’re bringing the best preserved to Myriam. Should arrive before we do.”

  Lyle looked startled, then frowned at her. “Why?”

  Mac shrugged. “If I said it offers exquisite congruence to the Sinzi, would that help?” At his blank expression, she cupped her hands on the table, forming an enclosure. “The IU wants all valuable Dhryn artifacts in a place where they can’t be claimed by any other species.”

  “Like that, is it?” Lyle pressed his lips together in a thin line, then nodded. “Explaining this ship. I had my doubts it was because the Ministry had suddenly realized the value of its crack team of archaeologists. Politics.”

  “We’ve done pretty well avoiding them so far,” Mac shrugged. “Bound to happen. So long as it doesn’t interfere with our work.” She rubbed a spot on the tabletop with one finger, wondering how best to tell him the rest. “There will be a change, Lyle,” she began.