Regeneration (Czerneda)

by Julie E. Czerneda

  The sound finally stopped. Mac took a shuddering breath, then two. She rose to her knees, her feet, and staggered forward. All the while her mind tried to deny what she saw.

  This was a walker?

  Mac didn’t see how this thing in front of her could have walked at all. Its body, if there was one, was hidden beneath a convulsion of limbs, all distinct, drawn into fetal-like curves. Tatters of material, glittering metal flakes, fibers—all drifted in the air above it, as though not ready to succumb to gravity and fall with the body they’d once wrapped. She saw no head.

  There were the claws, though, long, straight, and needle sharp. Scoring moss and soft wood like a fork; slashing through furniture, fabric—and flesh. There were limbs like wings or fins within the mass, others thin and knotted on one another, fingertips and bony clubs and cable-thick hooks . . .

  With utter calm, Mac turned her head to one side, threw up the nutrient bar and water, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then returned to examining the Ro’s servant.

  None of it made sense. It shouldn’t function, not with this tangled, nonsensical structure. The strangest alien form—the weirdest Earthly ones—at least looked as though they could work. This?

  “Human?”

  How could she forget the Dhryn? Mac hurried to his side. He was trying to rise and she helped as best she could. “There could be more,” he warned her, his voice barely audible.

  “You’re right. I know.” She passed him the umbrella and they made their slow way around the two bodies.

  The short ramp took the last of his strength. She managed to get him inside before he collapsed on the floor of the lev. Mac took the umbrella and used it to methodically sweep the air inside the craft. Once sure they were alone, she closed the door and threw the lock to keep it that way.

  She rested her forehead against the door. “We won’t leave you here, Norris,” she whispered.

  Could they leave at all? Taking the pilot’s seat, Mac stared helplessly at the console. The console stared back, its dozens of winking machine eyes giving no clue as to their purpose, daring a mere biologist to guess and blow herself up.

  “Are you a pilot?”

  “No.” She glanced at the Wasted in sudden hope. “Are you?”

  “I do not—”

  “Exist,” she finished impatiently. “Yes, I know. Before that. Can you operate this ship?”

  “Before . . .” The word was accompanied by a mournful vibration Mac felt through the floor. “I was, in your terms, captain of the Uosanah.”

  Finally, trapped with someone who had the right skills. “Then you can use this.” She waved her hands over the incomprehensible console.

  He pulled himself to a sit on his lowermost arms, his head beside hers. It drooped from his neck, as though too heavy for it. As he studied the console, she watched a new fracture open behind his ear and ooze blue. “No,” he said at last. “Even if I could decipher these controls, they are locked.”

  “Oh.”

  “The ship is transmitting.” A sticklike finger moved forward and pressed a button. A shaky voice filled the lev.

  “This is Dr. Norris, on board the derelict Uosanah. Mayday. Mayday. We’re in the central hangar. Dr. Connor has confirmed the presence of Myrokynay. Repeat, we have Ro on board. Mayday. Mayday. I’m setting this on auto and going back for her. Please hurry. This is Dr. Norris—”

  The Wasted pressed the button again to silence the voice.

  “He made it here,” Mac said numbly. And went back for her.

  “Was Norris all his name?”

  She shook her head, trying to wrap her grief and guilt around an alien point of honor. “We hadn’t been properly introduced. Not yet.”

  The Wasted lifted his head very slightly—a bow. “Then you must—” a gasping pause, “—learn all of his names, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor Sol.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  He sagged down where he was, between the seats, his face half under the console. Mac moved her feet to make more room for his left arms. She looked around, but couldn’t see anything on the small ship to use to make him more comfortable. Norris had thrown his bags in the corner, but they were too small to be useful bedding.

  Norris. Mac pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms tightly around them.

  Had he hurried to his ship on her word, sent the signal, gone out only to be ambushed within reach of safety?

  Or had he run all the way here, the Ro close behind . . . heard that horrible sound nearer and nearer . . . reached the shelter of his ship . . . yet gone back for her?

  Mac looked at the locked door, thinking of what lay beyond. How didn’t matter. “You saved our lives,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

  She cocked her head, listening for any sign of life, hearing only the labored breaths of her companion.

  Then dropped her head to her knees.

  “Is anyone in there? Dr. Norris. Dr. Connor. Are you in there?”

  Mac raised her head, looking to the door, but the voice was inside the lev. The console. Lights were flashing in various patterns, more lights than she imagined simply receiving a transmission would require. “This is Dr. Connor,” she replied, hoping she didn’t need to activate any control to be heard. “Who’s this?”

  “Your escort from the Joy.” Nothing could have sounded as good. “Lieutenant Lee Halpern. Dr. Connor, is Dr. Norris with you?”

  “No. He’s been killed.” Mac checked the Wasted. Given the proximity of the Trisulian ship, she wasn’t about to announce his presence on an open com. He showed no signs of consciousness but was breathing.

  “Are you in immediate danger?” Sharp and to the point.

  “No. I don’t think so,” Mac qualified. “You can get me out of here, I hope?”

  “Already on it. Intersystem craft have an auto retrieve function—safety feature. The captain asked Dr. Norris for his remote codes before you left. Ship’s systems will reverse your course and head back to the Joy. Stand by.”

  Mac sat by, relieved beyond words. But as time continued to pass with only the same light patterns taunting her, that relief faded. If she counted the number of times auto-anything had failed in the field . . . She leaned over the console. “Halpern. I’m guessing there’s a problem.”

  “We’re working on options, Dr. Connor. The codes activated the retrieval of a probe, Dr. Connor, not your ship. Where are you exactly?”

  Norris had made sure he wouldn’t be stopped short of his goal, Mac realized, feeling more pity than anger.

  “Inside the Uosanah. Parked in a hangar,” she sighed, leaning back in the chair. “We entered through the middle of a row of round doors inside a mass of what looked to me like container-handling equipment. But I’m no engineer.”

  “Is there any way for you to determine the presence of hostile forces?”

  The Ro? “The one I know of is dead. And,” Mac took a steadying breath. “Dr. Norris is outside the ship, too.”

  “Is the area secure?”

  “Of course it’s not secure. That’s why I’m locked inside!” Mac glared at the lights, then shook her head. She wasn’t at her best. “I’m sorry, Halpern. It’s been a little—I’m out of my depth here. I don’t know if there are more of them. I’d really rather not go and look, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t want you to, Dr. Connor—may I call you Mac?”

  The situation was that bad? “Yes.”

  “Mac, I don’t want to alarm you—” Didn’t people realize how terrifying that statement was? “—but things are a bit complicated out here as well. The captain launched tacticals at your distress call—they could get inside the derelict, deal with whatever—but the Trisulian commander won’t let them approach. The Sinzi-ra is doing his best to change that.” The tone was matter-of-fact. Mac winced, well able to imagine the furious negotiations. Everyone in the system probably heard Norris’ distress call—including the part about Ro on board.

  The idiot faction,
trying to send diplomats; the rest preparing to blow up the Uosanah and the other derelicts.

  And one trapped biologist.

  She wasn’t the only one at risk. Halpern’s tiny shuttle was a provocation to all sides, simply by being near the Dhryn ship. “How about you?” she asked. “Can you stay?”

  “Not going anywhere, Mac. Not without you.” A pause. “I don’t suppose you’re a pilot.”

  “No. Why?”

  “Oh.” A pause. “If you were, and if you could find and access the protocols Dr. Norris used to enter the hangar, you could set the bay to auto. You’ll drift out and I’d snag you and take you back to the Joy.” Halpern grew enthused. “Maybe I can talk you through it.”

  And if she could breathe vacuum, she could walk. Mac sighed. “Norris locked the controls. Even if he hadn’t, you should see this thing, Halpern. It’s modified from standard. There’s research gear, scanners . . .”

  A hand brushed her foot and Mac stopped to glance down. The Wasted was still unconscious. But breathing.

  “Wait.” She bit her lower lip, then nodded to herself. “There’s someone with me who might be able to make sense of it.”

  “Who?”

  A dying Dhryn who’d survived this long on the bodies of his former crew? Mac thought fast. “Charlie. Charlie Mudge. He wanted to come along and we snuck him on board.” Dead silence. Mac prodded the Wasted with her toe. “I know it was against regulations,” she babbled on, “but he’s flown starships.”

  “Regulations be damned. Let me speak to him.”

  “Give me a minute. He’s—he’s been hurt.” She reached down and shook the Wasted, obtaining a low moan. “Charlie,” she urged, careful to use Instella. Her hands slipped over fluid and flaccid skin. She gripped harder. “You have to get us out of the hangar. Do you understand? I need you.”

  “I—do not—exist.”

  “He’s not himself,” Mac said loudly. She got out of the pilot seat and crouched as close to the alien’s head as she could. “Listen to me,” she whispered. “This is your ship. You must know how to launch a shuttle—please, Lamisah.”

  An eye opened and regarded her, its yellow almost white. “ ‘Lamisah?’ ” His bleeding lips twisted in what might have been scorn. “You are not-Dhryn.”

  “And you don’t exist.” Mac rested her hand on his chilled shoulder. “A great pair. Can you do it?”

  “Mac? How’s Charlie?”

  “Oh, getting there.” Halpern sounded anxious. Good thing there wasn’t a vid link.

  The Wasted sucked in air and held it. He rose, gripping the chairs and her knee for purchase, then almost fell again. She wrapped her arms around him, trying to avoid the larger fractures. As he leaned against her, she could barely make out his whisper. “Internal com. Command . . . I can command . . .”

  She raised her face to the lev ceiling. “Charlie’s accessing the codes.” He didn’t need to know which ones.

  “Hurry,” Halpern responded, distinct stress in his voice. “It’s a little busy out here, if you get my drift.”

  “Can you do it from here?” Mac asked the Wasted. She took his slow reach for the console as yes.

  A little busy?

  Jurisdictional issues.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered and put her hand over the Wasted’s to stop him. “Wait.”

  Halpern heard. “Doing what, Mac? There’s no time—”

  “Stand by.”

  Moving quickly, Mac dumped the tools and scanners from one of Norris’ bags, slinging it over her shoulder. She grasped the umbrella firmly and went to the door. The Wasted turned his big head to watch her unlock it. “I’ll be right back,” she promised, and threw open the door.

  Once again, the odor of decay and death filled her nostrils. This time, instead of being hidden, the bodies were steps away. Before she could hesitate—as in come to her senses—Mac walked down the ramp. She took her time and poked the air around and in front with the umbrella, feeling like a fool but unable to move unless sure she wasn’t walking into a Ro or its invisible servant.

  The silence should have been reassuring. It made it hard to breathe.

  “Way too much imagination,” she panted.

  She reached Norris, and gently laid the umbrella beside him. He’d said “Ships don’t die empty.” She didn’t think he’d mind resting in this one for a while longer.

  Mac put the bag over her real hand and headed for the other corpse. Every second counted. “Just another specimen,” she told herself, hunting for something to grab that wouldn’t cut through the fabric. One of the clubbed limbs looked promising. Both her hands shook so badly she couldn’t touch it on her first try. “Call yourself a biologist,” she muttered. “It’s another dead specimen. Doesn’t even smell. Much.”

  A lunge and her fingers wrapped around what felt harder than ordinary flesh. Without pause, she pulled back, her artificial hand clenching so tight she felt something give. The body resisted, then moved, sliding along the deck, remaining limbs waving aimlessly. scurryscurry

  Mac froze, then realized the sound had come from the corpse, as if parts rubbed together. “You’re dead,” she reminded it, and pulled. scurryscurry She took a step and pulled, wishing for more slime. “Wait . . .” And again. “Till . . .” She grunted a word with each effort, as much to keep herself company as to cover the sounds from the corpse. “They . . .” The thing outmassed her, though not by much. “See . . .” Keeping it moving was easier, though her arms were already aching with strain.

  “You!”

  Her foot hit the end of the ramp. Stepping up, she blinked sweat from her eyes and heaved. The corpse came partway, then stuck fast.

  Was a little cooperation too much to ask?

  Abandoning her prize was unthinkable. They’d never be given a chance to examine it.

  Then Mac smiled. She’d loaded and unloaded levs in the middle of blizzards. There were a few tricks. “Wait here,” she told the corpse, and ran into the lev.

  The Wasted hadn’t died while she’d been gone. One relief. “Be ready, Charlie,” she told him, then went to the ramp control, tossing the bag from her hands. The air moving into the lev made her shiver despite the warmth of exertion. The open door was like an invitation.

  But, at long last, Mac-friendly technology. With a cry of triumph, she reversed the closing sequence, overrode the load safeties, and hit the emergency retract.

  With a machine protest, the ramp snapped itself up against the ship before the door could shut.

  And with a skitter . . . scurry . . . POP! the corpse answered momentum and rolled into the lev, Mac jumping out of its way.

  “Always works,” she said with satisfaction, turning to her companion.

  The Wasted’s eyes were huge and his limbs trembled so violently they clattered against the console.

  “Don’t worry,” Mac soothed. “I can fix the door.” She let the ramp back down, reset the controls, and let the door close properly.

  “That—that—” The Instella stopped and the floor vibrated. Not that there was much floor left, the corpse having sprawled into a nasty mass of appendages, several either broken from her handling or with implausible joint structure. Or both.

  Leaving no room for a panicked Dhryn.

  “We do not think of it,” she told the Wasted, slowly and clearly, making sure his eyes were on hers. “Do you understand me?”

  “Mac!” Halpern’s disembodied voice was close to a shout. “What’s going on? Where did you go? Charlie didn’t answer—has he passed out on you?”

  “Lamisah,” she whispered. “This one thing and you can rest. I promise.”

  Eyes blinked at her, then shifted to the console. “I am—here, Halpern,” the Wasted said, the effort to speak at all plain to Mac. Her throat tightened in sympathy. Withered fingers touched a blue button among the dozens, slowly input numbers, methodically pressed a sequence of other controls. How well could his mind function, given the wreck of his body?
Mac judged this an unproductive line of thought and dropped into the passenger seat.

  The ship gave that characteristic lurch and she leaned with it, as if encouraging it to continue moving. Last chance to stop us.

  “Sending us into the bay now,” the Wasted said. “I’ve—I’ve set auto launch to put us—put us beyond the freight area.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you.” Halpern, quick and sure. “Good work, Charlie. Can’t wait to shake your hand.”

  The Wasted gave Mac a look she had no problem interpreting at all.

  CONTACT

  THE FROW HUNG HEAD DOWN, the better to see the small black object lodged at the base of the crevice. Its surface was nonreflective. It might have been water-polished stone, heaved from a distant riverbed during the annual floods. Se Ferenlaa checked the signal detector once more to be sure. “Record this as number sixty-three and destroy it.”

  Se’s lackey, Ne Liani, was perched on the opposite wall. Ne dutifully recorded the number. “Sixty-three. How many more are left?”

  Ne was an individual of undeniable beauty in uniform, with the intelligence of drying moss. Why ne had been assigned to se when ne would have shone hanging at a ceremonial post or as a display model for a hat store, was beyond se’s comprehension. Mater must be slipping. And now, when routine had become crisis, ne’s blithe incompetence was a risk.

  “I’ve told you before, sib-cousin, it doesn’t matter how many remain. They must all be found. Now, be quick! Once this one is destroyed, I’ll be able to tell if another lies near our position.”

  Quick movement was thankfully among ne’s skills, along with—se was told—a finely developed moral sense. Both virtually guaranteed success as either a snatchcross referee or pet retriever. After all, was not a family’s highest goal to advance the next generation through the ranks? As Ne Liani fumbled with the acid pack attached to ne’s chest, se mused on how best to broach the subject with mater when next home. If they had a home to return to, se corrected.

  Ne struck a pose with the spray nozzle in one hand, membranes set to advantage. “Ready, sib-cousin.”