by S. L. Viehl
“No such location exists on this vessel,” the computer responded politely.
I couldn’t believe the Torins had removed the observation deck. It was Reever’s favorite spot on the Sunlace. “Can you tell me where Linguist Duncan Reever is on the ship?”
“Affirmative,” it replied. “Please verify by inputting security authorization code.”
I didn’t have a code, or a clue as to why I would need one. “Medical-emergency system override. Authorization Healer Cherijo Torin.”
“No such name exists in this system.”
Of course not. The minor headache caused by Squilyp’s examination began to build. “Try authorization Healer Jarn.”
“Authorization confirmed by voiceprint. Thank you, Healer Jarn. Linguist Reever is currently located on level eight, environome four.”
So my husband had gone to play in a dimensional simulator instead of coming to Medical to see me. This was just getting better by the minute. “Then take me to level eight.”
“Yes, Healer.” The lift whirled smoothly into motion as it zipped around the spiraling outer curves of the hull.
“And while we’re at it,” I said to the panel, “display all of my security access and authorization codes.”
I memorized the list of codes assigned to Jarn by the time I exited the lift, and used the one with the highest clearance to access the dimensional simulator. The program Reever had initiated wasn’t a very complicated one. It generated a field on the surface of Joren, one solidly paved with silvery yiborra grass. Off in the distance I could see a white smudge that might have been the Torin pavilion, but it was only a projection, like the sky and the streamers of rainbow-colored cloud. Reever hadn’t even bothered to program the simulation with the planet’s heavier gravity field or the flowers that scented the air.
I spotted him in the center of the field, standing with his back to me. He’d cut short his golden hair, which now brushed the collar of his plain black tunic. His hands were loose at his sides as he stared at the horizon.
“Computer,” I said, trying to keep the irony out of my tone. “End simulation.”
The field and sky and the rest of Joren vanished, leaving me and Reever standing in an empty room, the walls, deck, and ceiling covered with a glowing yellow grid.
He turned, so slowly I knew he was making an effort, and walked toward me. He stopped a meter away. “Cherijo.”
“Duncan.” I inspected his expression, or lack thereof. He looked exactly as he had when I’d first met him on K-2: a man with no human emotions. “Are your legs broken?”
He glanced down. “No.”
“Were you accidentally locked in here?” I gestured to the door panel, and he shook his head. “So you didn’t come back to Medical to see if I was okay because . . . for some reason you desperately needed to commune with a fake alien pasture?”
He didn’t answer me or even look at my face. He just stood there like a statue, staring at some point past my left shoulder.
“I guess there was no hurry,” I continued, ignoring the cracks I could feel forming in my heart. “According to Squilyp, you’ve had my body around for the last five years—”
“Two years.”
I raised my brows. “Excuse me?”
“It took two and a half years for me to find you on Akkabarr,” he said. “Another six months to take you back from the rebels.”
“But you didn’t find me, Reever,” I reminded him. “You found my remains, occupied and possessed by some alien body snatcher.” Why was I being so snotty to him? With an effort I forced back some of my outrage. “It must have been pretty tough for you and Marel while I was gone.” Now the shock would go, and he would tell me exactly how horrible it had been for them, and how much he missed me, and how glad he was that I had come back.
“You do not understand,” he said flatly. “She was a woman, and a healer, and a person. Her name was Jarn.”
I heard the anger in his voice; I simply didn’t understand why he would be mad at me. Maybe it was, as Squilyp had said, a terrible shock. Me sniping at him wouldn’t help matters.
“I know you thought I was dead, and that I was never coming back,” I said carefully. “But I am back, sweetheart, and I assure you, I’m here to stay.”
Reever said nothing.
“I’m also stable, healthy, and not suffering from any negative aftereffects.” His lack of reaction was beginning to piss me off, though. “Tell me something. Did you even miss me while I was gone?”
He didn’t like that. “I assumed that the loss was permanent. Squilyp tried to recover your memories and personality. He could not reverse the effects of the brain damage.”
“Is that right.” I planted my hands on my hips. “How many times did you ask him to try?”
“I have no wish to quarrel with you, Cherijo.” Reever strode past me, as if he couldn’t bear to spend another minute alone with me.
Me, the wife he hadn’t seen for five years.
“Hold on.” I grabbed him. “You walked out on me last night. You never came back. Aren’t you even curious to see if the body snatcher—excuse me—if Jarn might find a way to kick me out again?”
Gently he removed my hand from his arm. “Jarn is not coming back.”
“Is that right?” I shifted around so I blocked his path. “How do you know?”
“She killed herself so that you could return.” Out he went.
Two
After Reever took off, I reinitiated the Jorenian yiborra-field program and sat there for a while watching the simulated grass grow. Pain from my headache became laced with disorienting confusion. Nothing made sense, so I didn’t bother to think. No doubt Xonea or Squilyp would soon come after me, and tell me all about it.
“Healer Torin.”
I looked over my shoulder at the furry face of the strange healer who had attended me last night. Thick black fur covered the bipedal form of the lupine male, although much of it looked as if it had been recently shorn and was just now growing back. His mane, which grew from the top of his skull to the top of his shoulders, also had a shaggy, uneven look to it. The darkness of his body hair made his light green irises appear to glow a little.
The distinct muzzle and fanged teeth didn’t worry me—I’d encountered a lot of frightening- looking beings in my time away from the homeworld, and most of them were more civilized than Terrans—but something about him made the hair on my neck rise.
Someone had told me his name and species. . . . “Healer Valtas. What do you want?”
“It would please me greatly if you would call me Shon.” He made the traditional Jorenian gesture of greeting, briefly extending ten black, blunted claws before retracting them into his articulated paws. “The Omorr wishes you to return to Medical.”
“I’m sure he does, Healer Valtas.” I turned away, hoping he’d take the hint.
The oKiaf didn’t; he came and sat down beside me. “Healer Squilyp indicated you have no memory of the last five years, so I assume you do not remember me.”
I made a sound. Not a nice one.
“I was an intelligence officer alterformed by the League to serve as a spy,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees. “When they attempted to force me to heal tortured prisoners in order to extend their suffering, I deserted, changed my identity, and became a healer. I accompanied the survey team to my homeworld, where I tried to kill myself. In the process I was infected by a protocrystal life-form which is taking over the planet.”
I guessed I was supposed to care. Crying shame that I didn’t. “Do you tell everyone your life story five seconds after you meet them?”
“You thwarted my attempted suicide, and then removed the crystalline infection from my body before it could kill me,” he said. “I would not be alive if not for you.”
“It wasn’t me, but you’re welcome.” I pulled up a blade of grass, which once separated from the simulator grid’s energy matrix immediately lost coherence and disintegrated. My temper was a
bout to do the same. “Now would you mind leaving me alone? Or do you need help with a second suicide attempt?”
“I remember what it was like, when I woke up after the alterforming process had been completed,” he continued. “I did not know my own skin.”
“I know mine. I just don’t know who’s been wearing it for the last five years.” I destroyed some more phony grass. “Anything else happen between you and whatever possessed my body?”
He gazed at the fake horizon. “Jarn’s efforts to save me are ultimately what led to the return of your persona.”
That got my attention. “So you’re the one who brought me back from oblivion?”
“I believe it to be so.”
Maybe the body-snatching slave girl hadn’t committed suicide after all . . . and was I going to tell Reever that?
Hell, no. “I guess that makes us even.” I rose and straightened my tunic, and he did the same. “I’m hungry,” I lied. “Want to share a meal interval with me?”
Judging by his expression, he didn’t know quite what to make of that. Or me. Which made two of us.
At last he said, “If that is your wish.”
“You’ll have to show me where the galley is,” I told him as we walked out of the environome. “They’ve changed everything around so much I don’t know where it is.”
“Of course.” He led me to a lift, and then whisked us off to another deck.
The oKiaf didn’t indulge in any small talk, but I welcomed the silence. Every time someone opened their mouth, I heard something else that I didn’t want to know. It would be great to spend a couple of hours not knowing.
The galley was mostly empty, but the few crew members who were dining there only offered up a smile or a nod before returning their attention to their meals. I never knew Jorenians to be so standoffish, so either that had changed, too, or Xonea had said something to the crew.
At the prep unit, I pulled up the menu programmed for Terrans and read through the list. Most of the dishes were Reever’s preferences, although there were several synpro dishes I didn’t recognize. Since I usually couldn’t stomach the alien fare my husband enjoyed, I selected one of the odd ones. The unit produced what appeared to be a small, slithery heap of gelatinous, uncooked flesh sprinkled with spike-edged purple and red leaves.
P.S., the odor was worse than the presentation.
“Where did Duncan pick up this recipe?” I muttered, examining the plate. “Waste world?”
“That is ptar belly with ice leaves,” the oKiaf told me. “It is a delicacy on Akkabarr.”
Oh. Her food. Raw flesh and ugly herbs. God only knew what she had been putting in my stomach for the last five years. I dumped the plate and its contents into the disposal unit. “Shon, is there anything on your menu a Terran can eat without a lot of puking afterward?”
He dialed up some sort of soup and flat bread. Since the scent of it didn’t turn my stomach, I carried it to a table and sat down. He brought an identical meal for himself, and two servers of a hot, golden brew.
“Kapelat,” he told me as he offered me one of the drinks. “It will settle your stomach.”
I tried a sip. It wasn’t tooth-numbingly sweet like so many Jorenian teas, but had a mellow tang that went down easily. “It’s good. Thanks.”
The soup, while unlike anything made by Terrans, was vegetable-based, and had a strange but agreeable flavor. The chewy flat bread had a strong, darker taste to it, but paired well with the soup. My tight throat didn’t want to cooperate, but the kapelat was an effective soother, and I managed to finish half the meal.
My companion didn’t make it obvious that he was watching me eat, but he stopped as soon as I did. That reminded me that some species considered it rude to continue dining when others had finished.
“Go ahead, keep eating,” I said. “It’s not the food. It’s me.”
“There are some matters I would discuss with you, Healer Torin,” the oKiaf said.
“Cherijo.”
He inclined his head. “As you have no memory of our—of my interactions with your former self, I feel I should tell you of them, and what I discovered from them.”
“Are you going to use the word ‘terrible’?” I demanded. He shook his head. “All right, then. Tell me.”
“During the brief time that I knew Jarn, I developed intimate feelings for her. I fell in love with her.” He sounded gruff, as if it was hard for him to admit. “And because of those emotions, I attempted to seduce her.”
Was this the reason Reever was treating me like a contagious disease? Guilt over what the slave girl had done with my body? “Did she go for it?”
“Did she . . . ah, no.”
“That’s too bad.” No, it wasn’t, but I didn’t have to stomp on the guy’s heart. I was curious, though. “Why would you fall for a Terran? We’re not exactly at the top of everyone’s crossbreed-mating wish list.” When he started unfastening the front of his tunic, I flashed up a hand. “Whoa, wait a second. I don’t need you to show me anything.”
“It is only this.” He pulled aside his tunic to reveal two parallel vertical rows of golden fur.
“They’re, uh, very attractive markings,” I guessed.
“They indicate that I am a touch healer.”
“What do you know? So is Squilyp.” A tingling of alarm made me draw back a little. “I don’t really need to be touched or healed, though. Just FYI.”
“I am like you, sister.” He refastened his tunic. “I am never ill. I have survived every injury done to me. Even when I attempted to take my own life, I could not end it. I am immortal.”
I blinked. “You were bioengineered? The way I was?”
“So it would seem, although I have no memory of it,” he admitted. “You—Jarn—called me ‘brother.’ She seemed to recognize me.”
Not one damn thing about him seemed familiar to me. “My surrogate mother once told me that there were others. At the time I didn’t really believe her. Maybe you’re one of them.” I saw Xonea walk into the galley, and head toward our table. “Here comes another family member.”
“Cherijo.” Xonea sounded relieved. “You should be resting in Medical.”
“I think I’ve slept long enough, ClanBrother.” I forced my mouth to approximate a pleasant smile. “I’d also like to pass on any debriefing you have in mind.”
“As you say, ClanSister.” With remarkable, un-Xonea-like calm he turned to address Shon. “She is well?”
The oKiaf nodded.
I hated being treated as if I were invisible, so I got to my feet. “Thank you for sharing the meal with me, Healer Valtas. Xonea, see you around.” I headed for the lift.
Xonea caught up with me before I could make a clean getaway. “Cherijo, wait.” He turned me around and took hold of my cold hands. “You are distressed.”
It was ironic; the only person happy I was back was my ex-brother-in-law, whom I had once married and divorced. What did that say about me?
“I’ve had better days.” Squilyp’s suggestion prompted me to ask, “I’m going to need my own place. Got any vacant quarters near Medical that I can use for a while?”
“I have already arranged it.” Some of the pleasure ebbed from his expression, and his grip on me tightened. “You have spoken to Duncan?”
“I tried. He’s not interested in chatting with me right now.” I glanced at the lift. “Where are my new rooms?”
He folded one of my arms over his. “I will escort you.”
From there we went to the living quarters that Xonea had assigned to me. They were furnished for use by a Jorenian, which made them comfortable if a bit too large and colorful for me, but they would do. The data terminal was all I was interested in, but when I tried to access it, my codes were refused.
“Why am I locked out of the database?” I asked.
“The Omorr thought it best.” Xonea brought me a server of jaspkerry tea. “You need not try to absorb the events of the past five years in one day.” He saw my
expression. “Perhaps Squilyp is being somewhat overprotective, but he is the Senior Healer. He has only your best interests in mind.”
“That’s why he let some alien run around with my body for the last five years?” Before he could reply, I added, “I’ve reviewed my medical records, Xonea. They removed the dates, but not the facts. The Omorr gave up on me. Just like everyone else did.”
“I did not.” He set aside the tea and crouched in front of me. Other species often found it hard to discern emotions from the Jorenians’ all-white eyes, but I could see a kind of joyful pain, as if what he felt was too acute to put into words. “I prayed each day to the Mother, and implored her to return you to us. I never lost hope. I knew eventually she would hear me.”
“Yeah, well, she took her sweet time, didn’t she?” Now I had to know what it had cost me. “What is everyone keeping from me? What the hell did this Akkabarran do while I was gone?”
“There have been many repercussions since the rebellion—”
“I’m not interested in hearing about another stupid war,” I told him. “What did she do to my husband?”
Lines of strain appeared around his mouth. “Duncan has not told you of this?”
“Duncan doesn’t want to talk about it with me.” And finally I understood why. “I see. He got involved with her. And Marel? Did she think . . . ?” I couldn’t put it into words. “Did the Akkabarran play mother as well as wife?”
Xonea rose and walked over to the viewport to look out at the stars. He always did that when he didn’t want to answer me.
This was what it felt like, to have your heart shattered. Interesting. Rather like a massive myocardial infarction, minus the copious sweating and respiratory distress.
After a long interval my ClanBrother finally spoke. “You should not blame them, Cherijo. Duncan truly believed that you had embraced the stars. So did the little one. They grieved for you in their own way, but . . . the path changes, and so, too, must the traveler.”
As affirmations went, that was a resounding one. And it killed something inside me, some frail and puny faith that had kept me going since I’d woken up to this new world.
