Beyond Varallan

by neetha Napew

  You’re certainly in a good mood. My cat surveyed me as he lost interest in pawing at the strip of fabric I dangled for him.

  “Guess who we rescued today?” I asked him as I got up and accessed my display.

  His Majesty’s head raised for a moment. The big one who looks like me?

  “Nope. Dr. Phorap Rogan.”

  His blue eyes closed. Oh. Him.

  A direct relay waited at the top of my com file. I didn’t recognize the tag, and made a quick wish that it wasn’t Pnor waiting to talk to me about Xonea. I reactivated the audio and tapped in an inquiry.

  “Direct relay through transdimensional transmitter, signaling on all frequencies.”

  Bad news. Whoever was sending this was not on the Sunlace. I sent a quick signal to Communications.

  “Yes, Senior Healer?” Salo Torin was on duty. I explained the odd relay. “I can monitor your console while you accept the signal,” he told me. “Do you suspect the League?”

  We’d rescued a suspiciously stranded Rogan, and now someone wanted to chat with me. It had to be the League. “Yes, I do. Can the signal be used to locate the Sunlace if I do?”

  “Possibly.” Salo took a moment to check his equipment. “It is being transmitted on a scattered dimensional pulse. I will ensure our return signal matches their transmission. It will read as an echo, nothing more.”

  I thanked him and then accessed the relay.

  Joseph Grey Veil’s face appeared on the screen.

  “Cherijo.”

  I was astonished, and verified the signal once more. It was being transmitted direct relay from wherever Joseph Grey Veil was currently located. “How long have you been relaying this signal?”

  “I have kept an open channel since the last attempt to retrieve you from the Jorenian vessel.”

  “Hear that, Salo?” I asked, knowing the Jorenian was listening in from his console. “Take a good look at this monster. He’s the one who killed our people and burned our kids.”

  “I have killed no one,” my creator said.

  “Did you send Rogan after me?”

  “I do not know anyone named Rogan.”

  This was a waste of oxygen. “What do you want?”

  “How many children have to die before you surrender, Cherijo?” He was a master of delivering guilt. I should have known, I’d been swallowing it most of my life.

  No one may divide the House. “How many more do you plan to murder?” I shot back.

  “My dear-“

  He was dearing me again.

  “I am not ‘your dear.’ I am your clone. Your creation. God, your sister, but not your dear anything!”

  He tried the dignified approach. “You are my dream for humanity.”

  “Yeah?” Despite the guilt I felt, at that moment I knew I could never surrender to him. He’d use what he learned from me to destroy humanity’s natural progress. And Terra would let him. “Well, it’s about time you woke up.”

  “We can exchange insults, or we can reconcile this intolerable situation. The future safety of your colleagues depends on it. The League has found the Sunlace on several previous occasions. We will find you again.”

  “Salo, are you still monitoring?”

  “Yes, Senior Healer.”

  “Good. Tell Dr. Grey Veil what Jorenian warriors do to those who threaten members of their HouseClans.” I smiled at my creator. “Be specific.”

  Salo was happy to oblige. At length. For a quiet man, Salo was an experienced, creative warrior. One who truly enjoyed protecting and avenging his HouseClan.

  Eventually, after a few abortive attempts to interrupt, a much paler Joseph Grey Veil terminated the direct relay.

  Salo broke off his ghastly litany at once and addressed me. “Was I specific enough?”

  “Yep.” I was a little shaken myself. I had no idea a Jorenian warrior could do that many things with the viscera they tore out of a living being. With their claws. “Thank you, Salo.”

  “My pleasure, Senior Healer.”

  I asked him to copy the relay record to the Captain. I sent Pnor my own signal detailing my suspicions about Rogan and his possible connection with the murderer. The rest of my relays were mostly expressions of gratitude from the crew members who hadn’t personally thanked me after the last assault. There were also relays from Reever, Xonea, and Dhreen. I sighed and accessed each one.

  Dhreen challenged me to a game of whump-ball and promised to spot me ten points, seeing as I was “handicapped.” Reever wanted to see me; Xonea requested the same from detainment. The two plagues of my existence could wait. I changed and went to find the Oenrallian.

  Although most of level ten was currently being used as a temporary school, the games area remained available for use. I found Dhreen there, finishing a game with one of the other pilots.

  “Doc!” He tossed a whump-glove in my direction. “I was beginning to think you’d never get out of Medical.”

  The other pilot and I smiled at each other.

  “How many credits has he hustled you for?” I asked.

  “Doc!” Dhreen said, looking wounded.

  “Too many,” the pilot told me as he stripped off his glove and hung it on a dry-rack. “Pilot Dhreen has all the Gods of Luck in his hands.”

  “That, and those devious little spoon-fingers,” I said.

  The pilot departed and I began to set up for a new game. Dhreen circled the table, pretending to eye the angles while he really looked me over. “How are your hands?”

  “Terrible.” I flexed my digits, miming pain and stiffness I didn’t feel. “Spot me fifteen points.”

  “Doc, that would be giving it away.”

  “I thought you were my friend.”

  Dhreen shook his head. “Not for fifteen points.”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Twelve.”

  “Done.” I pulled on the whump-glove and chalked the contacts. The game required skill and strategy in order to direct thirty-three small, brightly colored globes into a series of geometrically aligned pockets. I was getting pretty good at it, too. “Darks or lights?”

  “Darks,” Dhreen said.

  I set up my first shot. The light-colored globe spun out, banked twice and sank into appropriate pocket. “Dhreen, do you plan on staying with the Sunlace?’

  He considered my question while I sank my second globe. “For now.”

  “But not forever. Damn.” I missed a vital angle and the bank on the third globe sent it hurling into the others, scattering the table. “Your shot.”

  Dhreen tugged on his glove and took position opposite mine. The dark globe he selected banked perfectly and sank at once. “Once we reach Varallan, I thought I’d see what sort of transport they build out there.” He made his second shot even faster than the first. “I miss the Bestshot.”

  Dhreen’s vessel, the Bestshot, had been destroyed after he’d been infected with the Core, had tried to leave K-2, and crashed. I didn’t have the same fond memories. It was a miracle that refuse heap had ever maintained a stable flightshield.

  I watched him sink globes three, four, and five. “If you keep this up, I may finance the transport personally.” I waited until he was set to make the sixth shot. “Would you take me with you?”

  “What?” His globe skittered across the table, missed the pocket, and nearly bounced off onto the deck. Dhreen straightened and stared at me. “Did I hear you accurately?”

  “Yeah.” Two light globes were in an excellent position for a double-drop. I took careful aim and executed the intricate shot. Both globes sank.

  Dhreen groaned. “You’ve been practicing.”

  “For weeks,” I said. “Well? Will you?”

  The Oenrallian frowned as he watched me chalk my contacts again. “I thought you liked being the ship’s Doc.”

  “I do.” I sank another globe. “And I don’t.”

  “Females.” Dhreen ran his fingers through his bright orange hair, scratching around his horn-shaped almost-ears.
“You never give a linear answer to an direct inquiry.”

  My fifth shot was not as precise, but a whump-ball table allows for minor deviations. It teetered on the rim of the pocket, then slipped over it.

  “You want a straight answer? Okay.” My sixth globe tore across the table and slammed into the pocket. “I’m tired of people I like risking their lives and dying for me.” I missed the seventh globe.

  “Is that factual? And what am I?” Dhreen repeated his sixth shot. This time the globe found the pocket. “A Larian Flatworm?”

  “Of course not. I’m not asking you to bond for life, just give me a ride.” I looked through the viewport at the distant pinpoints of the stars. Although what that ClanMother had said to me made me feel better, I knew I couldn’t stay on the Sunlace, or Joren. It was simply too dangerous. If an idiot like Rogan could find me, other, smarter beings would. “There has to be a place where they won’t find me.”

  A dark globe made a triple bank, rained my potential seventh shot, and sank. He was insulted.

  “Running won’t resolve anything,” Dhreen said.

  “Yeah, but think of all the fun we could have.”

  The display put out an audio signal. “Caution. Personnel emergency. Senior Healer, report to Medical.”

  “Wonderful.” I tossed my glove on the dry-rack and went to the panel. “Confirmed. I’ll be there shortly.” I turned to Dhreen. “Your game, my friend.”

  “One more shot,” Dhreen said. “I sink mine first, you stay on board the Sunlace. You sink yours first, I’ll transport you. No charge.”

  I eyed the remaining globes and pulled my glove back on. “I see myself staying on board the Sunlace.”

  “Maybe not.” Dhreen grinned. “You said you’ve been practicing.”

  We set up quickly, aimed and shot. Dhreen’s dark globe careened rapidly across the table. Mine banked once and intercepted his, knocking it out of alignment before the light globe fell into a pocket.

  “That’s an auto-penalty!”

  “No, that’s how you sink a globe before your opponent can,” I corrected him, and slapped his glove with mine. “Thanks for the game and the free jaunt. I’ll get back to you about the arrangements.”

  Dhreen glared. “I should have left you in that tavern back on Terra.”

  I took the gyrlift up to Medical, where the nurses were waiting for me. One had Phorap Rogan in restraints. Another was holding an optic scanner over Squilyp’s bleeding, swollen face. The rest of the ward was in an uproar.

  “Quiet!” I took the scanner from the nurse and examined the Omorr myself. “What happened?”

  “Need to talk to you.” Squilyp’s voice was thready with pain. “About the Furinac.”

  “The Furinac can wait. Hold still.” There were crescent-shaped wounds all over his brow, cheeks, and eyelids. The display reflected traces of a chemical compound that was particular corrosive to unprotected Omorr flesh. “How the hell did you get a face full of dermal sanitizer, Squilyp?”

  “Your friend Rogan doesn’t like me, either,” he said.

  I sucked in a quick breath. The curved wounds suddenly made sense-they were the same size and shape as a spray nozzle. His eyes were a mess. Tiny ulcers were already forming on the damaged corneal plates. Blood in the aqueous humor obstructed most of the retina. I doubted he could see an inch past his gildrells.

  “How many times did he hit you with the topical applicator?”

  “I lost count.” Squilyp winced as I tilted his head for a different angle on the injuries.

  “What was he doing with the instrument in the first place?”

  “He grabbed it out of my hand,” the Omorr said. “One minute I had initiated his cleansing, the next he had an arm around my neck and started hammering on me. He’s stronger than he looks.”

  “What is that thing doing here?” I heard Rogan shriek.

  “Excuse me for a moment. Nurse!” I flapped my hand at the nurse restraining Rogan and got her attention. “Sedate that man.”

  “You cannot prescribe for me!” Rogan screamed. “I refuse treatment! You are not a sentient!” The nurse jammed a syrinpress against his thick neck. “No! No! She’s trying... to kill... meee...”

  “Thank you, nurse.” I went back to examining my resident. “What did he think you were scrubbing him down with? Acid?” I put the scanner aside and tilted the Omorr’s head up. I peered at the blistered flesh intently. Contact burns made his derma look bloated and raw. “Tell me someone flushed your eyes out immediately.”

  “They did.” One of his membranes brushed my arm. “I will recover. That is not the problem.”

  “Resident, Senior Healer.” A nurse appeared on the other side of the table. “The Furinac’s condition has begun to deteriorate.”

  I looked from Squilyp to the nurse. “Which Furinac? The old one?” She nodded. Great. Just great. Rogan had just blinded the only competent surgeon on the ship. “Get me the chart.” I turned back to the Omorr. “This the problem you were talking about?”

  “Yes. The Furinac’s monitor went off the same time Rogan did.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad enough. You may have to operate.”

  The elderly Furinac displayed signs of moderate abdominal pain. I couldn’t interview him; the linguistic database had not been completely updated. Reever needed to put in some overtime.

  “Get the Ship’s Linguist down here,” I said. “Tell him to run. And notify Security. I want Rogan moved to detainment.”

  I rescanned the patient. His abdominal wall had gone into spasm. Palpitating it was impossible-his exoskeleton was hard as plasteel. I read no evidence of peristalsis, which meant his intestinal muscles had stopped working. That was bad. The Furinac’s thick peritoneum was badly inflamed. I calibrated the scanner and ran an organs sequence. When I saw the results displayed, I nearly dropped the scanner.

  “Nurse!”

  Two of his stomachs and part of his intestinal tract were perforated. Digestive acid, bacteria, and unprocessed food had been slowly seeping into his abdominal cavity for hours. I stripped off my gloves once Adaola appeared. She took the scanner from me and gasped at the display.

  “Prep him,” I said. “Fast.” I turned and raised my voice to a near-bellow. “Surgical team! Two minutes!”

  I checked on Squilyp once more before I scrubbed. The dermal neutralizer was working, but it would take the regenerators a few days to heal the damage to his eyes.

  “The Furinac?” he asked me.

  “Peritonitis,” I replied. “He needs a double gastrectomy and a partial colectomy, minimum. I’ve got to get into his belly and take a look.” At his frown, I added, “He’s got four stomachs. Don’t worry. He’ll make it.”

  “I’m not concerned about the number of stomachs, Doctor,” the Omorr said. “Your hands.”

  Well, there was that, too.

  “I won’t drop the lascalpel, I promise.” I finished my scan and leaned closer. My voice dropped to a whisper. “If I do, you can have the big desk.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “That’s a first,” I said. It was still so easy to get his gildrells bristling. “Okay, okay. Rest now. I’ll have a nurse bring you regular updates.”

  “Patch my berth terminal into surgery, if you would,” he asked. “I can’t observe, but I can listen in.”

  Reever appeared as I was sterilizing for the procedure.

  “Did you receive my relay?”

  “Not now.” I didn’t have time to have a conversation. I thrust his hands under the sterilizer. “Stop squirming. When you’re clean, gear up.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Put one of those on”-I nodded to the racks of surgical gowns-“and a mask and gloves.” One of his eyebrows arched. “You’re going into surgery with me.”

  “For what reason?”

  I nudged the sterilizer with my knee and shook off my hands. “Furinac physiology is a bit unusual. We can’t put this species under sedation.
” I gloved and masked. “I need you to translate for me while I operate.”

  Reever reluctantly donned the surgical gear. I directed my team to their positions while a nurse wheeled the patient in.

  Furinacs were long-limbed, thick-torsoed humanoids with dark, plated exoskeletons. I suspected if one crossed a horse with a giant beetle, something like a Furinac would result. The patient, whose proboscis was quivering with pain, looked at me with large, multifaceted eyes.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked. Reever translated, his voice taking on a distinct insectile buzz.

  Furinac language reminded me of Dr. Dloh, an arachnid colleague I’d worked with on K-2. The patient hummed something in a weak reply.

  “The Patriarch is experiencing considerable pain and some anxiety,” Reever said. “He would appreciate an explanation as to why you want to access his thorax.”

  “Tell him we have to operate.” I explained the threat of peritonitis and what I planned to do to circumvent it. Reever relayed the information. The Furinac nodded his fuzzy, silvered head. “I know I can’t sedate you completely, nor can I access your gastric compartments without your help. We’ll be doing this together, Patriarch.”

  Once this was translated, the elderly being relaxed and made an affirmative gesture with one of his limbs.

  “Sterile field,” I said. A bioelectric curtain surrounded us. “Administer the neuroparalyzer.” I couldn’t sedate him, but I could make sure he didn’t feel any more pain. “Keep his spiracles oxygenated.” I pulled down the lascalpel and glanced at Reever. “Ask the Patriarch to release his abdominal hinge-plates.”

  The Furinac extended the twin sides of his exoskeleton, which I draped and secured out of the way. The soft, vulnerable underbelly gleamed white in the stark light. I gripped the lascalpel, my fingers feeling like sticks.

  I can do this, I thought.

  “Suction.”

  I made the first incision. The Furinacs have almost no abdominal muscle sheathing, so I penetrated the fat layer quickly.

  “Clamp.”

  Beneath it, the inflamed peritoneum stretched, bulging and purple. A sickly odor rose from the exposed tissue.

  “Tell the Patriarch I am beginning the gastropic inspection.”