Hunted (19 page)

24

HAVING A CHECKUP

Sometime later—I don’t know how long—a knock came at my door. Not a real knock, of course; the person out there had touched the
REQUEST ENTRY plate and the ship-soul had interpreted that signal as knock-knock-knock. You could customize your door signal to anything you want: a bell, a buzzer, a dog barking, whatever suited your fancy. Sam always liked a real knock, soft and deferential, as if the person outside your door was a shy little servant begging permission to take a moment of your time. Naturally, if that was the signal Sam used, I wanted it too. Sort of. I couldn’t remember actually asking for the knock, but Sam had programmed it into my permanent navy records, assuming that’s what I’d want.

Um. All of a sudden, that bothered me. Maybe I should change the knock to a ding-dong. Or a chime. Or one of those frittery bird-chirp sounds. Except as I thought of all the possibilities, it seemed like a lot of work to choose something new when a knock was perfectly okay.

The knock came again. I looked at the peep-monitor and saw Tobit standing there, glowering into the camera’s eye. “Let him in,” I told the ship-soul.

Tobit didn’t stop glowering as he entered, but he aimed the glare at the room rather than me. “Just like my cabin,” he growled, “except you don’t have underwear strewn about the floor for convenience.” He glanced my direction. “You settling in okay? Or do you want me to bug the quartermaster for some doodads to brighten the place up? He’s got some glass figurines that shatter real nice when you throw them against the wall.”

“No thanks.” I gave a sideways glance at the vidscreen on my desk, but it’d gone blank. Sam’s message must have automatically purged itself from the databanks after playing.

“Well,” Tobit said, “if you aren’t busy, Festina wants you down in sick bay. Since you’ve done the do-si-do with hive-queen venom, she wants to make sure you’re all right.” Tobit rolled his eyes. “I’m supposed to be your escort. In case the poison drops you into a writhing heap and you need to be dragged the rest of the way.”

“I’m not going to drop into a writhing heap,” I said.

“Glad to hear it,” Tobit replied. “I’ve got a bum arm, and I hate heavy lifting.”

He motioned me toward the door. It slid open in front of us…and I was just about to step out when Tobit grabbed me by the back of my shirt. With a yank that almost ripped the fabric, he jerked me back into the room and spun me around.

My fists came up of their own accord. Wild ideas dashed through my head—like the whole ship had been spying on me while I listened to Sam’s message, and now Festina and Prope and everyone intended to get me. I came a millisecond away from punching Tobit straight in his purple-veined nose…but he backed up fast and pointed at the floor outside my door.

The deck was covered with carpet—this part of the ship was all prettied up for visiting VIPs—and the carpet had a pattern of red jacaranda trees surrounded by multicolored swirls. For a second I couldn’t see anything where Tobit was pointing; but then, on one of the jacarandas closest to my door, I saw a little fleck of glowing crimson.

“Ship-soul,” Tobit said in a strained voice, “turn off the lights in this corridor.”

The passageway went dark—except for five patches of crimson spores twinkling up from the broadloom. They’d been planted right on five red jacarandas in the carpet’s pattern, where they’d be hard to spot and easy to step on.

“Um,” I said, swallowing hard.

“Kaisho seems to be exfoliating,” Tobit muttered. “I just caught sight of a flicker before you stepped down.”

He flumped on the edge of my bed and lifted his feet to check the soles of his boots. No glowing red dots. “Either I was lucky where I walked,” he said, “or the Balrog knew better than to bite into me. My bloodstream has enough liquor left over from my drinking days to pickle any damned fungus that tries to take root.”

I just kept staring at the glowing specks: one straight in front of my room and two on either side, likely to get stepped on whichever way I turned. “Do you think Kaisho deliberately wanted…I mean, it’s
my
door…”

“York, buddy,” Tobit said, “the fucking moss has a bone on for you. Or Kaisho does. Or both. If you try to buttonhole her, I’m sure she’ll swear it was only a ‘darling wee joke.’ Only teasing, the spores wouldn’t really eat you. Just lick you a bit, then let go…the Balrog’s way of flirting.” He scowled. “Better watch your step, pal—you’ve got all kinds of conquests drooling over you.”

He said that last with a grumbly sort of snappishness: like maybe there was a woman
he
was interested in, except she liked me better. But the only women on
Jacaranda
who’d even seen me were Prope and Kaisho and Festina…

Oh.

“Christ,” Tobit muttered disgustedly, wiping his boots on my floor, even though the soles were already clean. “Let’s call a vacuum cleaner and get the hell out of here. People are waiting for us in sick bay.”

I nodded quietly.

“We aren’t supposed to do this,” the doctor said. Yet another navy kid—in his thirties, but that’s pretty young for an M.D. His name was Veresian and he’d just accessed my medical history. “There’s a note on York’s chart,
NO MEDICAL EXAMINATIONS EXCEPT IN EMERGENCIES. Certified by the Admiralty.
Certified.”

Festina frowned. “That’s ridiculous. Everyone in the fleet gets regular checkups.”

“Not quite true, ah, Admiral, sorry,” Veresian said. “The navy will make exceptions. Usually on religious grounds—Opters, for instance.”

He turned to look at me. The doctor couldn’t straight-out ask who or what I worshiped—not with the navy’s strict policies on religious tolerance—but Opters are never shy about stating their beliefs. Their god disapproves of all medical treatments; you’re supposed to let heaven decide whether or not you recover. (Don’t ask me why a god would create a universe full of medicines, then tell you not to use them. Gods have a real fondness for making great stuff and putting it right under your nose, but saying, “If you love me, leave this alone.” Kind of like my sister hiding her diary in my room so Dad wouldn’t find it.)

By now, everyone in sick bay was looking at me—Veresian, Festina, and Tobit. “I’m not an Opter,” I said. “I’m…um…different.”

“You’re an Explorer, pal,” Tobit replied. “We’re
all
different.”

But I was
illegally
different. I didn’t say that out loud, of course—if there was one thing hammered into my head, it was keeping quiet about how I came to be. Not just because I’d been engineered. If you want the honest truth, I was also a sort of a kind of a clone of my father.

Pretty awful, right? Being
him.

Of course, I wasn’t him exactly—the doctor who designed me started with Dad’s DNA, then fiddled with it to make me better. Samantha was exactly the same as me: the same person exactly, our dad’s clone, except she got an X chromosome where I got a Y.

Which meant she wasn’t the same person at all. Do you know about sex-linked gene deficiencies? Where if you’re a girl you’re all right, but if you’re a boy you don’t get built properly? Sam tried to explain it once with big blowup pictures of actual X and Y chromosomes, but I didn’t feel much like listening. It couldn’t be changed, could it? That was all I needed to know.

Even if Sam couldn’t make me understand how my brain went stupid, she sure made it clear I had to keep everything secret. Cloning had been banned for centuries in the Technocracy, and gene manipulation was strictly limited to fixing “catastrophic disorders”—if you just wanted your kids prettier or smarter, you got thrown in jail.

Worse than that, the children were classified “potentially non-sentient” since no one could predict how a DNA tweak would affect “moral character.” There were just too many variables to calculate…and too many awful examples over the years, people trying to make perfect offspring and ending up with monsters: psychopaths, killers, people whose brains were messed up worse than mine. If the navy knew the truth about Sam and me, we’d never be allowed on a starship again—on the off chance we might suddenly turn crazy and inhuman and non-sentient.

The more I mulled it over, the more I wished I hadn’t let Tobit bring me down to the doctor. But I hadn’t thought things through fast enough.

Sometimes you just get so
tired
of being slow.

“Um,” I said. I knew better than to make up some story of why I shouldn’t be examined. Lies get complicated real fast. It would have been nice if Dad had
told
me about the NO CHECKUPS order so I wasn’t taken completely by surprise; but of course he hadn’t. All I could do was mumble, “My father didn’t like doctors looking at me too much. It bothered him.”

Festina gave me a sympathetic look. She probably thought my dad was an Opter, and I was all embarrassed about it. “Don’t worry,” she told me, “if you’re allowed to have medical exams in an emergency, I’d say this counts. You’ve had two doses of hive-queen venom, Edward, and that’s serious business. Only a few humans have ever suffered venom poisoning, but several ended up with chronic metabolic imbalances. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

Veresian looked flustered by the question. It’s tough being a doctor in the Outward Fleet—every new planet that humans visit has a thousand diseases nobody’s seen before. The medical databanks have write-ups on millions of ways to get sick, and for many there’ve only been three or four cases ever. Veresian couldn’t possibly hold all that information in his head. If he was like other doctors, he looked up what he needed when he needed it…and at this moment, he knew absolutely zero about Mandasar venom.

Too bad. Festina was an Explorer, and Explorers did their homework.

Veresian mumbled, “Yes, yes, dirty stuff, that venom.” He looked at Festina once more, then decided you seldom went wrong agreeing with an admiral. “Definitely, we can say this qualifies as an emergency. Definitely.” He turned to me. “Could you take off your shirt, please, Explorer?”

“Do I have to?”

“Come on,” Tobit growled, “forget about your dad hating doctors. No matter how loony he is, your old man wouldn’t want you to Go Oh Shit.”

Going Oh Shit was a term Explorers used for dying.
My father wouldn’t care if I
went
Oh Shit,
I thought,
as long as I just went.
On the other hand, Dad
had
let me see a doctor now and then. And it wasn’t like a sign would flash BIO
-
ENGINEERED CLONE the moment I hopped onto the examination table. Veresian wouldn’t find anything suspicious unless he went to the trouble of sequencing my entire genome…and why would he do that?

“Okay,” I grumbled, and began unbuttoning.

Festina and Tobit watched as the doctor listened to my heart and looked down my throat Veresian was just passing the time—while he mucked about with a stethoscope, sensors around the room were taking far more detailed readings and checking them against every possible index in the databanks—but Sam always said people were suckers for personal attention. “Medicine is nine-tenths showmanship,” she once told me, “just like diplomacy.”

The doctor wasn’t the only one providing a show. After all,
I
was the one with my shirt off; and neither Festina nor Tobit made a move to leave when the examination started. They weren’t gawking or anything, but…well, actually, yes, they
were
gawking, particularly when Veresian got me to take deep breaths. I told myself they must come from parts of the Technocracy where people weren’t all self-conscious about their bodies. Even so, if the examination headed below the waist, I didn’t want a bunch of spectators.

Especially not Festina.

Veresian finished with the simple stuff and went to his terminal to see what the mechanical sensors had found out. While he scanned the readout, I tried not to scratch an itch that all of a sudden flared up on the soft inside of my elbow. I assumed nanites were at work there, sneaking under the skin and sipping blood from my veins—not so different from the eyeball nano that had burrowed into the queen’s venom sacs.

All navy sick bays had nanotech squads floating in the air, like little labs for doing blood analysis, taking tissue samples, and that kind of stuff. The medical computers had probably sent microscopic sensors scrambling toward my internal organs, swimming down my throat to lungs or stomach, in search of more data. I wasn’t sure how much time they needed to do their jobs—it must take a fair while to
find
the spleen, let alone do a bunch of tests on it—but bit by bit they’d send reports to the main computers, telling how my innards measured up.

“Well,” said Veresian after only a few seconds, “well, well, well.”

“Well what?” Festina asked.

The doctor glanced at her a moment, then back at the readouts. “There’s just…ahh…maybe it’s time to recalibrate.” He thumbed a few dials on the control panel, then gave us a false smile. “Time to run diagnostics on the diagnostics. That happens sometimes.”

Festina gave him a look. “How
often
does it happen?”

“Not often but sometimes.”

“This goddamned navy,” Tobit muttered.

He and Festina looked deeply suspicious, but said nothing. No one in the Outward Fleet was immune to machines going off kilter—not doctors, not Explorers, not admirals—so you had to give Veresian some benefit of the doubt. Tobit watched the doctor play with the control panel, while Festina glowered at no one in particular. Finally, she glanced at me and said, “You’re feeling all right?”

“I’m fine.”

She gave a half smile. “You look fine.” Then she turned away from my bare chest to watch Veresian tinker with his equipment.

Five minutes later, the doctor finished recalibrating, realigning, reprogramming, reinitiating.

Five minutes after that, Veresian swallowed, and said, “There you are, same results as last time. This patient is definitely not human.”