Regeneration (Czerneda) (51 page)

 

 

 

H
ER PILLOW WAS SOAKED.
Tears.
Her clothes were as well.
Sweat.
Mac slipped the new
lamnas
on her middle finger and ignored how both hands trembled. She looked up at the next ring, sitting like harmless jewelry beside the salmon carving, and fought for the courage to touch it.

Nik’s messages, Nik’s memories, were startlingly vivid now.
Practice makes perfect.
“His or mine or both.” The information might be easier to sort through and understand—at least, she thought so.

But the emotional load was growing worse. Between his passions and her reactions to them, she felt as exhausted as if she’d somehow run a complete marathon in the last few minutes.

Her eyes swam with tears again; she let them run down her face and over her ears.
Poor Genny.
She’d been the most frail. Likely a factor.

Honest grief, honest joy. Nik was alive. The Vessel was alive.

The “easy part.”
Mac reached for the second
lamnas
. She had the impression Nik doubted it had worked.
Using a broken one couldn’t be good.
“I’m not feeling braver,” she warned it, “but you know what they say about curiosity and biologists.”

She brought the ring to her lips, then looked.

—
S
HE HEARD THE OCEAN—

Waves crashed against cliff; seabirds screamed overhead; thunder rolled along the shore . . . under it all drummed a word.

 

*
layered over
*

 

—She tasted bile—

Her teeth drove into her brother’s flesh; her mouth flooded with heat; she swallowed life . . . within it all pulsed a word.

“Survival.”

 

*
layered over
*

 

—She felt the cells of her body—

Stomach, ridged and acid; muscle tight with power; skin, the boundary line of who and what she was . . . through it all hammered a word.

“Truth.”

 

 

 

M
AC FLUNG HERSELF to the side of her bed in time for the first uncontrolled spew to hit floor, not fabric. time for the first uncontrolled spew to hit floor, not

By the fourth, she no longer cared where it went. She hung from one hand on the desk, her other having found purchase somewhere on the floor. The ship spun in huge looping circles and she was about to fall off. Her head pounded with a blinding white pain. Her gut persisted in its belief she had more to vomit.

Between spasms, Mac counted each successful breath. When she reached five, she concluded she wasn’t going to die after all.
More’s the pity.
When she reached ten, she opened her eyes.

A few arduous moments later, she managed five again. Ten. But this time she waited for twenty peaceful breaths before peering between almost closed eyelids.

No vomit.

If she didn’t count the stabbing sensation behind her eyes.
Sensitive to light.

Working toward simple goals such as continuing to breathe, avoiding direct light, and hoping the ship would stop moving soon, Mac managed to sit up. Swaying in that position, she congratulated herself.

Then realized what had happened.

“She knew . . .” A whisper that hurt her poor head.
The Progenitor must have talked to Nik about the
lamnas,
what they were
.

The proof clawed its way through Mac’s every pore. Dhryn thought and memory fought for space within her mind, as if she’d been turned inside out.

And the proof of that . . . ? She cracked open her eyes a smidge more to see the disaster she’d made of her new quarters. “Bother.”

First things first.
With one arm tight around her abused middle, and her hand shading her eyes, Mac staggered to the shower and stepped inside. Once there, she pushed her head into the jets and kept the water and soap running—first over her clothes, then over each subsequent layer as she stripped to skin. With regret, she kicked the once-lovely suit to the side.

Next, she turned the room lights to minimum and used her wet clothing to mop most of the mess from the floor, slipping the sodden mass into disposal sacks. Moving at the mindless task worked some of the knots from her neck and abdomen.
Though she’d feel those muscles tomorrow.

Mac set the air refresh to maximum, crossing her fingers the reek of almost-dead biologist wouldn’t simply be pumped to some other room and noticed. Gooseflesh rose on her skin and she rooted through her bags to find something that wasn’t silk or suit.

At the bottom of one, plain coveralls—similar to those worn by the crew. “I’ll never complain about your packing again, Two,” she promised the consular staff as she pulled the garment on. Wanting to be quite sure to remember which was which, she put the fourth ring on her left hand.
Quite the collection.
Mac considered putting the
lamnas
on a chain around her neck. But they weren’t jewelry. They weren’t an imp or mem-sheet. They were pieces of Nik, intimate and hers.

Plus that other. She explored those memories with care, like probing a sore tooth with her tongue. And found a question.

Being unable to tell scared her. Mac rested two fingers on her lips and mouthed, “The rain at Base . . . two three four.” First in English, then Instella. Last, and with reluctance, Dhryn.
Oomling Dhryn.

The oomlings.
She sank into her chair, the words in Nik’s voice blending with that perverse mix of hunger and desperate remorse until she knew, beyond doubt, one truth. The Progenitor, the future of her kind, was sacrificing the existing generations in order to survive.

Even She would break,
Mac realized. No matter this Progenitor’s desire to avoid killing others, instinct would rule before the end. And what of the other Dhryn, hiding within the transect system? “That which is Dhryn must survive,” she whispered.

Their crew escort left them at the door. Norris continued to give her sidelong looks as they walked through the
Annapolis Joy’s
hangar deck. Finally, Mac couldn’t take it any longer. “What’s the matter?”

“You look awful.”

No surprise there.
She felt awful. Having a Progenitor try to stuff meaning inside her head through a Sinzi device had produced a headache that continued to mock the heavy-duty painkillers she’d gulped on the way to meet him.

Mac wanted to explain, but “Dhryn brain” was too dangerous and “simulator hangover” was petty under the circumstances. “Lunch didn’t agree with me,” she said, which was undeniably the case.
The mere thought of eating . . .
”

She’d chosen to intercept Norris on his way to the Origins section. It had given her time to begin to sort through her new thoughts, and, more importantly to Mac, removed any possibility of him appearing at her quarters before they were cleaned.

After passing several large, promising craft, with uniformed crew bustling around them, Norris stopped by what looked to Mac like an ordinary transport lev, about the size used to ferry weekly supplies to Base.
With,
she noticed,
dents
.

Norris opened the door and climbed in. “C’mon,” he said impatiently.

Without committing her feet to the ramp, Mac leaned forward to look inside. Other than mismatched seats for pilot and passenger, there was nothing but recording equipment—some mounted to the walls, some loose. There was also no other person, and Norris was climbing into the pilot’s seat.

So not always behind a desk.
“You’re the pilot?”

“Of course.” He busied himself with an alarming number of switches. Lights came on and a complex ’screen activated to hover in front of him. “It’s my ship.”

Mac pointed toward the hangar’s launch bay. “It’s space out there.” She thought that came out nicely matter-of-fact, but he stopped what he was doing to gaze down his nose at her.

“We have a slim margin of opportunity, Dr. Connor. If you don’t feel capable of accompanying me, stay here.”

She rested her hand on the side of the lev in apology. “It seems a little small.”

“To maneuver around obstacles.” His hand caressed the console. “Are you coming or not?”

He didn’t appear suicidal,
she told herself. As reassurance, it did nothing to steady her nerves, but Mac climbed up the ramp and took her seat, tossing her pack underneath. “Of course.”

Norris closed the door behind her. As he continued his final checks and preparations, Mac glanced around.

This “lev” was different from those that moved through air. For one thing, the roof wasn’t retractable.
Brilliant,
she scoffed at herself. For another, there were no windows. It was really like being inside a box.

She concentrated on relaxing in the passenger seat, leaning back with her eyes closed. The position—or the painkillers—began to make progress on her headache. After a few minutes, it faded into a sullen throb.

The craft lurched forward.
The tow to launch.

She didn’t bother watching Norris deal with that either. Her stomach gave a gentle gurgle, the kind that meant it was willing to try something when she was.
Progress.

The lurching ended in sudden smoothness, then Norris gave a satisfied, “There we are. Take a look, Dr. Connor.”

Mac opened her eyes. She didn’t scream, but the sound that did come out of her mouth before she closed it had a good deal in common with that made by an offended mouse.

She was
in
space.
Without a ship!

Hands tight on the armrests, Mac took a deep breath.
Something wasn’t right. She was getting air.

But the roof and walls she’d found so comforting had become transparent. Mac glanced down and looked up again quickly.
So had the floor.

Norris’ little craft had transformed into a bubble containing themselves, his packed equipment, and what bits of console he needed to consult. Interior lighting was reduced to that provided by his ’screen.

“Not a box,” she said rather glibly.

“Warn me if you’re going to be sick. I’ve bags.”

Mac began to take in what was around them, twisting her head to see more. “I’m fine.”