Regeneration (Czerneda) (56 page)

T
HE 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.”

“Just destroy it,” ordered
Se
Ferenlaa. As the first blast bubbled its way through the object’s outer casing,
se
monitored the signal detector. “Again. Good. It’s silenced.”

Se
flipped
se-self
around and flowed up the crevice, pausing beneath the signs citing rates and regulations, ignoring the agitated flutters from the banished tourists clinging overhead. The Teinsmon Trickle was always busy, being one of the must-do wonders of this region. It wasn’t
se’s
fault that those waiting for the all-clear had paid a truly ridiculous sum for the privilege of hanging for an hour within its mineral-laden sprays.

Missing one of the transmitters would be.

Their Sinzi-ra had made that clear. The outgoing signal must be stopped.

The Trisulians—
may their offspring rot within their bodies
—had arranged for an unknown number of the devices to be strewn about the Frow homeworld. Most had been sold as landscaping ornaments, their black polished into a smooth hemisphere that could be affixed on a wall among rooted flowering climbers. Quite fetching, if cheap. Those had been easily traced and destroyed.

But the rest were of the type
se
hunted, dropped into shadows by Trisulian tourists. They’d known where to start looking—no Sinzi-ra let aliens wander a homeworld unremarked—but they hadn’t found them all before the transmissions began.

Calling the Dhryn.

It had become a race against death. While ordinary citizens went about their business, unaware their world was at risk, those with the right training were given detectors and ordered to climb wherever a device might be hidden, to find and destroy it.
Se
Ferenlaa installed home com systems, with
se’s
sib-cousin’s dubious help. Close enough, they’d told him.

Se
held out the detector, hoping they’d found the last here.
No. Another signal, nearby.
“Come!” Relieved
Ne
Liani hadn’t noticed the admiration of the spectators—such things turned a young Frow’s head—
se
led the way as rapidly as
se’s
older limbs could move, leaving safer paths in favor of any shortcut that beckoned.

A planet-wide evacuation was impossible. Those of highest rank were told, but refused to leave.
Se
shared their pride. Frow clung fast and would not willingly fall.

When no handhold offered,
se
threw
se-self
forward and down in hopes of one, membranes out and humming, sulfur-stained rock flashing past.
Se’s
claws snatched at one grip, then another, finally latching on to a barely perceptible crack. Making sure all four limbs were secure,
se
looked for
ne.

“Right here, sib-cousin,” came the reply.
Ne
Liani passed
se,
moving with easy grace.

Se
checked the detector. “It’s above us. There. Sixty-four.”

The Trisulian had shoved the transmitter in a fissure near one of the larger trickles, the rocks to either side carved by the claws of the generations of Frow who’d sought miracles from the spring.

Ne
recorded the number. “Sixty-four. Shall I destroy it now?”

Se
wanted to grab the acid pack and do it
se-self
. “Yes, yes! But climb above it first, fool!”

“There’s no need to be insulting, sib-cousin.”

Ne
even pouted beautifully.
Se
clung to the rock and swore to talk to
mater
if they survived this. “Just do it. Please. Quickly.”

Ne
Liani pumped the spray.

Se
Ferenlaa stared at the detector. “Again.”

“Again. Hurry!”

It was silenced.
Se
climbed higher and checked.
Nothing.
Hardly daring to hope,
se
went to where cliff ended in the deadly flat land above and held out the detector.

They’d done it. Here at least.

Se
put away the detector and climbed down to where
ne
waited. Without a word,
se
carefully stripped, hanging hat and uniform on the provided hooks.
Se
slipped into the nearest glistening trickle of water and relaxed.

“Sib-cousin. We haven’t paid!”

Se
Ferenlaa sighed. Maybe
ne
had a future in ticket sales.

At least now,
ne
might have a future.

The Call ends. The path is lost. The Great Ships pause.

All that is Dhryn is endangered. There is no life but that which is Dhryn.

The Progenitors call for Vessels, seek accommodation.

But that which is Dhryn understands the Truth.

One must survive the Great Journey.

 

 

 

M
AC WASN’T SURE if she was escorting one corpse or two to the
Annapolis Joy.
The Wasted, now curled at her feet, had grown quieter and more still throughout the journey. She hoped it was
hathis,
the Dhryn healing comalike sleep. She feared it was simply the end.

The lev continued, attached somehow to Halpern’s shuttle. She couldn’t switch to the surround view Norris had installed, which meant she sat in a box for the duration.
A very quiet box.
She’d told Halpern “Charlie” was sleeping. In turn, he’d expressed concern over who else might be able to listen. They’d agreed on silence.

The return didn’t take as long as she’d remembered, despite having napped on the way out. Halpern’s relieved, “about to dock, Mac,” announcement startled her.

Mac sat straight. “And me without a shower,” she muttered to herself, wrinkling her nose. Most of the stink came from her clothes. Sweat and vomit.
Lovely.
A brush of one hand did nothing for the overlapped stains of Human and Dhryn blood.
The hand was bloody, too.

Her knees glistened with slime. The corpse didn’t. She frowned at it thoughtfully.
Useful stuff, slime.
A healthy salmon wore a protective coat of it. Salamanders breathed through it. Slugs glided on a road of it. Nothing quite matched her observations.
Can’t assume it’s natural slime anyway,
she scolded herself, postponing any investigation until much later.

Moving around the lev was awkward, given the need to avoid contact with alien parts. Mac tiptoed and side-stepped to her backpack. Once there, she took out her water bottle and used what was left in it to wet her face and hands. She used the backpack itself as a makeshift towel, having to trust the end result wasn’t worse.

Physically, she was in better shape than her clothing. Food was a distant concern; just looking at the corpse made her queasy. Emotionally, she was numb and content to remain so for a while longer.

Mentally, though, she’d reached the state Emily referred to as “crabby” and Mudge had frequently decried as “utterly unreasonable.”

She’d ordered Halpern to bring them into the hangar set aside for Ureif and his consulate, using the premise the Sinzi would want to meet her anyway so it saved time and travel.

Hollans might have found a walker on Earth. He might even plan to share.

Halpern, concerned about “Charlie,” assured her he’d called ahead for a med team to meet them.

Mac’s lips stretched in what wasn’t a smile.
Weren’t they going to be surprised?

“Unlock the door, Dr. Connor.”

Mac hugged her knees and didn’t budge from the passenger seat.
All well and good to have a plan,
she thought ruefully.
Until no one listened.

Halpern, either doubting the sanity of a certain biologist, or following the orders of someone whose sanity he did trust, had ignored her request and returned them to the same hangar from which Norris had left. The Human part of the ship. And now a very familiar voice shouted at her through the com system.

“Dr. Connor,” Cayhill said, for the fourth time. “Open this door! Let me attend to Mr. Mudge!”

Funny how the best lie could come back to bite you,
sighed Mac. She supposed he knew better than to pound his fists on metal, realizing she wouldn’t hear it, but the image had its charm. “I’ve told you, Cayhill. I’m waiting for the Sinzi-ra,” she said, for the fifth time. “It’s not a hard concept.”

A new voice. “Norcoast!”

Mac winced. “Oversight.”

She waited for it.

Right on cue.
“Charlie Mudge?” The words came out in a sputtering bullroar that had to hurt the man’s throat.

The answering
harrumph
was that signature mix of dignified offense. “I am not ‘Charlie.’ ”

“And you aren’t on this ship with Dr. Connor, gravely injured.”

“Idiot! Of course he’s not.”