Beyond Varallan (12 page)

Nodding, I set the drone to record. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

“Proceed.”

After squelching a sigh, I began to recite the facts for the record: “Postmortem examination of Roelm Torin, Jorenian male, fifty-one years in age. Body is 210.5 centimeters in length. Weight 173.5 kilograms upon admission.” I checked the exam pad monitor. “Distention of body is consistent with acute ascites.”

Tonetka made the necessary dermal scans. I adjusted my lascalpel and made the incision from throat to pelvis. I glanced at my boss from the edge of my mask. Her brows made a single dark slash above haunted white eyes. The scanner shook a little in her fingers.

“Abdominal cavity is distinctly enlarged, with marked dermal striae.” I selected my clamps. Counted the number of injection sites where Tonetka had administered a battery of drugs. “Seven dermal breaches, consistent with application of syrinpress nozzles. Four circular bruises on upper torso, consistent with anti-mortem application of stimulator pads.”

The Jorenian woman made a bitter gesture.

I switched off the recorder. “Tonetka. Come on. You can’t keep blaming yourself for this.”

She shook her head, reached over, and turned the recorder back on. Sure she could.

I clamped back the skin flaps while Tonetka prepared the rib-extension unit. I cut through the tough inner abdomen cavity lining. Fluid shimmered beneath the laser in a black pool. That was odd. Jorenian blood didn’t turn black, even when it coagulated.

“I don’t see his ribs,” she muttered.

“Internal viscera and skeleton are obscured by what appears to be necrotic fluid.“ I took a sample. ”Suction, please.“ Tonetka applied the extractor’s tip and evacuated the fluid for what seemed like an hour.

The internal organs didn’t appear. Neither did the bones. We exchanged a look, and she shut down the extractor's pump.

“Scanning to detect current position of internal organs.” I ran the series, then handed the scanner to Tonetka and grabbed a surgical probe.

Her mouth grew tight as she read the display. “This data is in error.”

“It better be.” Even as I said that, the instrument in my hand indicated otherwise.

I discarded the probe and pushed the lascalpel rig to one side. The Senior Healer averted her gaze as I put my gloved hand into Roelm’s body, and searched with my own fingers. The black fluid felt thick and cold.

“Tonetka.
Tonetka
.” She didn’t want to hear this, but we had to include it in the data record. “His internal organs are missing. His ribs. Everything. They're
gone
.”

“Mother of All Houses.” Tonetka pushed away from the exam table, and yanked off her mask. “This cannot be. I ran full organ scans immediately after death. All were intact, as was the skeletal structure.”

That was yesterday’s news. I wanted to know what had happened to this man's body
today
. I stripped off my ruined gloves and sterilized my hands before donning a fresh pair.

Something occurred to me, a thought that made me swallow my own bile. “Tell me you ran a biodecon scan.”

“Several. All negative.”

My nausea receded an inch or two. “Let’s run another one.”

During the epidemic on K-2, I’d watched thousands die from a contagion that had not only been undetectable, but sentient to boot. No matter how minute the possibility of a pathogen was, I'd learned my lesson.

Roelm’s readings came up contagion-free again. However, every internal organ, along with all of the bone, muscles, and tissue in the Engineer's body had been destroyed. Only the tough subdermal cartilage sheath had kept the epidermis from dissolving from the inside out, but that was beginning to liquefy, too. A comparison with the organ series taken immediately after death confirmed Tonetka’s statement. Roelm had died with his body intact.

Lymphedema didn’t do this kind of damage. I couldn't stop thinking about the K2V1 epidemic, and scanned for the specialized white cells that engulfed viral particles when an immune response was triggered. The display reflected no macrophage trace. Lymphocytes were slightly elevated, but that could have been brought on any number of minor conditions

“No virus I know of could cause this kind of corrosive damage.” I had an idea of what could. “I’ll have to analyze the lymphocytes to be sure they weren't invaded.”

“Have you examined the syrinpress Adaola used to administer the diuretic?” Tonetka asked while she drew several samples of the fluid.

I nodded and tugged down my mask. “I’ll take another look at it later.”

“What do you believe you will find?”

I stalled. “No allergy could have done this.”

“Cherijo.”

“All right.” I placed my scanner on a side console and faced the Senior Healer. “I don’t think Roelm was injected with a
diuretic
before he walked out of Medical.”

CHAPTER FIVE
Soft Spots

«
^
»

T
wo days later we held a ceremony for Roelm. Before I left to attend, I discharged one educator and arranged to have the remaining patients monitor the service via their bedside terminals.

Tonetka signaled to remind me to get a move on. Her voice sounded strained.

“Are you going to make it through this?” I asked as soon as I saw her. She looked ready to embrace a few stars herself.

“I… will be well. Make haste, Cherijo, or you will be late.”

I checked out and hurried to my quarters to put on my ceremonial robes. It was in one of the HouseClan shades of blue, a dark shade that matched the color of my eyes. I didn’t like wearing it. Out of respect for Roelm, and because Tonetka needed support, I pulled the voluminous garment over my head.

My reflection made me sigh.

The other crew members would wear similarly shaded robes. They’d look like they always did: stately, regal, and much better than me. Only Tonetka would wear black, the color I associated with mourning from Terran customs. The color of the first life, as someone told me, was required to be worn in her role as Roelm's Speaker.

Dying didn’t scare these people. On the contrary. In the Jorenian culture, deaths were celebrated as the beginning of another journey. It was a nice way to think about it, I suppose.

To me, death tended to be a personal insult.

Roelm’s body would be placed in a special receptacle, the Jorenian version of a coffin, which during the ceremony was fired from the ship into the corona of the nearest star. When the Jorenians said they embraced the stars, they meant business.

I hurried down to level ten, where the ceremonial chamber was located. Captain Pnor must have put the
Sunlace
on auto-stardrive, from the size of the crowd. Most of the crew were assembled and waiting.

Roelm’s ClanSiblings performed the traditional preparations of the body first. On the center dais, they formed a circle around the receptacle, and danced as they wove fine, silvery strands of yiborra grass to bind the outer panels.

As I watched the receptacle shroud taking form, I recalled how Roelm had been so embarrassed to admit he’d been studying Jorenian weaving. I'd go down and access his environome program later. That would be my way of saying good-bye.

The rest of the assembly chanted a harmony that I felt throb deep in my bones. Their voices were so solemn, yet joyous. No one wept. HouseClan Torin honored their dead with smiles and happiness.

I didn’t try to fake a smile. I wasn't happy.

Once a complex web of silver encased Roelm’s receptacle, the song dwindled away. In silence, the ClanSiblings bowed to an oversized vid screen that had been lowered from an upper deck. I watched as Roelm's bondmate offered her blessing for his new journey via direct relay from Joren.

I had done this, for Kao. Worn the same iridescent “journey” robe. Said the same words.

The anguish I’d thought had begun to pass twisted like a fresh blade inside me.

Kao, killed by my own blood.

The NessNevat girl, dead before I could touch her.

Dra Torin’s voice shook as she repeated the ancient words. “From your bondmate, your heart, can only come what is bright and beautiful and honorable. You and I will never lose each other…”

As Dra continued with the ritual blessing, Roelm’s receptacle slid into the ejection tube. As the receptacle was fired into space, I closed my eyes.

Roelm was gone.

Tonetka mounted the dais to address the assembly. Her face looked terribly strained. New, thicker streaks of purple had appeared in her dark hair.

My God, I thought. She’s
trembling
. What had Roelm told her that could be
that bad
?

“I speak for the son of this House, Roelm Torin. His words were given to me, to be brought to those he honored. I bring them with joy.”

No, she didn’t. Everyone could see that.

Duncan Reever had said those same words weeks before, for Kao. Distracted by the memory, I scanned the assembly for him. Was he here or had he decided to skip—

There. A few yards away, Reever looked back at me. Was that sympathy in his eyes? Sure enough. I snapped my head around, rigid and furious. He had no right to feel sorry for me. It required a heart. He didn’t have one.

The Senior Healer’s skilled hands bunched at her sides as she delivered the traditional farewell. As she did, her white eyes scanned the assembly, alighting on Captain Pnor. The man in charge of the
Sunlace
must have sensed the same thing I had, for he began to approach the dais. Tonetka shook her head slightly, and Pnor halted. Her voice rose, loud and strong.

“I charge the HouseClan Torin with my last request: Find the one who has sabotaged the
Sunlace
.”

I’d never thought six hundred people could jump out of their footgear simultaneously. I was wrong. There was a collective gasp. Some startled exclamations. Not a single eye moved from the dais.

“One who is not one of us has deliberately damaged this vessel. My warning must be heeded, or more paths will be diverted. Find the traitor and invoke the right of ClanKill. Farewell and safe journey. I embrace the stars.”

All hell broke loose.

Hands made savage gestures I’d never seen before. Faces reflected undiluted fury. Hard voices demanded something be done. Tonetka descended from the dais, looking ancient and exhausted. Captain Pnor rushed to her side.

No wonder my boss had dreaded this ceremony. Who wanted to enrage six hundred or more Jorenians? Against each other, for that matter?

I remembered Darea and Salo’s reaction to Squilyp's verbal indiscretion, and multiplied that by three hundred. Maybe it was time for me to get out of here. I'd lock myself in my quarters until the Torins calmed down. Say a few weeks.

Someone seized my arm, and I nearly jumped out of
my
footgear.

My ClanBrother loomed over me. “Come with me, Healer.”

Xonea swiftly guided me from the ceremonial chamber. I didn’t pay attention to where we were headed. I was too relieved to be out of there, and still pondering exactly what had just happened.

Find the one who has sabotaged the
Sunlace. A saboteur, on board the ship? What would make him believe such a thing? There were those engine problems just before he’d died. But what made Roelm go from worrying over malfunctioning transductors to accusations of sabotage?

My warning must be heeded, or more paths will be diverted
. If Roelm was right, certainly lives were at stake.
Find the traitor and invoke the right of ClanKill
. What did that part mean? Was he asking the entire HouseClan to kill whoever was doing this?

And what exactly had he meant by
one who is not one of us
?

I was so wrapped up in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the door panel that closed behind me. Xonea's voice finally got through my preoccupation.

“Healer.”

Reality snapped back into focus. I looked around, and discovered we were alone, in his quarters. The very
last
place on the ship I wanted to be alone with Xonea.

At once I chided myself. Xonea was my ClanBrother. I was as safe here as I was in, say, Squilyp’s quarters. As long as Xonea didn't think
I
was the culprit. If he did, my life wasn't worth a vocollar franchise on Terra.

“Nice place,” I said while prudently hovering near the only exit.

His rooms were arranged with the harmonious elegance I’d come to expect from the Jorenians. Furnishings upholstered with countless shades of HouseClan Torin blue. Xonea's weapons collection was seriously impressive, judging from the amount he had displayed on the walls. That, or his quarters doubled as this level's armory.

Besides the guns, knives, and other virulent-looking items, there were mementos of alien cultures. I caressed a dense cluster of transparent nodules and snatched my hand back as alien music spilled into the air.

“Hey! What’s this?”

“A singing prism from Udarc,” Xonea said.

I saw the look on his face and took an automatic step back toward the door panel. “Um, why don’t we do this another time?”

“No, it must be now.”

“I just remembered I have to—”

“Cherijo.” He pointed to a large divan. “Sit. I will explain.”

An enraged Jorenian never offered to chat, so I relaxed and sat down. He offered refreshment. I politely accepted a server of jaspkerry tea. He paced over to the viewport and stared out at the stars for a long time. I sipped my tea, and tried not to wrinkle my nose at the overly sweet taste. Ugh, how did he stomach this stuff day in, day out? And why was he being so quiet now?

“Xonea.” He turned around. “What’s wrong? Besides Tonetka's Speaking, that is?”

He crossed the room and sat down beside me. What little space there was on the divan abruptly vanished. This close to him, I felt as small as Jenner. His hand rested over mine. Another point in my favor. Jorenians did not hold hands with someone they intended to pound into the decking.