Regeneration (Czerneda) (61 page)

Mac walked into the Wasted’s infirmary and stopped, astonished. The bed had been banished to a corner. In its place was a large wheeled platform, in turn supporting what looked like a miniature escape pod.

“The Lost Soul rests within,” Kudla said helpfully. He and his disciples were the only ones in the room. They’d pulled chairs around a table and were, Mac blinked, playing cards. As ordered, the candles were gone. Now the room held dozens of knee-high brown statues of what appeared to be frogs, mouths open.
Didn’t anyone check their luggage?
she thought wildly. “Take a look,” he suggested, pointing at the pod.

She began to frown, but went to peer through one of its windows.

The Wasted was floating in midair, tubes connected to various parts of his anatomy. His body, bathed in a pinkish light, had lost more flesh, something Mac would have deemed impossible. Only the barely perceptible rise and fall of his torso hinted at life.

So much for shaking him awake,
she thought.

“Where’s Cayhill?”

“He and the Myg went to commune with the planet. I assured them we could help, but they weren’t interested. Can you imagine?”

The disciples exchanged glances and shrugged at one another as if to show they certainly couldn’t.

She could.
“Where’s the orderly?”

“The doctor said it was a waste of personnel and set up remote monitors instead. We,” this with great dignity, “would not abandon the Lost Soul.”

As the “Lost Soul” appeared unlikely to notice a fire, let alone the existence of other life in the room, Mac merely nodded and left.

She found Cayhill where she’d expected, leaning over the shoulder of the officer assigned to the new communications room.
The room she hadn’t been able to use yet.

“MacMacMacMacMac . . .” Five offspring warbled a greeting and scampered toward her from several directions. The sixth sat down on the floor, its eyes scrunched with effort. Just as Mac worried about the carpeting, it opened its eyes and let out a triumphant “Mac!” of its own, running to her.

Oh, good,
she thought wryly.
Now they can all talk.

“Dr. Connor.” Cayhill studied her for a moment, then looked back at whatever engrossed the com-tech. “About time.”

Mac settled warm bundles of offspring on shoulders and hips, resisting the urge to toss a couple his way.
The offspring didn’t deserve it.
“He looks more comfortable. How long does he have?”

Cayhill glanced up again, this time with a frown. “What are you talking about?”

Was she in the wrong room?
Even the com-tech was giving her an odd look. “Before he dies,” Mac clarified. “The Wasted.”

“Idiot!” Unensela breezed by Mac, heading for Cayhill. “About time you got here.”

The offspring, perhaps feeling the tensing of every muscle in Mac’s body, chose that moment to launch themselves toward the female Myg. She, now busy at the console, expertly shoved them aside with one foot.

“I’m guessing there’s something you two want to tell me,” Mac said firmly, walking around to the other side of the console to confront them. At their blank looks, she pointed to the wall behind which the Wasted floated in his pod. “About him.”

“I’ll take a break,” offered the com-tech, beginning to rise. Unensela and Cayhill took a shoulder each and pressed the poor man back into his seat.

“Stay on it. We need this data.” Cayhill nodded to the side, and Mac followed him.

“Dr. Connor,” he told her in a low voice. “I found no signs of injury, beyond the old amputations and present skin damage. I found no signs of illness. My patient isn’t sick. He’s starving. There’s no reason to believe with a proper course of nutrients—”

“With all due respect,” Mac interjected, not bothering to keep her voice down, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. This isn’t some malnourished infant, Dr. Cayhill. This is a failed metamorphosis.”

“Says who?”

She stared at him. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.” Cayhill did smug as well as any Myg of Mac’s acquaintance. “You told me yourself there isn’t a medical database for this species. I see no justification for invoking some—some species’ superstition over normal diagnostic procedure. All indicators show my patient is suffering from a lack of certain key nutrients. Unensela has been assisting me to identify those, with the help of a team of paleoecologists on the planet.”

Mac shook her head. “Dhryn metamorphosis is no superstition, Cayhill.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t say it was. If you insist we assume this individual is indeed undergoing a fundamental reorganization of his physiology, my argument only becomes stronger. Developmental deficiencies arise in Humans if there is an insufficiency of particular nutrients during that growth period. We could be seeing this pattern in the patient. Thus his metamorphosis isn’t flawed—it is incomplete.” When she didn’t look convinced, he continued, “You work with fish, don’t you? Do they eat the same food at every stage of their growth?”

She had an immediate mental image of a salmon eft fastening its tiny mouth on the fin of an anchovy five times its size and looking wistful.

Mac chewed her lower lip for a moment. “Say I accept your hypothesis—for now,” as his eyes gleamed triumphantly. “How are you going to discover what he needs? You may know all there is about Human nutrition—that’s not the same as Dhryn, believe me.” She pulled a nutrient bar from her pocket and pointed it at him. “To be blunt, these went right through.”

“The only data I’ve seen has come from modern colonies or Haven itself. They consumed highly synthesized materials. What about their natural diet?”

Natural diet?
Mac clenched her artificial hand. “That would be us, Cayhill.”

“Ah, but this one didn’t eat Human when he had the chance, did he?”

Mac bowed her head for a moment, then looked up, all antagonism gone from her voice. “Listen to me, Cayhill. Make no mistake. The Dhryn consume every organic molecule on the worlds they take. We can’t pull anything specific from that.”

“Is that diet necessary for all forms of Dhryn, or just the Progenitors?”

“We don’t know—” She paused, thinking it over.
Could he be right? What would it mean?
“I’ll admit it’s a good question, Cayhill, but it doesn’t affect this Dhryn.”

“You don’t know,” he said flatly, his face set and stern.
She’d seen that look.
“Why does that make me wrong?”

This had been a bad idea
, Mac realized. “ Dr. Cayhill, I want to thank you for all you’ve done,” she began.

“I have it!” Unensela crowed. “ItItItItIt . . . Mac!” echoed the excited offspring, the sixth stuck on its first word. “Come. See this.”

Mac followed Cayhill’s rush to the communication console. The com-tech moved aside to let them all see the ’screen. “What do you have?”

The ’screen held an image of a collection of seeds, turning to show them from every side. From the scale below, most were larger than Mac’s palm. She leaned closer. Their thick cases were scarred and burned, but intact.

“What am I looking at, Unensela?”

“These were found within the Dhryn havens of the southern hemisphere—the one our findings show was beginning to regenerate. They represent these major families of—” she began to rattle off a series of names.

Mac held up her hand to stop the list. “Not a botanist.”

“Neither am I,” Cayhill joined in. “But these look damaged.”

“Idiot! They’ve been bathed in feeder goo and passed through a gut. You’d look a little rough yourself.”

“ ‘Feeder goo?’ ” Mac repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Not a biochemist,” the Myg said archly.

“ ‘Passed through a gut.’ You’re sure.”

Unensela pointed at the names on the bottom of the image. “They are.”

“We get these seeds brought to the ship and feed them to . . .” Cayhill’s voice turned sharp as Mac shook her head at him. “Why not?”

“They weren’t digested. For all we know, the inner material is poisonous to the Dhryn.”

“Irrelevant! Irrelevant!” Unensela jumped up and down. “It gives us a viable course of action.” She pointed at a new image, showing lush, green-blue vegetation. Chemical formulae danced among the leaves.

Cayhill looked between the two, his face blank. “What?”

Mac looked at the Myg, whose grin widened to show all four yellowed teeth, gum ridge, and white forked tongue. “The analysis of these plants,” she reluctantly explained, “has produced a reasonable reconstruction of their physiology and structure when grown. If—
if
—some Dhryn ate them whole as a food source, you might be able to work out a nutrient regime suited to a present-day Dhryn to try using substances available on board.”

“Idiot. There is no ‘might.’ Yes!”

The offspring ran up Mac again, warbling “YesYesYes-Yes . . . Mac . . . Yes!”

Unensela beckoned the amused com-tech back to his machinery, the two of them immediately occupied sending messages to her collaborators on the planet. Cayhill stood gazing at Mac and the offspring, a question on his face. “They aren’t mine,” she informed him. “They just think they are.”

“Still going to fire me?”

“Oh.” The corner of her mouth twitched up. “That obvious?”

“I thought so.”

They did have history.
Mac rubbed the back of an offspring; the creature responded by digging its claws into her chest. “No,” she said to both man and claws. “I know you won’t let him die if you can help it. As for this idea of yours? If I had a better one, believe me, I’d say so.” She glanced at the Myg. “Just keep in mind that Unensela and the rest of them deal with the Dhryn of the past. We know the current generation has been extensively modified—the modern diet may be part of that.”

“There you are, Norcoast,” Mudge exclaimed, hurrying through the door. “Is everything all right?” His look to Cayhill vowed memos otherwise. “How’s the patient?”

“Not dead,” Mac answered.

“I couldn’t tell.”

“Notnotnotnotnot . . . Mac!” In the midst of this random enthusiasm, two of the offspring leaped from her to Mudge, not quite tearing fabric, though she’d have some marks.
Bonus for the uniform.

Mudge caught them on his arm, wincing as they made sure of their landing. “I imagine they’ll enjoy having room to run around.”

On Myriam.
Mac’s hands sought the ones still clinging to her. She’d forgotten the offspring were to leave the
Joy,
too. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” she began. “The situation in-system isn’t as stable as it might be and—”

“Irrelevant.” Unensela breezed by Mac, Mudge, and the offspring. “Everything’s set. We’re packed. I must work with these people, find out more about the recent plant life. First, my good-byes to Fourteen. I shall break his hearts. It’s his fault, sticking to his own bed the entire trip.” She marched out of the room, but they could hear her as she went down the hall. “We could have had sex fifty-seven times by now . . . twice that if he’d keep in shape . . .”

Cayhill smothered a laugh. Mac shook her head. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“We should head to the hangar as well, Norcoast. It’s time.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, Cayhill,” she promised. “Good luck.”

Already preoccupied with the names in the image, he grunted something noncommittal.

Mac made sure the offspring planned to stay with her for the trip, welcoming the distraction.

The hangar being used by the Origins Team wasn’t the one where Norris had kept his lev. This was far larger, wider, and populated by vessels that dwarfed those walking the suspended access way.

Yet Norris was present, Mac discovered. She, Mudge, and the offspring arrived at the departure platform as the captain of the
Annapolis Joy
stepped behind a podium placed there for his use. Beside him, looking as real as if he’d never left, stood Norris.

His simulacrum,
she told herself, noticing the differences. The three-dimensional projection was accurate, but carefully positioned so the face gazed back at no one. The feet stood on another surface. By the clothing, this was an image Norris had supplied.
She’d have guessed he’d own a tux; just the thing for those academic fund-raisers.
He’d likely held court and awed the donors; Norcoast usually asked her to hide in the back.

Tuxedo, no ’screen hovering by a distracted, busy eye, a too-careful pose from smile to shoulders.