Regeneration (Czerneda) (8 page)

He’d underestimated the decibels available in a Human’s lungs. “IT’S DEAD!”

Meme paused in his croon, letting his folds unfurl slightly. “You’re sure?”

“Scans read null,” the scan-tech confirmed at a more reasonable volume. “Relax, Captain. Munesh is going to squeal a pulse about our claim while I collect as much data as possible.”

“ ‘Claim?’ ” Meme frowned.

“Sorry.” The Human turned an interesting pink hue. “Old habit. We operated a salvage operation—before the Dhryn. I meant, Munesh is notifying the other ships.”

Meme kept his toes close, away from the black hulk slowly spinning in front of him. “Is this—is it one of theirs?”

The Human pressed a control, studied the result, then stroked another. With that, a placid voice began to speak in Instella, the common tongue.

“This is an automated distress call from the freighter
Uosanah,
registered out of Cryssin Colony. Any ship receiving this message is required to render assistance under the provisions of the Interspecies Union. This is an automated distress call from the freighter
Uosanah,
registered out of Cryssin Colony. Any ship receiving this message is required to render assistance under the provisions of the Interspecies Union. This is—”

The Human lifted her hand from the control, silencing the voice, and turned to look at Meme. “Cryssin was a Dhryn colony. If this ship came to join the other Dhryn, why is it still here?”

“Ships break down all the time,” Meme replied with the innocent conviction of someone who had no idea how his oil warmer worked. “Probably junk they left behind.”

She shrugged. “The experts’ll check the logs.”

Feeling this settled matters nicely, Meme stretched out his toes and stood, edging around the display the Human had left wheeling in front of his chair. It wasn’t easy. The bridge was cramped compared to where the navigator/pilot and com-tech worked. Meme often wondered why the captain’s chair was here instead of there.
Likely a Human design flaw.
The nearby galley, however, was most ample and their success deserved a celebration.

“Another contact, Captain,” the scan-tech said, interrupting Meme’s happy consideration of appropriate treats.

“One of the others, come to see our prize,” he guessed, flaring his folds triumphantly. “Who is it?” If it was Me’o, the Cey, there was a distinct possibility of young nerbly cheese. Its nip would go very well with—

“Not ours. Another drifter. Freighter. Dead like the first.”

The Ar considered two an alarming number, fraught as it was with change. And unresolvable arguments.
Not that he’d lured a female into argument yet, but . . .
“Are you sure?” Meme demanded. “Two? Check again.”

She did, then gave him a stranger look than usual. “You aren’t going to believe this,” she said. “I don’t believe this.”

Meme couldn’t imagine what a Human would find unbelievable—he had to ask. “What don’t you believe?”

“You’re right. There aren’t two.”

His aural folds spread with pride. “You see—”

“Captain. There must be dozens, maybe more, along this vector.” She put her hands flat on the console, then stood, turning to face him.

“We’re in a Dhryn graveyard.”

 

 

 

T
HE INTERSPECIES CONSULATE for Sol System sat on a coast where mountains plunged into abyssal depths, part of a system of fjords that rivaled any on Earth for breathtaking beauty, in a country so remote from any other on Earth its residents were like a model for humanity within the IU itself: vaguely interested in what went on “outside,” but believing themselves both isolated and self-contained.

None of them had a right to believe any such thing,
Mac fumed to herself, for once oblivious to the view from her ocean-side terrace.

She laid her hand on the cool white roughness of the outer wall. “Request.” The air might not hear, but a touch on any wall, plus the word in Instella, gained the attention of the hordes who serviced the consulate. “I need to see the Sinzi-ra. Immediately.”

Mac strode through the doors to her quarters, into the bedroom, to be exact, unsurprised to find a member of the staff already waiting. She was beginning to suspect they had their own, equally discreet, doors and hallways. The staff, a female humanoid with the characteristic brush of red-brown hair shaved into elaborate whorls over her scalp, bowed slightly. Her uniform, like those of her fellows, was the same earthy tone as her hair, a change from the bright yellow they’d worn when Mac first arrived.

Sinzi seemed incapable of offering knowing offense to any visitor, even their common enemy, the Dhryn.

There had been other changes, less obvious. The consulate had swarmed with alien construction workers for a time after the Ro were found to be misusing the Sinzi-ra’s fish tank. Guests were welcome. Uninvited ones were not. Mac didn’t know the details; she accepted Sing-li’s assurance she could sleep at night.

“The Sinzi-ra has been informed,” staff announced calmly. “She will attend you later this afternoon, Dr. Connor.”

By which time she’d have lost her nerve.
Mac shook her head. “Is Anchen in her office?”

“The Sinzi-ra does not have an office, Dr. Connor.”

Taken aback, Mac realized she should have known. The Sinzi had always come to her, or to where she worked. More formal meetings were in the Atrium or the larger room down the hall. “Then where is she? Right now.”

“The Sinzi-ra is in her quarters, Dr. Connor.”

Good.
She knew where those were. “Thanks,” said Mac, heading for the door.

The staff’s eyes widened in an alarm response they shared. “Dr. Connor—where are you going? There are protocols.”

Mac smiled over her shoulder. “I’m sure there are. Remind me on the way.”

The consular staff knew Mac by now, well enough the other being didn’t attempt to argue.

Her sigh, however, was almost Human.

The Sinzi-ra occupied a suite of rooms almost identical to Mac’s. Glazed French doors from the hall opened into a large bedroom. There was a similar set of doors, clear this time, to a terrace overlooking the sound and ocean beyond. To the left, as Mac entered, was the archway leading into what she thought of as a sitting room. Mac’s version was now distinctly her office, complete with anything that could be carried from Pod Three—her friends were literal sorts. The Sinzi’s was white on white, simplicity itself, four jelly-chairs facing a white stone table, deep creamy sand on the floor, white walls windowed to the sky beyond.

The perfect frame for complexity. Mac stopped so quickly the unhappy staff behind her almost ran into her back.

The Sinzi-ra was busy.

Her left hand—or rather the trio of meter-long fingers that constituted the Sinzi equivalent—was adding blue and clear gems to a circular mosaic on an easel, the result scintillating like cold fire. Her right hand, meanwhile, worked some type of keypad. The faint outlines of three workscreens flickered in front of her face, each angled to favor a different segment of her eyes. Not that Mac’s Human eyes could make out details. The Sinzi—and their servants—had a broader spectrum available to their sight.

To top it off, Anchen was humming in a minor key.

Normally, Mac would have been fascinated. The alien rarely gave any indication of the distinct individual minds, six in number, inhabiting her willowy form. Only the changing attention of her complex, compound eyes hinted at how many were participating in a conversation. Anchen: Atcho, the precise and careful administrator for the consulate; Noad, the curious physician, interested in all things alien, particularly the mind; Casmii, who preferred the background, not least on the IU Judicial Council; Hone, youngest or most recent, as such minds went, but already a notable transect engineer; Econa and Nifa, scientists who currently shared a passion for Earth, the former a gemologist, the latter a cultural historian, studying, to Mac’s dismay when she’d heard, the incidence of familial homicide among Humans, with a side interest in cannibalism between neighbors.

“The Sinzi-ra must compose her selves,” said a quiet voice from behind. “Please do not speak, Dr. Connor, until she addresses you by name.”

Mac nodded. She could use some composure. It was one thing to charge forward, sure she was right.

“Feel free to enjoy the Sinzi-ra’s collection while you wait, Dr. Connor.” With this, the staff touched a portion of the plain white wall.

“What col—” Mac started to ask, then closed her mouth as every wall turned dark blue, honeycombed with small, bright openings. She stepped closer.

The openings were cubbyholes, each containing one object suspended in its midst, gently lit from every side. As Mac looked into the nearest cubby, the object inside seemed to jump at her. In reflex, she stumbled back a step, shoe filling with sand, then realized it was an illusion.

Entranced, Mac experimented. She found if she looked directly at any one object, it would become enlarged until she looked elsewhere.
A technology well-suited to the Sinzi’s multipart eye,
she decided. Personally, she found it disconcerting to have item after item appear to launch itself toward her face.

It didn’t help that the items were hardly art. A mug advertising a pastry shop. A crumpled snakeskin. A nondescript coin. A purple alligator with a snow globe stomach. A pebble. A pink kazoo. The entire room was walled in an eclectic array of Human trinkets, souvenirs, and odd devices. There was no apparent order. A studded cat collar was displayed beside a vial of sand. A ticket stub from a museum accompanied a package of candy.

Mac winced involuntarily as a miniature Human head in a bottle—hopefully a replica—invaded her personal space. She quickly stared at a section of harmless dark blue wall.

“My dear Mac,” Anchen greeted her, coming to stand at Mac’s side. “I apologize for being preoccupied.” Her fingertips played with a sapphire and Mac spared an instant to wonder which personality might still be preoccupied. Her guess was Econa, the gemologist. “What do you think, Mac?”

She started. “About what?”

“About my collection.”

“I’ve never seen junk treated so well,” Mac admitted, then winced for the second time.
Tact. She needed lessons.

“Junk?” Anchen’s fingers rippled in a laugh, their coating of silver rings tinkling against one another like rain. “One species’ junk, Mac, is another’s treasure.”

Really?
Mac glanced into another cubby. Its contents, a tiny plastic fish bottle with a dark sauce inside and a bright red nose, obligingly enlarged itself to palm-sized for her inspection. “So long as no one charged you for them, Anchen,” she said fervently. “I’d hate to see you cheated.”

“Worry not, Mac. These—” Anchen spread her fingers out to their full length, as if to gather in her collection. “— were gifts. As for their value? To me, objects derived from a particular journey are beyond price.”

Mac imagined the regal, distinctive alien wandering a beachfront souvenir shop and grinned. “I didn’t think you left the consulate.”

“Too rarely,” Anchen told her. “These are from Nikolai. Whenever he travels on my behalf, he brings me a treasure. Thus.” A languid fingertip indicated a cubby on the next wall. Mac walked over to look inside. A salmon leered back at her. A cross-eyed lime-green rubber salmon, to be precise, with the name of a restaurant glowing down one side.

Probably where he’d taken Mudge to find out more about a certain salmon researcher.
Forgetting the illusion, Mac reached out her hand, only to curl her fingers around empty air.

She found herself utterly distracted by the knowledge that Nik had selected each of these things. He’d carried it here, in a pocket, in a pack. He’d explained its place in his past as he gave it to the curious Sinzi.