Shockball (3 page)

The flight took much less time than I’d thought, and as Reever predicted, there were only a few bumps along the way. Te Abanor’s stratus shroud parted to reveal a gray-and-black world that looked inhospitable from above. Not a green speck of vegetation or geometric outline of civilization was visible.

“There, you see?” One of the former Catopsan slaves pointed out the darker mottled areas along the equatorial regions where the bulk of the Meridae civilization dwelled. “That is the epicenter of my home throng.”

I grinned. It might have been ugly, but home was home. “I bet your family will be happy to see you.”

“They will fill the skies,” the Meridae male said. He had a homely face that was rather endearing. “I should warn you, Doctor, our atmosphere has a lower oxygen content than you humanoids are accustomed to.”

I imagined everyone stepping off the shuttle and instantly turning as blue as a Jorenian. “Exactly how low?”

“It will be breathable, of course, but you may wish to curtail your movements.”

My Saksonan resident’s nubbly derma started swelling. “Do we have breathers on board the shuttle?”

“Calm down, Vlaav,” I said. “If the air’s too thin, we can always hop back on the shuttle.”

“You are always so confident of success,” he said, sounding peeved.

I repeated what had been hammered into my head through four years of medtech. “We’re surgeons. Success is the only acceptable alternative.” I caught his pout and sighed. “Will you stop worrying about everything? We escaped the League. We beat the Hsktskt. We can handle a little oxygen-poor air.”

Vlaav mumbled something about spare ventilators and started rummaging through his medevac case.

Reever signaled Planetary Transport as we landed a few minutes later. I couldn’t help but notice how even more depressing Te Abanor was when we set down. Gray. Black. Lots of uninterrupted rock. That was it.

Reever, Vlaav, and I gathered our equipment, then waited until Te Abanor’s automated transport monitor gave us final clearance to disembark. When the hull doors parted, I noticed the change in the air at once.

What air? my lungs argued. I fought to keep from hyperventilating. Had to be a good example for my nervous student cutter.

Te Abanor’s Transport Center seemed empty, except for some gliding forms circling overhead. I guessed they were the natives when they spiraled down and began landing in front of our group.

This particular brand of Meridae were naked, drab colored, with rounded heads covered by long, wrinkled skin lappets. Out of hidden snouts, long extensible tongues covered with spiny papillae nicked out.

“Why do they look different?” I asked Reever.

“That is a female.”

I knew at once I would
not
be sharing the traditional Jorenian kiss of welcome with any Meridae. There are reasons I am a terrible diplomat. Papillaed tongues is one of them.

More Meridae arrived and landed. A distinct ammoniac odor emanated from their bodies, which were studded with oval bristle clusters. I saw why when one began grooming its fur.

Built-in hairbrushes. I could use something like that.

What impressed me the most was the natives’ dorsal wing. While they stood on the ground, they held the jointed flap folded against their spines. Fully extended in the air, the wing stretched over ten feet long, and worked like a sail. Evidently the low gravity and air currents gave them lift, for once they were up, all the Meridae did was tack to or against the wind. It was obvious they loved it, too. Our passengers were already tearing off their borrowed tunics and taking off.

Reever offered greetings in a high-pitched shrieking language that made me cringe until my vocollar adjusted to the portable database, dampened the sound, and began to translate.

“We greet you, honored Meridae,” my husband said. “Duncan Reever, Captain of the
Perpetua
.”

One batlike creature screeched back at Reever. “Welcome. The Meridae offer thanks for the safe return of our kinsmen.”

After an exchange of a few more pleasantries, the Meridae asked if we would care to visit the community’s epicenter. Reever accepted the offer, which oddly surprised the envoy.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” I asked him.

“They are not members of the League,” Reever said. “Their leaders will need information about the war.”

We were escorted by the Meridae to the epicenter, if you could call it that. Several more landed and at some unseen signal approached each of us. Approached as in hopped over and extended these claw-things toward us.

“Uh, honey?” I said to Reever with a cheerful smile as one of the Meridae headed for me. “What are they doing? Exactly?”

“They’re going to fly us to the epicenter,” he replied. “Don’t resist, you’ll insult them. He won’t hurt you.”

I looked at my escort.
Fly
me to the epicenter.
Not
eat me.

The Meridae’s hind appendages had small curved talons—the claw-things—which he gently slid under my arms. I experienced a slight jolt as he jumped up, and spread his wing.

Suddenly I was
flying
. It wasn’t so bad after all.

My escort seemed unaffected by my weight. I saw the other natives had no problem carrying Reever and Vlaav, who were much larger and heavier than me. The Meridae were exceptionally strong, graceful, and hopefully, not prone to clumsiness.

We soon arrived at a group of bizarre, treelike structures that grew from wide, thick bases to soar hundreds of feet upward. Te Abanor’s warm orange sun gleamed dully over the grayish-brown, lengthy branches. They weren’t trees, judging by the lack of vegetation, and the sculpted appearance of the bark indicated they were Meridae-made. But from what? Soil?

The natives gently set down our team around the base of one of the biggest structures, where the ammoniac smell was much stronger. I performed a discreet enviroscan.

“Let me know if anyone feels dizzy,” I told the others in a low voice. The fumes were chemically similar to ammonia, but not as dangerous. I pressed a hand against my abdomen and swallowed hard. Throwing up would make a lousy first impression.

The ground beneath us was flat and consisted of dense, nonporous rock. The aviaries couldn’t be made of soil; there
was
no soil.

Reever touched my shoulder, startling me. “Look.”

I followed his gaze up. Above us, a huge group of the Meridae were descending gracefully from the upper portion of the tree-structures. They flew unlike anything I’d ever seen on Terra—darting, floating, playfully weaving patterns with their bodies. In a moment we were surrounded by the winged creatures.

One wrinkle-faced female landed close to me, and I saw she supported a cluster of smaller, immature Meridae. It didn’t look like being a mom was an easy job, either. Each infant hung from her face, a skin lappet tightly gripped between their small blunt teeth. Ouch. No wonder their faces were stretched out.

“That’s got to hurt,” I murmured to Reever.

“Not at all,” the female replied.

She was wearing a standard League wristcom and understood every word I’d said. They were
all
wearing wristcoms here. Good thing I hadn’t said something like, “What an ugly baby.”

After hearing some of what the former slaves had endured, two of the Meridae led Reever off to discuss the Hsktskt/League war with their leaders.

Vlaav and I obtained permission to conduct a standard sojourn survey. As I had been during my time on the
Sunlace
, I was responsible for the medical and anthropological data. Reever thought it was a good idea to collect as much information as we could on non-League civilizations.

I suspected it was a ploy to keep me out of trouble.

“What a wonderful family you have,” I said to the female with the kids hanging from her cheeks. Apparently that was the right thing to say, for she detached one of the infants and offered it to me. I cuddled the baby, and only had to gently discourage it from trying to latch on to the only significant protrusion on my face. “No, baby, you don’t want to bite nice Doctor Turin’s nose.”

After that, the Meridae practically adopted us, and were happy to describe their culture. They performed nearly every function of life on whig, alighting on their tree structures only for rest, prolonged nourishment, or nursing the young.

I learned the Meridae had no formally trained med pros or treatment facilities. Each family unit (called “throngs”) had a “fosterer”—usually an unmated female—who provided all health care. They even performed complex surgical procedures with a high success rate.

When they learned we were physicians, they brought up a mysterious problem with persistent ulcerations among some of the younger males.

“Could it be some type of plague?” Vlaav asked me, afraid to touch the adolescent Meridae.

“Not according to my scans.” His agitated shuffling was wearing on my nerves. “Get a grip, will you?”

The smell of their bodies took some getting used to, but I found after several hours I no longer noticed it. To deal with the ulcerations, Vlaav and I set up an impromptu aid station and began performing routine examination scans.

I examined the painful raw spots on several young male Meridae, and concluded it was likely due to excessive grooming. They were in their first season, and acting like love-struck teenagers do all across the galaxy. Doing dumb things, trying to impress some desirable but unusually fickle young
female
. I pointed out the betraying marks left by the comblike bristles, and prescribed an emollient to facilitate healing.

“I’ll leave a supply of it with you,” I said, after I’d treated the last of the males. “It might help if the young lady decides who she wants to mate with. Soon.”

One of the older females chirped, “Preening until they bleed, the young paramours! I’d give my wing to be in first season again.”

“Hush, you will embarrass our visitors,” another female said, and eyed me and Vlaav with obvious pity.

Another one peered behind me, as if to make sure I wasn’t hiding a wing somewhere. “How do you bear being planet-bound?”

They thought we were
handicapped
. “We’re ground-dwellers,” I told her. “Most of us aren’t born with wings—um, a wing.”

Vlaav finished recording his scan data. “Haven’t you seen other offworlders without wings?”

“No other visitor has ever come to our epicenter,” the older female replied. “The escort teams say it is because they fear they will be dropped. Such ill-bred behavior!”

Glad I hadn’t spoken up back at Transport. The females weren’t done asking questions. On the contrary.

“How do you secure a mate without wing?”

“How can you hunt? Do you remain on the ground always?”

“Does it not hurt the bottoms of your feet?”

In the end I had to promise to leave an in-depth report on ground-dwelling humanoid cultures and physiologies for them to study at their leisure.

While discussing dietary particulars, we discovered the only source of vegetation on Te Abanor grew in the caverns beneath the surface. Apparently all surface flora and topsoil had been eradicated during the volcanic prehistory of the planet.

The caves, however, hosted thousands of plant species and a horde of mammals which fed on them. The Meridae preyed on the smaller mammals, which they caught while combing the network of caverns in organized hunting packs. Their quarry was either consumed on wing, or brought back to the aviaries to be divided.

Vlaav and I politely refused their offer of a meal. It was easy. Vlaav was a vegetarian, and I personally had treated too many types of patients to eat the flesh of anything. Plus my stomach was definitely upset, to the point of knotting with cramps.

What appetite I had disappeared when I learned exactly
how
and
from what
the Meridae built the aviary structures.

“Throngs are made up of nonrelated broods, to ensure proper breeding,” I was told. Sensible enough. Over time, inbreeding had destroyed countless species in isolated areas on other worlds. “When a throng reaches capacity, a new throng is initiated, and we collect for a new aviary.”

“Collect what?” I asked.

“The throng members defecate in a clearing until the proper amount of material is accumulated, shaped, and dried.”

Yuck. The structures were nothing more than hardened, sculpted
waste
. I remembered not to make a face, and surreptitiously scanned for contaminants. I found none; the fecal material was extremely sanitary.

“Would you care to ascend?” one politely offered.

“No, thank you.” Sanitary or not, no way was I going to stand on a pile of dried-up, decades-old Meri-dae droppings.

Remembering Alunthri’s request that I check into any obscure, artistic expressions I came across, I asked about the Meridae forms of entertainment.

“Let us perform for you,” one throng leader offered. And up they went.

The Meridae
danced
in the air. Their movements were unbelievably fast, intricately weaving patterns as groups flew up. Soon the sky above us was filled with throngs, floating, diving, winding around each other. Others flocked to join them, until it seemed the sunlight itself would be blocked out by their mass. My neck muscles strained. I couldn’t have cared less.

The crowd above parted, and each Meridae made a brief, personal promenade. Some fluttered slowly, drifting like a feather without aim or purpose. Others tightly spiraled down to the surface, only to swoop up at the last moment and soar into the heights.

The young Meridae were particular geniuses when it came to comical acting. A group of them began making the oddest movements, lurching and jerking, turning their heads, and flapping their chin lappets. I laughed until my sides ached.

Reever stood next to me. He wasn’t laughing, but I could see a flicker of warmth in his eyes.

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen a non- Terran do,” I gasped, holding my ribs. “I wonder what they call it?”

A throng member murmured to Reever, who told me, “An Imitation of Our Visitors.”