When Barac mentioned as much to Bowman, she smiled cryptically, her keen eyes darting over the organized confusion. “Lispetc’s only chance to come out of this whole is to seem to be in charge.” Her smile turned into something closer to real humor. “Besides. You move fast enough, the action sweeps up even those who’d protest otherwise. Speed and decision, Clansman. That’s the key.”
Barac took one last look around before entering the lead aircar behind Bowman, her personal guards, and Lord Lispetc. Would all this be fast enough to catch Faitlen di Parth, Second Level Adept, member of the Clan Council?
That remained to be seen.
Chapter 55
THE universe had shifted itself obligingly in my absence. I could tell by the way I woke up—dizzied by a familiar duality of sensation. There were two pulses in my wrists, two heartbeats almost in synch—a comforting perception of another I dimmed with the ease of long practice before opening my eyes to what my body had already told me.
“How do you feel?” Morgan asked, his blue eyes dark with emotion. He wasn’t smiling. I understood, knowing my Human would take longer to recover his inner balance. I smiled contentedly for us both.
“Clean,” I said, surprised when my voice came out reed-thin. “Where are we?” A ship’s med station, I’d known from my only glance away from his dear face.
“Bowman’s cruiser: Conciliator.”
I suspected a joke, but his expression remained serious. There were ways to deal with that, I said to myself, sending a touch of warmth through the link between us, rewarded by the softening of his eyes. His hand cupped my cheek, and I turned my face to plant a kiss in its palm, blinking to keep from showing any tears.
“Ah, the Mystic One wakes!” This was all the warning I had before I was buried in a blizzard of purple plumes; the Drapsk were delightedly fluttering over Morgan as well—I saw him look pleasantly surprised before he sneezed.
I spotted a pair of yellow plumes and said, “Copelup?”
They all pulled back immediately, letting me see the Skeptic. His bright red tentacles were in a happy ring around his mouth. Typically, he didn’t waste any time berating me: “You should have listened to the Makii. And to me. We warned you not to leave the safety of the Tribe. If it weren’t for Captain Morgan—”
“I know,” I interrupted, rubbing my cheek into the hand still against my face.
“Ignore him,” said a Makii wearing the ribbon denoting my old friend, Makoori. Though pleased to see any of them, I wondered what a tailor was doing as part of a delegation to Bowman’s ship. “We rejoice with you in your reconnection to the Scented Way and to one another, Mystic One,” Makoori continued. “The moment was one of great joy for all Makii.”
I looked suspiciously at the group of ten or so Makii, checking the ribbons of the others. I didn’t see Makairi. Maka was there, but he had a shoulder bag bulging with instruments. “Where’s the Captain?” I asked, guessing the answer.
“But I am the Captain, Mystic One,” Makoori said with chagrin. “Do you not know me?”
Copelup hooted, and I glared at him. “Gripstsa,” I concluded. “When did the—happy event—take place?”
Maka spoke up: “We were all suffering from the shame of your capture and imprisonment, O Mystic One. Then there was the overwhelming joy of your rescue! There was no other way to recover our efficiency.” Copelup hooted again, implying that at least one of the Drapsk had been able to keep his sense of proportion through it all. Or had he merely been without a partner?
Gripstsa? the word echoed in my thoughts and the Drapsk reacted by flipping their antennae toward Morgan.
So much for private conversation. “So you’re the new med, Maka?” I asked politely, now remembering where I’d seen that bag of equipment before. Under the words, I delighted the Drapsk by sending Morgan my knowledge of the ceremony and its purpose in a quick burst.
For the first time, his expression lightened. “And you know everything about your new roles on the ship?” Morgan asked, eyes bright with curiosity. “Have there ever been cases of unsuccessful transfer? How do—”
“Captain Morgan. What is going on here? My patient needs rest, not a party!” The voice was stern, but the broad and friendly smile on the face of the Human female entering with two assistants belied its tone. All three wore the tech version of the Enforcer uniform, more like Morgan’s spacer garb than the official-looking outfit Bowman and her constables showed off-ship. “How are you, Fem Morgan?”
“We wish you to tell us, Med Ginazhi,” Captain Makoori insisted.
“That’s what I’m here to determine. If you don’t mind waiting outside?”
Morgan leaned his hip against my bed, definitely planning to stay, I realized with a sigh of relief. “I’ll be here,” he told the Drapsk, correctly assuming this would raise the drooping antennae.
I drew in a slow, deep breath, stopping when the flash of pain across my middle announced there was no doubt I was in the right place, with the right beings.
Which was why I wished Morgan and I could be anywhere else.
“Do you think I like it?” Morgan’s voice approached a shout, startling us both. “Sira,” he went on, quieter, but no less determined, “we have the expertise here, willing to help.”
“He’s done enough helping,” I snarled, unable to restrain the anger I felt before it ripped through the M’hir between us. Morgan bore it with a tightening of his lips that said he felt the same.
Med Ginazhi had retired to wait in the next room, with the subject of this debate and the three grim-faced guards assigned to him. We didn’t, she had told us bluntly, have much time to waste.
My feelings had been plain on the matter, given I’d screamed inside and out upon waking from a light dozing state to see Baltir looming over me.
They’d taken him away immediately; a process made swifter by Morgan literally throwing the Retian out the door, but Ginazhi had been right back in to explain to me.
The feeding burns of the ort-fungi, dehydration, and shock had been easily corrected. But the med was beyond her depth in repairing or even understanding what the Retian scientist had done to my insides. She wanted him to assist her.
Keerick. I now knew the name Baltir scorned to use, as if it made any difference. He was more than willing to participate. I knew why, if the Enforcer didn’t; Baltir wanted to see the results of whatever experiment he’d conducted.
I would, I’d told her, trust her best efforts. I would not tolerate the Retian’s touch on me again.
Morgan wasn’t satisfied with that decision, which was why he’d asked the med to leave us for a moment. “Listen to me, Sira,” he said, pulling up a wheeled stool so he could sit beside me, his hand warm on mine. “Regardless of his motives and methods, this being possesses the knowledge to repair what he’s done to you.”
“Jason,” I pleaded, “Don’t ask me this.”
His face took on the implacable cast I knew so well. “The med can’t guarantee you’ll survive without his intervention. Are you willing to see us both die?”
The thought made me hold tighter to our Joining, reassure myself it remained whole and his presence was with me. “You never fight fair, Captain Morgan,” I said, giving in, as he knew I would.
He didn’t smile. “Consider it an order, chit.”
Morgan called the rest of them back in immediately, perhaps fearing I’d change my mind if he delayed. The med had been sure enough of his ability to sway my decision that she and her assistants, as well as Baltir, were in their surgical gear, sterile fields glistening over their hands, arms, and faces. Two guards took up stations at the door, while the third hovered behind the Retian. Baltir ignored him, his wavy lips purple with anticipation.
“That’s my spot,” Morgan said in a flat, dangerous voice. The guard backed away, letting Morgan take her place. There was a faint whine as a force blade energized. I saw Baltir’s lips pale to pink, his eyes protruding further, if that were possible. I could almost feel sorry for him.
Rest, Sira, Morgan sent to me, the absolute assurance of my safety in his thoughts enough to let me close my eyes on my personal nightmare.
INTERLUDE
Morgan wasn’t sure which was worse, after a while: listening to the Retian’s paper-dry voice discussing what he’d done to Sira and the results, as though he were lecturing to some group of admiring students, or hearing the sounds of the surgery into Sira’s flesh. Both promised to become nightmares.
It did help to focus on the fold of gray skin marking the part of the Retian’s knobby spine he planned to sever first if anything went remotely awry.
Med Ginazhi, her face pale and set, asked the questions Morgan knew needed answers—both for Sira’s sake and that of the recording the Retian had been amply warned was being made. Baltir answered freely, as if the collecting of evidence against him and his work were some sort of validation of its worth.
“During the first—operation—you removed the egg-producing organs themselves,” she confirmed again, seeming to have difficulty accepting what she was hearing.
“Yes, yes. But not completely. These humanoids, they call themselves the M’hiray, are a theta-class species, but have unusual internal adaptations related to the delayed reproductive state of their immature females. As you can see here, and here—” Morgan’s hand shook and the Retian flinched. “Careful!”
“You were saying,” Ginazhi urged him, her glance to Morgan full of complete understanding.
“There are three masses in which fertile eggs are produced and stored in a dormant state. We found this state ideal for transport, if difficult at first to overcome in the lab. But,” he added with a note of satisfaction, “we were able to induce growth and chromosome doubling in ten percent of the tissue obtained.”
“Stolen,” Morgan gritted out between his teeth. “Then what did you do to her?”
“Really, Med—”
“Answer the question, Baltir,” Ginazhi said in no kinder voice.
“Well,” the Retian said, “my—patron—had no interest in seeing the subject survive, but I predicted she would live long enough to make it worthwhile trying another experiment. And I was right, you see. It was very worthwhile.”
“What was?” Ginazhi gave Morgan a cautionary look. “We can get into the technical details later,” she added. “An overview, if you would.”
“The M’hiray aren’t the only patrons of the Baltir,” the Retian told them cheerfully, continuing his surgery at the same time. “And there are several with an interest in similar areas. This mental power business. It isn’t something my species values, but there are those who seek it quite desperately. Compatible genetic material which could enhance these abilities is a much sought-after commodity. Really, they’d pay any price.”
“So you conducted compatibility tests on Fem Morgan.”
The Retian sounded huffy, as though he’d expected her to grasp the essentials the first time. “It was an unprecedented opportunity. All I had available to me on Pocular—such terrible working conditions and everyone in such a hurry—was some Human tissue.”
“Whose?” Morgan demanded.
“I certainly can’t reveal that—aghk—” Baltir reconsidered his answer as the force blade passed under a thick fold of skin. “Another patron. He donated a sample for just such an eventuality.”
“A name.” As encouragement, Morgan thumbed off the blade, watching the beads of yellow-brown blood that followed with interest.
“We don’t ask for personal identification,” Baltir said hastily. “Our patrons rarely use real names, you understand. I have a case number, that’s all. There’s tissue back at the lab—perhaps the Enforcers have a match on file.” The Retian paused, lifting his hands to allow one of the assistants to check his work. “This is your mate, is it not? A poor choice, really, given the value you humanoids place on parenting—interspecies pairings so rarely work without extensive intervention. I’d have thought you’d want to know the result of my experiment, Captain Morgan.”
“That’s enough, Baltir,” Med Ginazhi warned him. “Let me tell you plainly—and on the record—if you continue to bait Captain Morgan and there is some irrevocable result, he cannot be held responsible. Do I make myself clear?”
“Humans,” the Retian muttered like a curse, lips rippling with agitated pink. “Yes, Enforcer. I understand your threats.”
“What did you do to Fem Morgan at your facility on Ret 7?”
“We removed the tissue implant from her body to check its viability. It was—” Baltir said with distinct relish, “quite dead.”
“That’s not all,” the med insisted. “There’re alterations in local blood chemistry, nanoplants, a host of vessel reroutings. We didn’t dare meddle with it, despite the deterioration in her surrounding tissue. What was all that for?”
“As I said. I have several patrons interested in the M’hiray’s genetic material. I wasn’t sure how long I would have this subject available, so I implanted their donated material all at once—with the requisite changes to improve the chances of a workable fit for each. However long the subject survived, there would still be useful data. She had already proved to be quite durable.”
“Morgan?”
He understood why Ginazhi said his name, and nodded very slightly in reassurance.
“Viri. Make sure you get duplicate cultures from every one of those implants as Baltir removes them,” the med ordered. “I’m sure the Sector Chief will want to know which species our friend here is referring to—just in case there’s some difficulty obtaining the case files.”
Her voice dripped scorn. “Now, Toad, this is what I expect from you. I want every foreign cell and every scrap of nanotech removed as if it had never touched her. I want complete restoration of every vessel and membrane you altered. I want Fem Morgan’s system back in perfect working order. Or we shall see if my version of spinal surgery works as well as Captain Morgan’s on your neck. Am I understood?”
Morgan found himself smiling for the first time since boarding the Conciliator.