Beyond Varallan (41 page)

“You seek some sort of litigation against me?” Xonea sat back down.

“Captain, this”—I leaned over and nudged one disc toward Xonea—“is the audio/vid record of my death. I present this data as proof conclusive that at the time and date specified, my heart stopped functioning and I was declared dead.”

“Declared
dead
?” Xonea asked.

Adaola stepped forward. “Senior Healer Cherijo chose her right to embrace the stars. Her path was diverted as a result of cardiac failure induced by electristim.“

“Indeed?” Xonea made a show of looking me over. “For one who has embraced the stars, you appear very animated, my Chosen.”

“Correction.” I nudged another disc toward him. “I died, and according to Jorenian law twelve, applications thirty-three through forty-seven, remained dead long enough to meet the criteria to break Choice. I am no longer
your Chosen
.”

Xonea’s breath hissed out. “No.”

“Let me quote: ‘Only the death of either Chosen can break the bond.’ I died. The bond's broken, pal.”

“You are
still
alive!”

“There is a historical precedent,” Reever said. “A Jorenian female of HouseClan Vaseran Chose a male shortly before he became grievously ill. At one point, his heart arrested. Although he survived, the resulting damage was considerable. His Chosen was permitted to Choose another, based on the fact that her bondmate’s path had been diverted, and she could not accompany him.”

“I know that case!” Xonea swept the discs from his desk with one flick of his hand. “The Vaseran male was paralyzed and catatonic. It was a merciful ruling so the female could have children and a normal life.” His hair shimmered as he swung toward me. “You are not crippled, my Chosen.”

“No, I’m not. Which is why Salo sent a transdimensional signal to Joren three days ago.” I stooped and picked up one of the discs he had shoved off the desk. “The case was brought before the Ruling Council. Here's their judgment. Want to guess what they said?”

“No.” He sat down, his eyes wide as he stared at the disc. “It cannot be possible. I Chose you. You are mine.”

I put my hands on his desk and ducked until I was in his line of sight. “
Not
—
any
—
more
.”

Xonea stared at me. “I will simply Choose you again. What say you now, Senior Healer?”

“You can’t,” I replied. “I've already been Chosen by someone else.”

At his cue, Reever moved to my side and took one of my hands. “Cherijo and I have discussed plans to be married. In Terran tradition, that is equal to Choosing.”

“
It cannot be thus
!” Xonea bellowed.

I pointed to the data from Joren. “We asked the council for their opinion on that subject, too. They agreed. You can’t Choose me again, Xonea. Reever got me first.”

Adaola watched as her ClanBrother covered his face with his hands. Her reserve broke at last and she went around the desk to put her arms around him.

“Leave us, if you would,” she said, her dark head close to Xonea’s. “I will talk with him now.”

Reever and I marched out. Only when the door panel closed did I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Do you think he believed that last part?”

Reever waited until we walked past a couple of crew members before he answered. “I dislike lying to the Captain.”

“You didn’t lie. You said we discussed getting married. You just didn't tell him I turned you down.”

“Such an omission is still wrong, Cherijo.”

We could debate this all day, but I had work to do. “I have to get back to Medical. Rogan is probably trying to kill off half the patients,” I said. “Do me a favor. Don’t go to Xonea and start confessing, okay? I'd hate to think I went through all that for nothing. And one more thing.”

“What is it?”

I reached up and touched his cheek. “Thanks, Duncan. You’re a true friend.” I hurried off.

Medical was in smooth operation by the time I reported for my shift. Squilyp had managed to supervise Rogan and keep him busy while at the same time ensuring none of our patients suffered. He also arranged the schedule so that I rarely if ever worked the same shift with Rogan.

The Omorr had been apprised of our plans and was waiting anxiously to hear the result of my meeting with Xonea.

“It worked. It’s over,” I said. “Adaola is up there consoling him now.”

“He must be devastated,” Squilyp said.

“He’ll live.” I picked up the chart of our burn patient. “Well, someone looks ready to get out of here today.”

The programmer, whose name was Lalona, slipped to her feet and stretched. It was wonderful to see her face and derma restored to their former flawless condition. “I am more than ready, Senior Healer. Give me leave, and I will vacate this berth before you can blink!”

“Seems no one appreciates the luxury of being cared for by the finest trained professionals in the universe,” I said in disgust. “All right, Lalona, get out of my Medical Bay.”

She thanked us both before she left. Squilyp, I saw, watched her go, and didn’t hear a word I said until I nudged him with my elbow.

“What?” The Omorr’s pink skin flushed puce around the gildrells. “I beg your pardon, Senior Healer. What did you say?”

“I said she’s a very pretty woman.” I studied the way his membranes contracted nervously. “You like her, don't you?”

“I have come to care very much for her.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” I grinned and waved a hand toward the door. “Go get her and ask her to share a meal with you.”

“I would.” He puffed out some air through his gildrells. “Unfortunately, Omorr and Jorenians are not compatible species.”

“What a shame.” It really was. “There’s no way you and Lalona could…?” I trailed off delicately.

“No. Even if I could Bond with a Jorenian, I could not…” He averted his eyes. “I must consider an Omorr female for purposes of intimacy. Perhaps someday, when my work does not require so much of my time.”

“You can still be friends with her, right?”

He shook his head. “It is better that I maintain some distance from her; my attachment will fade.”

“I’m sorry, Squilyp,” I said. And I was.

We reviewed the day’s schedule and caseload. Most of the patients were reporting for routine treatments, now that the injured cases had been cleared and discharged. Lalona had been the last of those recovering from the mercenary attack.

“Where’s Rogan?” I asked just before the Omorr went off shift.

“Didn’t you know? We'll be transitioning in a few hours, when we reach his homeworld system. He's getting ready to leave the ship.”

“Oh. Right.” I really needed to start accessing my relays more often. “What’s it called?”

“Ichthora.”

“Sounds like the right name. What are the natives called? The Ickies?”

“Ichthori.”

“Hmmmm.” I flipped a chart to display when it occurred to me there was more involved with dropping Rogan off on his homeworld than merely assuming an orbit. My head snapped up. “Why the hell are we sending a team down with him?”

“Captain’s orders.”

We’d just see about that. “Tell me you're on the sojourn roster.”

Squilyp shook his head.

“Wonderful.” I tossed the chart aside and went to stare through the ward viewer. “With my luck, the entire planet will be populated by Rogans. The Captain has a real sense of humor.” I swung around. “Well, there’s no way I—Squilyp? Squilyp!”

He had hopped out so quietly that I hadn’t heard him, and made a clean getaway.

PART FOUR:
Betrayer

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rogan’s Move

«
^
»

X
onea ignored the ten signals I sent to him about the sojourn. Guess he was still mad at me for dumping him. Salo and Reever were on the team, along with Dhreen and a couple of anthropologists. I agreed to go only if I could take one of my personal guards with me.

“There is no need for additional security,” Salo said, trying to reassure me. “The Ichthori are a peaceful people. We will meet them, perhaps share a meal, and learn more of their culture.”

“Yeah, well, if Rogan turns out to be the Crown Prince of the Icky People, I want someone with weapons at my back. Just to be on the safe side.”

Ichthora, according to the database, listed tech trade as their main source of income. Salo had orders to keep bartering to a minimum, as the
Sunlace
had an overabundance of technology. From the way Rogan talked about the place, I expected some superbly modem, highly developed world populated by geniuses and paved with soaring alloy edifices.

We landed in a swamp.

I looked out of the viewport as the team prepared to disembark. “There are pools of water out there on the Transport docking pad,” I said. “We’re
sitting
in one of them.”

“Biodecon results are negative,” Dhreen called. “I’m opening the hull doors.”

“Close them,” I said a moment later, covering my nose and mouth with my hand. Ichthora was a world of rotten vegetation, estuaries of yellow, muddied water, and dense islands of stunted trees. It also
smelted
like it. “Please.”

Thick, steamy heat accompanied the stench, while insects began buzzing in through the open doors. I couldn’t resist the urge to swat at them. Rogan shouldered his one case and gestured toward the docking ramp.

“After you, Dr. Torin.”

“I’ll stay in the launch, thanks.” I had no desire to go wading through the muck out there. I waved my hand at the swarm of tiny insects circling around my head. “Where are the envirosuits?”

Salo and Reever took positions on either side of me. Each grabbed an arm and made me get up. They walked me down the ramp the way they’d escort a prisoner.

“Where’s my guard?” I asked.

“Directly behind you, Senior Healer.” my guard said.

“Shoot these men.”

Salo chuckled. “It is not so bad, Senior Healer.”

“Oh, yeah? I happen to know a human’s sense of smell is more developed than a Jorenian's is. So don't try to tell
me
it’s not that bad.” I looked toward the perimeter of the Transport area, and saw at least a dozen bodies lying facedown in the shallow pools. “Oh, my God!”

I would have run toward them, but Reever grabbed me first.

“There is nothing wrong with them,” he said. “Observe.”

I watched as the facedown bodies twitched, then moved a few inches. One raised on elbow-shaped fins and awkwardly dragged itself from one pool to another.

“
These
people trade tech?” I glanced around. “They can’t even walk!”

“Native Ichthori do not manufacture or deal in tech.” Rogan gave me a lofty sneer. “Half our population is made up of offworlders who have mated with natives.
They
are the ones who produce and trade.”

That made more sense.

Rogan gestured at some of the partially submerged figures. “My family has gathered to greet us.”

I had to ask the obvious. “What are they doing?”

“Why, they’re feeding, Doctor.” Rogan looked at one of the empty pools with what could only be called greed. His case dropped to the ground. “Excuse me.”

A moment later he, too, had joined the Ichthori and was facedown in the mud.

I turned to Salo. “I am
not
sharing a meal with these people.”

That wasn’t the only strange revelation. Rogan's physical appearance did little to prepare me for Ichthora and its bizarre inhabitants. Compared to his nonhuman relations, he was erudite. Gorgeous. Perfumed.

I endured the long, very uncomfortable hours of the sojourn. Barely. I played Senior Healer, perspired freely, swatted insects, and stepped over the most of the natives. I did not partake of their diet, which they dredged from the swamp mud at the bottom of the tidal pools that littered the surface of the planet.

There was no sign of the League, but that didn’t make me feel any better.

“Just where
is
all this highly developed tech?” I said to Reever. We had to pick our way through the pools of sludge and step over yet another filter-feeding Ichthori.

He pointed up, and I raised my eyes. The thickets of what I thought to be trees were actually organically formed structures, topped by a series of funnellike platforms that connected each group. Apparently the offworlder inhabitants lived in them. Their Ichthori mates used adapted hover lift technology to ascend, then slid from one “tree house” to another on their bellies.

The lethargic mud-dwellers made very little attempt to communicate with us. Reever attempted to translate some of the bubbling and snorting sounds we heard now and then. Apparently all they cared to talk about were the best spots to feed on the insect larvae and microorganisms that constituted the bulk of their diet. They must spend most of their
lives
on their bellies. Which explained Rogan’s intense dislike of remaining vertical and active.

After feeding with his family for an extended period, Rogan returned and agreed to gather some of the “leaders” of the Ichthori to meet with us.

While we waited, I idly gathered some round, speckled stones that were piled around the base of each tree. The prettiest specimens I slipped into a pocket for the ship’s geologist to examine later.

It took Rogan a long time. Very few of the non-Icthori inhabitants were willing to leave their climate-controlled tree houses to socialize with us. I couldn’t blame them.

One squat, block-shaped Ramotharran trader passing by us stopped to chat. I had to find out why any sane humanoid would
want
to stay on this godforsaken planet.

“What keeps you here?” I wiped the back of my hand over my brow. “It can’t be the heat, smell, or the bugs.”

He gave me a shrewd look. “Do you know how an off-worlder usually ends up staying here? They impregnate one of the Icthori.”

“But how—never mind, I don’t want to know,” I said at first, then my curiosity got the better of me. “Of course… in the interests of science… okay, tell me.”