Beyond Varallan

Beyond Varallan

S. L. Viehl

STARDOC II

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April 22, 2003
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Contents

• PART ONE: Departure
  

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  1
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  2
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  3
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  4
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  5
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  6
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• PART TWO: Explorer
  

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  7
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  8
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  9
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  10
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• PART THREE: Disclosure
  

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  11
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  12
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  13
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  14
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  15
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• PART FOUR: Betrayer
  

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  16
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  17
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  18
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  19
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  20
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

First Printing, July 2000

Copyright © S. L. Viehl, 2000

All rights reserved

Cover art by Alan Pollack

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For my son, Michael Edward Viehl.
May you alway choose the path less traveled.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to my terrific editor, Laura Anne Gilman, and my friend Holly Lisle, for all your wisdom, guidance, and most of all—patience!

I’d also like to thank Chris Ryan for his invaluable insight and advice on fighting techniques and the honest realities of hand-to-hand combat.

PART ONE:
Departure

CHAPTER ONE
The Sunlace

^
»

I will give no deadly medicine to anyone if asked, nor suggest any such counsel.

—Hippocrates (460?-377? B.C.)

H
ippocrates never got smacked in the head by a patient, I thought as I ducked to avoid a wildly swinging counterweight. That, or he’d kept them all in restraints.

My first patient, Engineer Roelm Torin, had been admitted to the ship’s inpatient ward late yesterday. He wasn't happy about it, either. According to the nurses, he had already destroyed an infuser array, knocked his berth monitor over twice, and kept all the other patients awake half the night with his grumbling.

I grabbed his traction rig before the blue-skinned patient kicked it off the berth mounting. “Good morning, Roelm.” I performed a visual examination and adjusted the rig’s clamp. His left leg, while plainly mobile, was badly swollen. “Feeling a little restless?”

“Your pardon, Healer.” Roelm made a swift, apologetic motion with one six-fingered hand, then turned to address the Omorr making a chart notation. “Release me.”

I looked over at the ship’s senior surgical resident, too. Squilyp had gone and started rounds without me. Again.

The Omorr never glanced up from his data entry. “That is not possible, Engineer Toriri.”

“We’ll see,” I said, purposely contradicting him.

That got my rival’s attention, and Squilyp's round, dark eyes glared at me. I was a few minutes late for my shift. My braid, still damp from my shower, hung over one shoulder. He'd probably make note of both crimes.

In contrast, Mr. Punctuality appeared immaculate and authoritative as ever. Despite his pinkish derma, Squilyp’s green resident tunic actually looked good on his tall, lanky frame. Not that I planned to tell him that. I didn't like the pompous little ass. Since I was in line to be Senior Healer—the job he wanted—Squilyp didn't like me.

That had been the status quo for nearly two months now, since I’d joined the crew of the Jorenian star vessel
Sunlace
. I’d agreed to replace the retiring Senior Healer, Tonetka Torin, but there were problems. I was Terran, not Jorenian, and had only a year's experience treating nonhumans. I was also a fugitive with a bounty on my head.

Hardly a sterling resume.

I held out my hand. “Chart, please.” The Omorr shoved it at me. “Thanks, Squilyp.” I gave him a broad, friendly smile. He hated that even more than my untidy hair.

“Dr. Grey Veil.” Squilyp didn’t call me Healer. I'm sure he called me plenty of names, but not Healer. “My latest scans are annotated.”

They’d be perfect, too. Squilyp ranked first among the
Sunlace’s
five surgical residents, for good reason. I’d never seen him make a single error on the job. The Omorr's knowledge of procedure rivaled that of the diagnostic array.

The known universe would collapse before this guy ever screwed up.

“Did you run a hematology series?”

“Of course.” The hundreds of gildrells that covered the Omorr’s oral membrane muffled his offended tone. The white, prehensile filaments measured half a meter long, and tapered from a thick base to slender, fingerlike ends. I'd never seen Squilyp eating or drinking. That wasn't a big priority for me.

“Good.” I reviewed the rest of his notations. “Nice work.”

His gildrells stiffened as though I’d yanked on them. “Excuse me.”

The Omorr stalked off. He had four limbs, but used three like arms, leaving the fourth to stand on and hop around with. It should have looked silly, but Squilyp moved with what I could only call a
stately
bounce.

Like me, the Omorr was something of an oddity. On his homeworld, touch healing and ceremonial prayer were the preferred methods of medical treatment. Yet he never attempted to use his spade-shaped appendage ends (no fingers, just incredibly dexterous membranes) to touch-treat a patient. Squilyp also had a bit of an obsession with cleanliness. Mere dust motes seemed to aggravate him. Almost as much as I did.

Oh, well, I thought. Can’t expect
everyone
to adore me.

“Healer Cherijo!”

I turned to my patient. Roelm pushed himself up, too quickly, and impatiently jerked his leg. Before I could grab it, the traction rig crashed onto the deck.

Roelm’s white eyes—Jorenians had no detectable pupils or irises—widened as he looked from the ruined equipment to the sight of the Senior Healer stalking toward his berth. “Healer, aid me to convince Tonetka this was none of my doing.”

I got the usual crick in my neck as I greeted the Senior Healer. I’d become resigned to feeling like a dwarf ever since I'd boarded the ship. Nearly everyone, including my boss, was at least a foot taller than me.

“One more mishap, and I vowed to put you in restraints,” Tonetka said, and gave the rig an ominous look. “I shudder to think Pnor trusts
you
to keep the stardrive operational.”

Roelm’s chin jutted. “Which I cannot do, unless you release me!”

The Senior Healer muttered something rude. The patient growled something back at her. I had no idea what they said. The flat, square-linked vocollar I wore around my neck wouldn’t translate Jorenian profanity. I'd been told it had little equivalent in any language.

“Why don’t I take a look at the leg?” When Roelm made an impatient sound, I patted his shoulder. “Let me do a proper evaluation, Roelm. The boss will fire me if I don't.” I picked up a scanner. “Relax.”

Tonetka kicked the rig out of her way. “You may wish to sedate him first.”

One side of my mouth curled. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

She moved beside me to observe. “More scans?”

I nodded across the ward toward the Omorr. “Just in case Mr. Wonderful missed something.” I performed three passes over the leg, then studied the readings.

Roelm tried to get a look at my scanner display. “Well?”

“Well, if you were on my homeworld, I might think this was a form of filariasis,” I said. “The readings are consistent.”

The big man frowned. “What is that?”

“Swelling caused by parasitic worms that block the lymphatic vessels. Very nasty,” I said, deadpan. Roelm’s skin rapidly acquired a greenish cast. I took pity on him. “Luckily, it isn't that.”

“Thank the Mother.” Roelm closed his eyes and exhaled dramatically. One of his big, work-roughened hands pressed over the twelve-valve heart in his chest.

I said aside to Tonetka, “Surgical history?” She shook her head. “Okay.” I put his chart down. “Tell me what you’ve been doing over the last few days, Roelm.”

He looked indignant and virtuous. “I have been inspecting the port thrusters, every shift.”

Yeah, right. Jorenians worked hard, and played harder. Then there was all that warrior-training stuff they did in between. He’d either injured himself on the job, gotten clobbered during combat training, or done something even stupider off duty in the dimensional simulators. I picked probable idiocy number three.

“Try out any new programs during your recreational interval?” I asked. “Wrestling some swarm-snakes, maybe? Rappel down any Andorii cliff-plateaus?”

“I made two visits to the environome, both for—” He paused. “Nothing physically strenuous.”

“Come on, Roelm,” I said, prompting him with a roll of my hand. “Details, give me details.”

“I merely sought to increase my manual dexterity. The program employed fine manipulative skills. My work demands that I keep my fingers… flexible.”

I considered this. “Flexible like… grav-rowing down the white-water rapids on Radonis?”

“No.” He hunched down. If his shoulders got much higher, they’d be covering his ears.

“You did not think to attempt blade dancing?” Tonetka asked, horrified.

Our patient simply shook his head again and looked more miserable than ever.

I sighed. “Roelm, don’t
make
me walk all the way over to that environome and access your program.”

“You will laugh at me.”

My boss and I exchanged a glance.

“We won’t,” I said. “Physicians' oath. Right, Senior Healer?”

Tonetka nodded vigorously.

“Very well.” Roelm looked around and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I have been learning how to weave.”

“Weave where?” My boss moved closer, ready to throttle him if necessary. “Between blade dancers?”

I could barely hear him now. “I have been weaving baskets.”

“What? You mean—” I bit my lip. “Oh. Right.
Baskets
.”

Here we’d been thinking Roelm had tried to half-kill himself in some intense physical challenge. In reality, he had been teaching himself the gentlest—and definitely the most
feminine
—of Jorenian art forms.

“Yes,” he said. “
Baskets
!”

Tonetka whirled away just as I caught the expression on her face. I stepped between her and Roelm, so he wouldn’t see her shoulders shaking, and cleared my throat.

“Well, that sounds nice, Roelm.” If this got out, he’d never live it down. “Um, very interesting.”

“It is not amusing,” he said. “A male can learn such skills as easily as a female.”

A cough that didn’t do much to cover a laugh burst from the Senior Healer. I jabbed her in the back with my elbow. My calm, understanding expression never wavered.

“Of course they can,” I said. Tonetka snorted and I elbowed her again. “What else have you been doing?”

“No more than is usual. Eating. Sleeping. Working.”

That reminded me of what he’d said before. “Describe how you inspect a thruster.”

He elaborated. The
Sunlace’s
colossal engines required careful maintenance and regular inspections. As a supervisor, Roelm directed most of the stardrive operations, and routinely inspected the work performed by his subordinates. Not surprising. He’d been one of the ship's primary designers.