Regeneration (Czerneda) (35 page)

The Fastfix hadn’t been necessary, although Mac seriously considered the option that first night. She’d gone into her erstwhile quarters in search of her bags from the consulate and found both beds covered in Myg, the offspring curled together on one, purring like sinus-blocked kittens, Unensela sprawled over the other—snoring as only an adult Myg could snore.

With the ship’s lighting dimmed to night levels, she’d hunted another option, prowling up and down the deserted corridor twice before spotting the glow from one of the workrooms. Sure enough, the climatologists—Kirby, To’o, and now Sam—had been huddled in front of their ’screens, talking in excited whispers. She’d poked thoughtfully at their stash of food, then asked when they planned to sleep. Their appalled looks had been most convincing.

Of course, they’d used their beds as equipment tables, but she’d cleared sufficient flat space on one for herself.

From all signs to the contrary,
Mac thought with amusement when she woke the next morning and truly saw her surroundings,
the three intended to stay awake the entire journey.
Possibly fine for the Cey, but the two Human males would eventually crash somewhere.

They wouldn’t be sleeping in their shower, she discovered moments later.
And didn’t plan on washing either.
Their shower held their outdoor gear.

Mac made her way down the corridor to her assigned quarters, ignoring anyone awake and functioning—all of whom wisely ignored her as well. She was relieved to find the room Myg-free. Locking the door, she headed for the shower, then stopped.

Five minutes later, having looked in every conceivable—and a few not so much—place where an offspring could wait to pounce, she headed for the shower again.

Showered, in clothes she hadn’t slept in at least once, and hungry, Mac whistled to herself as she followed the promising smell of coffee to the mutual dining room.

Her whistling stopped as she saw who filled the seats.

Grimnoii.

With mugs of—she sniffed and scowled—
cider
.

“Dr. Connor!” “Dr. Connor.” “Glad we found you.”

It was like walking into a funeral. Albeit a drunken funeral.

“Morning,” she greeted, looking wildly for any escape.

There was a coffeepot. Mac focused on it, cautiously weaving her way between large humped backs and bandoliers studded with sharp objects.
Were they allowed to have such things on a starship?
Presumably so, unless the beings had smuggled them in to wear at breakfast.

“Going to be an interesting trip, don’t you think?” This from the other non-Grimnoii in the room, Mirabelle Sangrea. Mac poured a mugful and weaved through more backs, feet, and sharp objects to squeeze in beside her.

“I had that feeling,” Mac admitted.

Mirabelle pushed over a half-full bowl of fruit. “No use trying to reach the kitchen until they leave, Mac. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Mac scowled at the Grimnoii. The Grimnoii able to notice lifted their mugs to her and swayed from side to side, very slowly, altogether. “Dr. Connor.” “Glad to see you.”

“They’re plastered,” she observed.

“I’d say so. And exhausted. They’ve been working on their quarters nonstop since we arrived. You’d think, putting that much effort into modifications, they’d have stayed in them, but no. We get them.” Mirabelle shrugged.

Mac grabbed an apple and took a ravenous series of bites, considering the situation as she chewed and swallowed. “Who gave them cider?”

“They brought their own.”

Which would be
her
fault,
Mac sighed to herself. Peeling a banana, she did her best to pretend it was toast. “Here’s hoping they remember the way to their own bathrooms.”

Mirabelle’s eyes twinkled. “Bait them with a jug? Lock all the other doors? Install traps?”

“I’ve said it before,” Mac grinned. “You are an evil yet brilliant woman.”

They both sipped their coffee and munched fruit, watching the Grimnoii sip cider and, one by one, settle their huge heads on a forearm or tabletop.
A new spectator sport.
“How’s Emily?” Mirabelle asked after the third passed out. “We got the report about the Ro—how they’d hidden something at the landing site.” Always thoughtful, now she seemed to pick her words with extra care. “It must have been difficult for her.”

“Em?” Mac thought of the fury in Emily’s eyes, her defiant spin and exit on the walkway, and smiled. “She’s back to work. She’s good.”

The other woman gave a self-conscious laugh. “I know what you mean. I can’t wait to get back to my ruins. I’ve lost so much time.”

Mac shook her head, but not at Mirabelle. “You’ll make it up,” she said firmly, as much to herself as to the archaeologist. “They’ve promised to set up full access to all the sites this time. That should help.”

“Oh, it’s going to be amazing. The data—I’ll have to grab sleep now, I swear.”

A Grimnoii slumped, then slowly fell off the table to the floor to form a boneless brown lump. The gleaming axes through his belt somehow missed puncturing either fur or cloth.

“Maybe that’s their plan,” Mac mused. “Sleep for four days.”

“What’s going on here?” The volume of the shout was almost as impressive as the level of outrage.

And before breakfast.
“Oversight. Good morning.” Mac waved.

Rumnor raised his mug before dropping nostrils first to the table.

After his shout, Mudge became speechless. He tugged at the nearest unconscious alien, succeeding only in spilling the contents of the mug the being wouldn’t let go.

“We’ll lock up their supply,” Mac assured him. “Might as well let them sleep it off.”

“This is unacceptable, Norcoast. Unacceptable!”

She surveyed the room. “It could be worse,” she judged, having seen it firsthand.
Why the Grimnoii drank a substance that caused them such vile bodily reactions was beyond her.
“It will be worse,” she amended. “You’d better contact the crew for a cleanup.”

Mudge made unhappy noises every step of the way to their table. Mac was reasonably sure he could have missed treading on the alien at their feet with a little more effort, but she wasn’t about to say anything. Sleep and a shower had done wonders toward restoring her sense of balance.

“Have my seat, Charles,” Mirabelle offered, standing up to leave. “I’ll stop by the station and pass the word about our friends.”

“Thanks. There you go, Oversight.” Mac grinned at him. “Apple?”

“You seem in a better mood this morning,” he half accused. Rather than squeeze in beside Mac, he took the seat opposite, somehow wedging himself between the Grimnoii behind and the table. He shook his head at the fruit. “I had oatmeal and tea in my quarters.”

“Foresight,” she admired, smiling at her own wit, then proceeded to eat the apple herself, washing down the bites with her now-cool coffee.

“Experience, Norcoast.” Almost a
harrumph
. “This hasty change was not part of my arrangements for our journey. I don’t expect, nor have I seen, competence.”

“Mmmfphlee,” she said around a bite.
He was welcome to interpret that as he pleased.
Once her mouth was empty, Mac gestured with the apple. “All this looks pretty competent to me. It’s not as if there was much notice.” As far as she was concerned, drunken Grimnoii came under the heading “unforeseeable.”

“It’s the notice that troubles me, Norcoast.” He put his hands together, just so, on the table and stared at her. Immobile and much too awake for comfort.

“How so?” She paused with the apple at her lips.
Oh, she knew that look.
She put down the apple. “I told you, Oversight. I received a message about the Dhryn derelicts being taken to Myriam and that the Ministry would help hurry us there.”

“I’d like to see it.”

So would she.
“It was a read-once message,” she said promptly, patting the pocket with her imp. “My guess is we’ll get a briefing onboard. Maybe—”
she had no shame,
“—on the bridge.”

Unfortunately, Mudge on a trail was as distractible as a wolverine. “For all we know, Norcoast, this is some ridiculous collusion between Earthgov and the Ministry. An ill-thought effort to put additional Humans on Myriam, flaunting the IU’s per-species restriction. Who knows what problems could result?” A definitely troubled
harrumph
. “What assurances did you receive about the source of this message?”

“Enough, believe me.” Mac’s eyes rested on the silver rings around her finger. She’d hidden the carving deep in her luggage. “Were you always this suspicious, Oversight?”

“I could ask if you’ve always been this naive, but the answer would be obvious.”

Mac opened her mouth to argue, when something caught her eye behind Mudge. Trying not to be obvious, she leaned to one side to better see it.

The kitchen proper was set aside from the dining area by a temporary wall, only chest high.
There.
Something small, and black, and pointy was hooked over the top, just above the table with the coffeepot and fruit bowls.

She squinted.
Definitely.

“I would have expected you to at least pay attention, Norcoast. This is a serious conversation.”

“Oh, I am,” Mac murmured, leaning the other way to follow as the claw slid sideways. It was abruptly joined by a second, slightly longer and bearing nail polish. Both pressed their tips deeply into the material of the wall, as if their owner hung on for its life.

“Norcoast?”

Mac focused on her companion. “Sorry. Insufficient coffee.”

“I don’t understand you,” he complained, heaving a sigh so deep the nearest unconscious Grimnoii echoed it.

She chewed her lower lip for a moment, then made a decision. “How I found out isn’t the point, Oversight.”
Well, he’d disagree about the part where he was drugged unconscious for a good hour or more.
As Mac didn’t intend to share that bit, she continued. “There’s been—” she searched in vain for a euphemism remotely relevant and had to settle for, “—some difficulties on the ship with Nik and the Vessel. They’re fine,”
unless the radiation or whatever has killed them,
“but the—difficulty could also be related to some confusion over investigating the derelicts.”

The claws, Mac noticed, were still in place.

Mudge pursed his lips and considered this for a moment. Mac took the last swallow of her coffee. Then he gave a brisk nod. “Sabotage to delay them; jurisdictional issues to slow crucial information; a rush to get us—or rather you—to Myriam. Someone’s on a clock.”

She forgot about the claws and gaped at him. “Pardon?”

“Really, Norcoast,” Mudge pointed his forefinger at her. “It’s the obvious conclusion. Do you have any idea who?”

“Isn’t it time you were busy adding competence to something?” She said it half jokingly, but didn’t smile. Instead, Mac deliberately glanced around the room and then back to Mudge.

“Ah. Yes. You have a point,” he said, waggling his eyebrows with dramatic flare. “Understood.”

They were,
she judged fatalistically,
the worst spies ever enlisted.
Good thing there were professionals on the job.

He rose from the table as she did. Mac hefted her empty cup and nodded toward the kitchen. “I’m going to try my luck. Meet you later?”

“Later, Norcoast,” with enough emphasis to make any eavesdropper pant and follow.

Once he was gone, Mac spent a moment planning her approach, walking back and forth to get different angles on her problem. As luck, or the social mores of aliens would have it, the opening to the kitchen area was behind a table with too many Grimnoii. They appeared to have started their binge facing outward. They’d ended it slumped shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, their abundant back ends lined up to form a complete barrier.

All of the aliens were comatose by this point; a few snoring,
if that’s what the faint whistling sound was
. Mac put down her mug and gave the nearest a gentle poke.
Nothing happened.
A firmer one. When that drew no response, she looked at the group blocking the kitchen and assessed the slope.

It wouldn’t be long before whomever Mirabelle sent to retrieve the Grimnoii showed up.