Текст книги "This Gray Spirit "

Автор книги: Heathe Jarman

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“Sibias…?” Matthias said, clearly fishing for an explanation.

She nodded toward her guest. “Lieutenant Ro, station security.”

“Chon Sibias, Commander Matthias’s husband, and these are our children,” he said, shifting his daughter’s weight from one shoulder to another. “Pleasure meeting you, Lieutenant.”

Whenever Ro met a Bajoran, she peered at their earring to see if she could discern the individual’s family or geographical origins. The unique characteristics of Chon’s earring intrigued her, but before she could inquire further, the chubby-fisted girl wriggled out of her father’s arms and threw her arms around her mother’s legs, nearly tipping her backward.

“I couldn’t sleep, Mommy!” she wailed.

“The children wanted to say good night, Phillipa,” Sibias offered apologetically. His wife threw a hand against the wall to maintain her balance. The boy, about eight, shuttled behind his father, peeking out from behind his legs with shy seriousness. His rumpled pajamas and mussed hair indicated he might have been roused from bed to accompany his sister on this late-night visit.

“My room is scary. There are monsters in my closet,” she pouted, petulantly extending her lip.

Brushing the child’s tangled dark curls out of her face, Matthias dropped to one knee and refastened a crookedly done-up nightgown. “Mireh. Your father will make sure you have a wristlight so you can check under your bed as often as you like, but you need to go back to your bed. No dropping your tooth cleaner in the replicator and pretending you can’t find it. No hiding Walter in Arios’s closet. Your father will say no if you ask to sleep in our room,” she said over the child’s head, directly to her husband. “Right, Sibias?”

He rolled his eyes in mock protest. “You say that like she’s the one in charge, Phillipa.”

“Isn’t she?” Matthias said, arching an eyebrow.

“My father used to play the klavionto keep me from being afraid,” Ro interjected. She crouched down beside Matthias.

“Maybe your dad has something special like that he can do for you.”

“Hey, you have funny wrinkles like my dad and the kids in my class,” Mireh said, pointing at Ro’s nose. “And like me!” She touched her finger to her own nose and began giggling.

“Mireh has never been—I’ve never been—around a lot of Bajorans. It’s still a novelty to her,” Sibias explained.

Matthias stretched an arm toward her son. “I’d like to say good night before you leave, Arios.” The boy twisted his head into his shoulder, blushing. Sibias lifted him by the collar and pushed him toward his mother. She caught Arios’s elbow and pulled him into her arms, feathering his forehead with kisses.

Ro stood up, giving the mother and her children some room to be affectionate. Normally such scenes of domesticity pressed all the wrong buttons with Ro. Having been orphaned young and having grown up in the resettlement camps, Ro had known little of family life, the closest thing being the time she served on the Enterpriseand she had more or less messed that relationship up. But this family, for some reason, didn’t annoy her so much. Maybe I’m mellowing in my old age.She stood next to Sibias, who appeared content to let his wife have some one-on-one time with their children.

“You didn’t grow up on Bajor?” she asked him.

“I was an orphan in the Karnoth resettlement camp, or so the records say,” he said matter-of-factly. “Smuggled off when I was Arios’s age. I grew up far away from here on a Federation colony. While Phillipa is stationed here, I’m hoping to find out exactly where my family comes from.” He twirled the earring chain between his thumb and forefinger, as if this piece of his heritage was at once familiar and foreign.

Ro had heard far too many stories like Sibias’ during her years away from Bajor. Thousands of misplaced children were spirited away from starvation and disease only to discover as adults that they lacked cultural bearings. “Start near the Tilar Peninsula in the Hedrickspool Province. These markings,” she pointed to several ridges and runes, “they’re unique to an area just outside the outback.”

He touched her arm, his eyes full of questions she knew he couldn’t ask. “Thank you.”

“If I can help…”

“I know. I’ll stop by sometime. I’d like to talk with you.”

With a reluctant sigh, Commander Matthias sent both children scurrying back to their father. “I might be all night,” she warned her husband.

Sibias nodded. “I plan on attending the first service in the morning. Will you be back by then?”

“I hope so, I—” With eyes watering, Matthias pinched her lips tightly together; she swallowed a yawn with a gulp. “So tomorrow night?”

“We’ll try to go out again.” He kissed her. “You know how much I hate sleeping without you.” They exchanged smiles and she watched as her little family departed.

“Let’s go see Thriss,” Matthias said, letting Ro lead her out of the office. As they walked, Ro guessed the holding area wouldn’t be the most pleasant spot to work from; it was designed to accommodate prisoners and guards, not host therapy sessions. “The visuals can be transmitted into the conference room if you’d rather work in comfort.”

Matthias didn’t seem concerned. “All I need is a place to sit—the floor is fine. I’d like to start off with in-person observations.”

They wound through a hallway and passed through another door before arriving at the holding area. The Andorian hadn’t moved since Ro had last checked her; prostrate on a hard bench without a pillow or blankets, she slept with her knees curled into her stomach, her hands balled into fists. She failed to stir when they entered. “She doesn’t seem to be in a talking mood,” Ro pointed out pragmatically.

“Exhaustion will do that to a person,” Matthias said, walking up next to the force field where she could study Thriss at closer range. She tipped her head thoughtfully, brought a hand to her chin and gnawed on her index finger. “I’m satisfied to work from here. Thriss’ posture, her muscular tension, the length of her REM cycles—all can yield significant data about her state of mind.” She patted an equipment bag she had thrown over her shoulder. “Besides, I have a tricorder I’ve engineered to my own specs that can help out.” Matthias paused, scrutinizing Ro after a fashion that made Ro wonder if her secret thoughts were translatable via the number of times her eyes blinked or how often she pushed back her bangs. Counselors, even reasonable ones, made her nervous.

“Your cheek,” Matthias said, addressing Ro’s quizzical expression. “You might want Dr. Girani to look it over.”

“Good idea.” Still more than ready to assume the worst about people’s intentions. Nice going, Laren.Ro touched her face, feeling out the size of her bruise with her fingers; she had forgotten about her own injuries. A swipe with a dermal regenerator would likely fix the bruise on her face, but there was always the chance Thriss’s assault had resulted in a fracture or sprain. “Okay. Since I’m done here, go ahead and make yourself at home. The replicator’s over there. If you need additional help, page the corporal on duty. Don’t hesitate to contact me if the situation blows all to hell.”

“Oh believe me. If it goes to hell, you’ll be beamed here in your sleepwear.”

Ro appreciated the new counselor’s lack of faux sympathy; she hated how some counselors felt obligated to put on the “I-feel-your-pain” face. Matthias knew her job and went about doing it—without theatrics.

As Ro started for the exit, she heard Matthias move to the replicator and say, “Espresso, double and black,” before she settled in to begin her observations of Thriss.

9

Down a dim tunnel, the rattling slidewalk chugged toward the Core, periodically stalling when the grinding gears jammed, only to resume with a jerk and continue forward. Vaughn hardly noticed: he might as well have been standing still. Seething sounds receded as his thoughts consumed his attention. The dregs of the Gamma Quadrant swirled around him, hefting their tankards, negotiating sales and sharing canisters of psychoactive vapors. So preoccupied was he, that when a Knesska miner’s red horned lizard jumped off his master’s shoulder and onto Vaughn’s it took a moment to register. In the last few minutes, an inescapable sense of déjà vu had vaulted him back more years than he’d admit to.

During the summer between Vaughn’s second and third years at the Academy, he and a group of friends had heard rumors of an exotic shrine on a tropical world in the Braslota system. Supposedly, drinking the water flowing through the shrine from the underground pools endowed the partaker with potent aphrodisiac powers. Lured by the promise of decadent delights, native men and women would sneak out of their homes at night and into the pilgrim camps where they would offer themselves up for seduction. While most thinking individuals would find such a legend highly suspect, Vaughn and his classmates, looking for diversion from the rigors of academia, decided a vacation was in order. They procured passage on a Rigelian shuttle, transferred to a freighter bound for Volchok Prime and met a merchant willing to drop them off.

After three days hiking through the jungle, they found the shrine, attended by a wizened humanoid of unknown extraction, drank the water, retired to their sleeping bags and awaited their prospective encounters.

Instead, Chloe came down with dysentery, Vaughn’s tricorder was swiped from his backpack and everyone awoke with a profusion of deter-fly bites. The experience taught him the wisdom of the old adage: if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

This humiliating moment from his youth replayed in vivid detail as he listened to Minister M’Yeoh explain that for all their painstaking efforts during the last day, the desperately needed matter load eluded them. Everything M’Yeoh and Runir had said indicated that success was guaranteed; Vaughn hadn’t even conceived a contingency plan. Yes, there was something to be said for enjoying the journey, as he’d learned from his encounter with the Inamuri but with each passing day, he wondered how long the mission would be permanently bogged down in this region. If there was quicksand in the Gamma Quadrant, they’d flown into it.

As he half listened to M’Yeoh’s quasi-intelligible explanations about how and why the trade might have failed, Vaughn reviewed the day, from the beginning, and tried to figure out where he mis stepped.

Early in the Consortium’s thirty-hour day, Vaughn and Minister M’Yeoh obtained the proper permits for trading on the Exchange, the forum where loads were traded. M’Yeoh took Vaughn to meet the broker—a mild-mannered Legelian named Runir—who would represent them on the Exchange floor. Runir handled the Yrythny accounts. From the plush divans to marbled-glass light fixtures, he appeared to successfully manage the accounts of other clients as well. Maybe this is where we fell down—all the documentation we signed off on had to be translated into Federation standard. If our translators missed cultural nuances…He shook his head, knowing they had to solve this problem quickly.

“Can we resubmit our bid tomorrow?” Vaughn asked, loathing the prospect of wasting more days attempting to devise an alternative defense to the web weapons.

M’Yeoh pushed his hands up into caftan sleeves, pinching his mouth into a tight line. “I think not. We start over.”

“Runir must earn profit by the word,” Nog groused. “But the thing that doesn’t make sense…” He twisted his lobe between his thumb and forefinger as his voice trailed off. When he realized Vaughn, Prynn and M’Yeoh waited for him to complete his sentence, he grinned broadly. “Never mind. It’s nothing. I still say we should reuse the contract.”

Vaughn recognized that look. Nog was on to something. Thankfully, his chief engineer knew when not to finish a sentence.

And Nog was right. It had been a perfectly decent contract. He had examined it with an eye to every possible deceitful angle and found nothing. Initially, Nog had been invited to join Vaughn and M’Yeoh to evaluate the metallurgical quality of available matter loads. His radiant face as he’d watched Vaughn and Runir wheeling and dealing proved that you can take a Ferengi out of commerce, but you can’t take the commerce out of the Ferengi. The femtobot simulations back on the Avarilwere all but forgotten as Nog had hung on Runir’s explanations, constantly interrupting the trader with nitpicky questions: “What are the currency units?” “Who sets the exchange rates?” and the finer points of the Exchange’s bartering protocols. Nog’s willingness to do most of the talking had allowed Vaughn to keep his eye on M’Yeoh, look for any hint of impropriety. He hadn’t forgotten the tactics employed by the Yrythny back on Luthia, or discounted the fact that the Defianthad been illicitly boarded within hours of the Avaril’s launch. Surrendering the acquisition issues to Nog served both of their causes. Even the needs of their other companion, Prynn, appeared to be met as she enjoyed every hour away from Avaril.

Cabin fever had started taking root when the relentless engineering repairs, disrupted routine, and being caged aboard the Avarilbegan to wear on the crew. Morale had steadily declined since leaving Luthia and he sympathized. As a goodwill gesture, Vaughn had offered the “break” as a poker bet in last night’s game. Prynn rode a lucky streak to a win. Who’d have guessed my own daughter would turn out to be a card sharp?For the others, mini-shore leave would come after business was taken care of.

Except now it appears business won’t be taken care of,he thought. Shoulder to shoulder, aliens blocked Vaughn from being able to see how much distance separated them from the Core’s Central Business District. He leaned off to the side only to have his view obstructed by clouds of chemical coolants bursting from cracked conduits.

Behind him, M’Yeoh muttered a question that Vaughn couldn’t hear over the racket. “Excuse me, Minister, but would you repeat that?”

“Runir,” M’Yeoh sniffed, “believes that depressed interstellar commerce has reduced the demand for the starcharts and navigational data, even though the information you offered is unparalleled in this sector. Our explorations simply haven’t taken us as far as yours have.”

“What I can trade, I’ve offered. I’ve nothing else,” Vaughn said firmly.

“There’s always something,” M’Yeoh said, “If the need is desperate enough.”

The slidewalk ended. They walked with the anonymous masses into the sweltering Core quad. Stalls sandwiched between kiosks and store fronts hawked spangled jewelry and object d’artinterspersed with much less innocent contraband. Vaughn suspected the services of prostitutes and slaves were as easy to purchase as gaudy earrings. M’Yeoh led them to a booth out of the traffic flow, presumably to regroup.

Once seated, M’Yeoh twisted the sleeves of his government robe, his expression puckered; the Yrythny appeared to be legitimately miserable. Runir’s failure cast aspersions on M’Yeoh’s competency. Explaining to his superiors back home why the mission to the Consortium failed would be unpleasant. But Vaughn didn’t give a damn whose fault it was—he just wanted it fixed.

The group scooted into the half-circle booth, the rubbery seat coverings sticking to their uniforms. A dingy globe rested in the table’s center, providing minimal muddy light to see by. Nog hastily lifted his tricorder after discovering gummy residue on the table’s surface. Prynn’s hands stayed safely in her lap.

Vaughn shooed away a drink server; the time to unwind would come later. Time to reassert his authority—he’d followed M’Yeoh’s lead long enough. “Prynn, Nog. Head back to the Avaril.Rerun those femtobot simulations and see if there’s something we’ve overlooked—maybe an alternative deployment method that won’t require the degree of structural integrity we’re looking for. We may have to take our chances with whatever we have on hand.”

Nog failed to veil a dubious expression, but accepted Vaughn’s order with a nod.

His beady eyes darting from side to side, M’Yeoh hunched closer to Vaughn. “There are still some who might help you. No legal protection. Very dangerous, but you could see—”

“Belay that,” Vaughn called to Nog and Prynn, then turned back to M’Yeoh. “Back up a step, Minister. Say that again.” Vaughn interrupted, knowing if he didn’t the minister might yammer on endlessly without reaching his intended point.

He gulped and whispered, “A shadow trader.”

“You mean a freelancer. An unauthorized broker,” Vaughn guessed.

Minister M’Yeoh nodded.

Now that’s interesting,Vaughn thought. “Tell me more.”

“It’s a dangerous undertaking,” the minister stressed. “We could be duped if we link up with the wrong one.” M’Yeoh nervously scanned the crowds, presumably for hostile elements. “But they don’t trade what they don’t have. Find the right one, you’ll have your load.” Sweat drizzled off his forehead; he dabbed at it with his sleeve, his gray-brown skin took on a decidedly paler hue.

Vaughn exchanged looks with his chief engineer. He was counting on Nog’s acute listening skills to pick up nuances in the business discussions that Vaughn might miss. Nog looked intrigued, but suspicious.

Turning back to M’Yeoh, Vaughn said, “If such an option ensures results, why didn’t we start with a shadow trader?” Why was it that at every turn in his dealings with the Yrythny, he found that they’d conveniently omitted information? Not enough to technically be considered a lie, but certainly less than all the facts.

“A shadow trader’s demands may be costly or risky,” M’Yeoh squeaked. “Outlawed technology. Slaves. Illegal goods. Weapons. You made it clear what you were willing to negotiate with. Your terms would be better accepted on the Exchange.”

Or you were too afraid to deal with anything but the known entities,Vaughn thought. He needed to remove M’Yeoh from the equation if he wanted to make a quick deal.

Loud, laughing revelers stumbling toward a casino careened toward their booth, drinks held high. They jumped out of their seats, missing a frothy soaking by seconds. Prynn and M’Yeoh stumbled into a cloth barrier that delineated the workspace of an odd-looking creature, sitting staring at the wall. Tools crashed; bins toppled, drizzling milky syrup on the floor gratings.

Startled by the invasion of his workspace, the creature glared glassy-eyed at Prynn, while one of his five hands scraped brownish wax off strands of hair with his fingernails. Once he’d collected a thumbnail full, he dropped it on his black tongue, smacked his lips and repeated the process. Prynn slowly backed away, but the creature hissed at her. She stopped.

Vaughn, no stranger to unusual life-forms, had never seen anything like it. A cross between a squid and a mantis might explain whatever it was. He looked to his Yrythny host for information, but M’Yeoh tiptoed around the basins and back toward the main walkway.

“Excuse me,” Prynn apologized, extracting her foot from a pan of goo. “I hope I didn’t ruin—”

The creature scrambled off his chair, thrusting his face as close to Prynn’s as he could without pressing their lips together. Vaughn’s hand inched toward his phaser…

“You,” the creature burbled rapturously.

“Huh?” Anxiously, Prynn’s eyes darted first to Vaughn, who shrugged, and then to flustered M’Yeoh whose lips flapped soundlessly.

“The one I search for. To finish my commission,” the creature clapped two of its hands together. “I sit day after day, hoping to find the one I need to finish my commission and I see nothing. I sense nothing. Until you.” Spittle flecked the matted hair around its mouth.

Taking a step away from him, Prynn smiled weakly. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else. We’re not from around here.”

Vaughn assumed a position at Prynn’s side. “We apologize for intruding on your space. If there’s something—”

“No, no!” the creature protested. “I don’t want apologies. I want—that one,” it said, jabbing a finger at Prynn.

With surprising courage, Minister M’Yeoh lifted up the goo-pan and sniffed the contents before dabbing a finger inside and wiping the goo on an adjoining wall. Gradually, the goo turned blood red.

Recognition registered on his face; M’Yeoh’s breathing steadied. “Commander, I don’t think you have reason to worry. I believe this is a sense artist.”

“Yes! Yes! I have a commission,” he said, throwing a canvas drape aside to reveal a three meter by two meter collage of multihued textures. “For the Cheka Master General. He is unhappy that I haven’t finished, but you will make it complete.”

“Sense artist?” Vaughn asked.

“This substance,” M’Yeoh indicated the goo-bucket. “When it comes in contact with living tissue, it takes a sensory impression based on body temperature, metabolic rate, body chemistry…” He dipped in his hand until it was covered with goo and then removed it to dry in the air, fanning it carefully. The clear sticky substance slowly assumed a creamy lemon tone. “Once the polymer dries,” M’Yeoh peeled from the wrist, carefully easing up the now rubbery impression of his hand until it slid off readily, “this is what results. Sense artists collect a multitude of impressions and then arrange them in sculpture, hanging mobiles, wall mountings—”

“My commission for the grand foyer of the Master General’s suite,” the creature said proudly. “I need the last element. I have waited for weeks. And now you are here!” His grin revealed a mouth of crooked, graying nubs Vaughn assumed were teeth.

Prynn combed her fingers through her spiked hair. “We’re only visitors and won’t be staying long.”

“Oh please oh please oh please change your mind. Oh please oh please oh please!” He threw himself prostrate before Prynn. “Only you!”

Taking Prynn by the elbow, Vaughn extracted her from the creature’s ardent attention to her feet. “Tell you what. If our business concludes and time allows it, we’ll come back and you can take your impressions.”

“Commander!” Prynn exclaimed, drawing back. Vaughn expected she might throw him a punch under different circumstances.

The creature knelt penitently and while its ratty hair failed to camouflage his despondent posture, Vaughn’s words mitigated his sadness somewhat. “Fazzle. Ask anywhere in the Core for Fazzle and you will find me.”

As they walked off, pushing their way through the thronging crowds clogging the Core’s central district, Vaughn couldn’t resist teasing his daughter, “Think of it as a new cultural odyssey: immortalizing yourself for posterity.”

She smirked at him. “I’ll stick to living fast, thanks.”

Waiting for the lifts back to Avaril’s platform, Vaughn approached the minister. In a low voice, he asked about making contact with a shadow trader.

“Word of the needy spreads quickly. The Exchange is watched. When the shadow traders figure out what you have, they will find you.”

“So we wait,” Vaughn said.

M’Yeoh nodded.

Vaughn closed his eyes, wishing circumstances could be different. From the first moments after the Defianthad triggered the Cheka weapon until now, Vaughn had felt he’d been standing at the helm of a rudderless craft. At every turn, he’d been compelled to accept whatever course circumstance had selected, whether it was the not-so-subtle attempt of the Yrythny government to engage Dax as a mediator, having to turn over bartering to a broker or this latest pronouncement of M’Yeoh’s. Vaughn didn’t like it. He understood that part of the hunt was patiently waiting in the tall grass for your prey to stroll into your sights, but some part of him couldn’t shake the feeling that he was the one doing the strolling, not the waiting.

“So how much fun are you having, Ensign ch’Thane?” Keren asked, taking a seat on the edge of Shar’s desk. They were alone in the government office Lieutenant Dax’s team had been provided.

“Work doesn’t need to be entertaining,” Shar said practically, dropping an unused data chip into a drawer.

“But your antennae…they’re drooping. You could borrow my headpiece to cover them up and then no one would be the wiser.”

“Oh.” Andorian antennae often conveyed emotional states. Any hope he’d had of getting to his genetic research today had vanished when Ezri had given him his daily orders. His antennae must be betraying his down mood.

Keren examined a statue of a naked Yrythny riding a whale-size sea animal—a gift from a well-meaning Assembly member courting favor with Ezri—now residing on Shar’s desk. Upon seeing this odd gift, Ensign Juarez had doubled over, convulsed with laughter. The Wanderer delegate appeared equally bemused. “Where’s Lieutenant Dax?”

“I’m surprised you don’t know. She went with Jeshoh and the Houseborn contingent for a planetside tour of one of the Houses.” Juarez, Candlewood, and McCallum had gone with her. Shar had—meetings. Ezri apologized profusely for asking him to act in her stead, but she felt the mission needed to proceed on two fronts.

“Ah. Probably House Tin-Mal. One of Jeshoh’s pet stories. I’ll be interested in her conclusions.”

“Tin-Mal?” Shar thought he knew the names of all the Yrythny Houses, but Tin-Mal wasn’t familiar to him.

“My Houseborn brothers and sisters are excavating the bones from the House crypt in an effort to make a point. I’ll have my office send over the Journals of Tin-Mal,” she said. “I’m certain they aren’t in the database you’ve been given.”

“You’re saying the historical and cultural data the Houseborn have been providing us is incomplete?”

Keren shrugged. “A politically sound tactic. Select the facts that prove your argument, suppress the rest.”

The constant push and pull of politics had always seemed futile to Shar. It had been his observation that after the arguing and manipulation and propaganda, truth eventually won out. Dealing in postulates and suppositions and perceptions…what a muddle. He liked pursuing causes he could measure—and not in votes. “What do the Houseborn want Lieutenant Dax to see?”

“The ancient majesty of these castles rising out of the water, with the lava and coral walls, sea glass sparkling. It’s quite seductive,” Keren reached over Shar’s shoulder, tapped in several access codes, bringing up a vid of an underwater seascape played on his viewscreen. “But Tin-Mal happened because both sides made mistakes and I believe she’ll see through the facade put up by Jeshoh’s people. She has to.”

But how would that help?Shar thought. For almost a week, Shar had stayed on Luthia. He had watched Houseborn and Wanderers live in segregated neighborhoods and walk on opposite bridges. Houseborn Yrythny congregated, usually by House affiliation, for dinner and social events. Wanderers, orphans all, used separate eating and recreational facilities. How Ezri Dax could find a working solution when the Yrythny were determined to live separately, Shar couldn’t imagine. Behavior patterns had been ingrained for generations. And now, with the Cheka siege, when the planet would most benefit from putting internal disputes aside, the Houseborn and Wanderers seemed to be finding more reasons than ever to distrust each other. If only I had more time for my study,he thought. A realist, he knew that science couldn’t solve everything, but it was a solid way to start.

Keren interrupted his thoughts. “You’re certainly solemn about something.”

Shar flushed. “I-I—” he sighed. “I have an idea about how to approach your internal issues, but I don’t have enough time or resources to make it workable.”

“Go on,” Keren said, resting her elbows on the desk and watching him intently.

“I’ve studied your DNA and to say that it’s a marvel of genetics is an understatement.” He’d spent hours last night, watching the computer simulate Yrythny cellular mitosis, the DNA unzipping, spiraling in a dance of base pairs lacing together to create life. “I have a…a hypothesis that whoever aided your evolutionary process—call it the Other if it suits you—whoever could engineer your biochemistry to the extent I’ve observed so far, could have forecast problems with genetic drift or mutation. Like those recessive traits that make Wanderers, Wanderers.”

“And you think the answer to our problem might be in the Turn Key?”

Shar nodded. “Maybe. But access to your labs is restricted—even to Ezri—and I can’t organize a statistically significant sampling in the time we’ve been given.”

“For fear of the Cheka stealing and exploiting our results, we haven’t done significant genetic research in decades. What we havedone is barricade what data we have behind layers and layers of security.” She furrowed her brow thoughtfully. “You need a large body of DNA samples to make your generalizations and forecast possible conclusions, correct?”

“Yes,” Shar answered. “And because one of my specialties is cytogenetics, I’m actually uniquely qualified to undertake genetic mapping. I could process the information quickly if I had it.”

“Let me look into it,” Keren said. “I may be able to help.” She turned on her heel to go, but suddenly spun back around. “Oh. I almost forgot the reason I came to see you. The Cheka broke through the defense perimeter again.”

“That’s the third time since we’ve been here.” Beetlelike strikers had penetrated Yrythny defenses, raided the mating grounds and attacked planetside villages. The assaults happened so quickly that the military could rarely be mustered in time.

“The Cheka are getting impatient. I know at least three of the systems under their domination are revolting. To maintain the military advantage—at least as far as the numbers go—they’re going to need to augment their armies, especially if they plan to continue their expansion.”

“Negotiating a treaty with the Cheka isn’t possible? Shar asked. “If their goal is to isolate the Turn Key in your DNA strands, why not just give them the computer models? Or cryogenically preserve cellular samples?”

“The Cheka are only satisfied with fertilized, viable eggs that they can experiment on as they develop. They do surgery. Augmentations. They monitor when certain genes are activated in the course of maturing so they can develop their own chromosomal map.”