She hesitated and turned back. “This elderly woman, she was a seer. She said something to me about the future, about horror looming, that I shouldn’t run from harsh words...”
“Seers are a dime a dozen on these fringe planets—you know that.” He smiled. “Lady Caneese is the only person I ever knew who was accurate with her predictions. I shouldn’t worry about warnings from strangers.”
She laughed. “I suppose you’re right. Well, thanks again.”
“My pleasure.”
He turned off the mute sphere and opened the door. “Lots of rest. I’ll make it an official diagnosis. Okay?”
She nodded. “Okay.”
She turned and walked slowly to her quarters. Hahnson waited until she was out of sight before he made his way to the bridge.
RHEMUN WAS DISCUSSING a new navigation program with Holt Stern when Hahnson joined them on the bridge.
Back when Holt was captain of the Bellatrix, even with the usual military formality, Hahnson would have thought nothing of greeting his commander with a smile. Here, on the Morcai, it was like boot camp. Military formality was the order of the day. Nobody used first names. Nobody acted in a chummy fashion.
So Hahnson made a snappy salute. “Sir,” he addressed Rhemun, “I need to speak to you for a moment.”
Rhemun never smiled. His cat-eyes darkened to a solemn blue. “Very well.” He turned to Stern. “Keep working with that program,” he said curtly. “I will expect it to be functioning perfectly before we lift. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Holt snapped him a salute, sat back down and went to work. Hahnson, who knew his friend very well, could see the hidden irritation that accompanied the remark.
Rhemun led the way into the small cubicle off the bridge that was used for an office. He closed the door, but he didn’t sit down or offer Hahnson a seat.
“Well?” he asked curtly.
Hahnson’s dark eyes narrowed. “I’ve just spoken to Dr. Mallory,” he began.
Rhemun held up a hand. “I know that Dr. Mallory has reacted badly to an incident earlier today,” he said. “She will have to learn to cope. Even a combat medic must be expected to defend herself from attack.”
“Commander Dtimun never allowed medics to be armed,” Hahnson commented.
“I refuse to send any personnel into the field without weapons,” Rhemun replied tersely. “But as to Mallory’s condition, she must work through it herself.”
He sighed. “Yes, sir, I realize that. But Dr. Mallory has never been in combat situations until quite recently.”
Rhemun didn’t speak. He folded his arms over his broad chest and stared at Hahnson.
“She really is doing the best she can, sir,” he said finally.
“None of us has the time to shelter a physician from the harsh realities of military life,” he replied curtly. “If Dr. Mallory finds her work too tedious, perhaps she should consider another branch of service.”
“That is not an option,” Hahnson said shortly.
Rhemun raised an eyebrow.
“Dr. Mallory washed out of combat school,” Hahnson said stiffly. “Then she was rejected as a breeder...”
Rhemun’s expression, in a normally expressionless face, was faintly surprising. “A breeder?” He said the word with blatant contempt.
“It isn’t what you think,” Hahnson replied. “She was kept in a lab while they decided if her genetics were sound enough for breeding purposes. They were not.”
Rhemun’s face hardened. “An inferior genome...”
“Recessive genes,” Hahnson shot back, not caring if he had to take the loss of points on his military record. “They’re not in fashion this year.”
“Excuse me?”
“The government agency overseeing breeding decides from year to year which traits are acceptable, and as the board changes, so do the prejudices. The members of the board determined that recessive genes should be purged from the genome, so anyone who strongly depicted them was automatically rejected.”
“Explain recessive genes.”
“In a few words, blond or red hair and light-colored eyes.”
“These traits are quite admirable,” Rhemun replied. “Dr. Ruszel has beautiful coloring.”
Hahnson wouldn’t have touched that remark with a pole. He was aware that Rhemun had a soft spot for Ruszel, which had caused some problems between him and the former commander of the Morcai before Dtimun and Ruszel bonded.
“Well, the board makes the final decision, sir,” Hahnson replied tactfully.
“May I ask what those two rejections have to do with Mallory’s current situation?” Rhemun asked after a minute, obviously impatient.
“It puts her in line for Reboot if she gets a third black mark on her service record. Sir.”
“Reboot,” Rhemun scoffed.
Hahnson frowned. “You know about it?”
“Yes. I know about it.” He turned away. “Was there anything else?”
Hahnson was diverted. He hadn’t realized that anyone outside the Terravegan medical corps knew the painful, horrible truth of that process. “May I ask how the commander knows of it?” he persisted.
“I was involved in a case where it was invoked. I will speak no more of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rhemun’s eyes were dark with anger. “You humans protect your worst specimens in a manner that is repulsive to me.”
“Sir?”
Rhemun waved a hand. “Dismissed.”
“But, sir, about Dr. Mallory...”
Rhemun just looked at him. The look was enough. Hahnson saluted, turned and left the room.
How did Rhemun know about Reboot? Hahnson asked himself. And not only that, why was he so dismissive of it, if he knew the truth? It disturbed him, but he wasn’t going to try the alien’s patience by referring to it again. Meanwhile, he’d do what he could for Mallory. Which was going to be precious little, he imagined.
* * *
EDRIS MANAGED TO get herself back together, after a fashion, but something inside her would never be the same after her brush with death.
She
