StarDoc 09 - Crystal Healer
ully weaves in the clues to build a murder mystery with several surprising ramifications.”—Space.com
Endurance
“An exciting science fiction tale . . . fast-paced and exciting. . . . SF fans will fully enjoy S. L. Viehl’s entertaining entry in one of the better ongoing series today.”
—Midwest Book Review
“[Endurance] gets into more eclectic and darker territory than most space opera, but it’s a pretty engrossing trip. Recommended.”—Hypatia’s Hoard
“A rousing medical space opera. . . . Viehl employs misdirection and humor, while not defusing the intense plot development that builds toward an explosive conclusion.”
—Romantic Times
Shockball
“Genetically enhanced fun. . . . Cherijo herself has been justly praised as a breath of fresh air—smart [and] saucy. . . . The reader seems to be invited along as an amicable companion, and such is the force of Cherijo’s personality that it sounds like fun.”—Science Fiction Weekly
“Fast-paced . . . an entertaining installment in the continuing adventures of the StarDoc.”—Locus
“An exhilarating science fiction space adventure. The zestful story line stays at warp speed. . . . Cherijo is as fresh as ever. . . . Fans of futuristic outer space novels will want to take off with this tale and the three previous StarDoc books, as all four stories take the audience where they rarely have been before.”—Midwest Book Review
Eternity Row
“Space opera at its very best. . . . Viehl has created a character and a futuristic setting that is second to none in its readability, quality, and social mores.”
—Midwest Book Review
“S. L. Viehl serves readers her usual highly entertaining mix of humor and space opera. This episode is enlivened by the antics of [Cherijo’s] daughter, Marel, and by an exploration of aging and immortality. As usual, I look forward to the next in an exciting series.”—BookLoons
Rebel Ice
“Well-drawn cultures and fascinating aliens.”
—Publishers Weekly
“It’s fast, fun, character-driven, and left me wanting more . . . one of my all-time favorite sci-fi series.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Both gritty and realistic.”—Romantic Times
“A thrilling addition to the series.”—Booklist
“A wonderful piece of space opera.”—SFRevu
“Seems very realistic—almost as if the author visited that world and decided to write about it. Rebel Ice is a terrific outer space science fiction novel.”—Bookwatch
Plague of Memory
“Another exciting adventure in this well-regarded series.”
—Monsters and Critics
Blade Dancer
“A heartrending, passionate, breathtaking adventure of a novel that rips your feet out from under you on page one and never lets you regain them until the amazing finale. Stunning.”—Holly Lisle
ALSO BY S. L. VIEHL
StarDoc
Beyond Varallan
Endurance
Shockball
Eternity Row
Rebel Ice
Plague of Memory
Omega Games
Blade Dancer
Bio Rescue
Afterburn
ROC
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http://us.penguingroup.combound up in others’ and in science and in the messy,
complicated connection between the two.”
—Dr. Atul Gawande
One
The Iisleg, the people of my homeworld of Akkabarr, never believed in peace. The word itself has no meaning in their language. They name the time between conflicts as either malatkinin, an opportunity to recover from the last battle, or kininharkal, the chance to prepare for the next.
Until this moment, I thought I had left that sort of idiocy behind on my homeworld.
“You can’t do this.”
The dark blue faces of the three males watching me remained impassive as I rose from the conference table and moved around the room. Someone clever had worked hundreds of t’vessna flowers into various arrangements, doubtless to honor my return. I plucked one small purple flower from a hanging silver basket and held it to my nose. The sweet fragrance calmed me a little.
I had been brought here after my husband and I returned to Joren, the homeworld of my adopted people, and landed our scout vessel Moonfire at HouseClan Torin’s main transport. I had been told the meeting was some sort of official welcome. Instead, I had been treated to an intense round of questioning, and informed of what amounted to a declaration of war on another world.
“Healer Torin.”
They didn’t like my moving around; they wanted me where they could see my face. I returned to the table. “You can’t do this,” I repeated. “Over two thousand beings live on that colony.”
“Your pardon, Healer Torin, but we must.” Malaoan Adan, the Jorenian Ruling Council’s chief legal adviser, was the oldest of the three, judging by the number of purple streaks running through his braided black hair. He spoke slowly and carefully, both to project the gravity of the situation and so that the vocollar translation device I wore around my neck converted his words correctly into Iisleg, an obscure form of Terran, the only language I understood. “This matter has now become a legal issue.”
“How so?” I knew almost nothing about Jorenian law, but as I remained one of Joren’s chosen rulers, I saw no reason to confess that. “I have related to you everything that happened to me and my husband.”
“I must respectfully question your account of the events, Healer.” Volea, HouseClan Torin’s chief of security, wore his solid black hair in a warrior’s knot, and had several healed scars on his face from blades, pulse burns, and impact injuries.
If they doubted me, they had some reason to do so. “On what basis?”
Volea consulted the datapad in his hand. “According to the information retrieved from the Moonfire’s database, your ship did not make an emergency landing; it was fired upon and crashed. Audio records indicate that you and your bondmate were forcibly removed by drones not under your command.”
“You have interpreted the data incorrectly.” I was glad my husband had survived our ordeal on Trellus, because as soon as I saw him, I was going to kill him. “While we were journeying through space, my husband and I ran some simulations of those scenarios. The database and the audio records must have been damaged during the emergency landing, orome laws.
He nodded quickly. “Multiple offenses have been committed. The colony is small and has few defenses. We need send but two or three vessels to eradicate the population. We would not have troubled you with this matter, but we wished to reassure you that justice will be served.”
The pressure increasing at my temples made me imagine for a moment my skull flying apart. “You are not listening to me. I was stranded on the colony with my husband. I know what happened and who was involved. The c
olonists are not guilty of any crime. I made a full report. It is over. I wish to see my daughter now.”
“So you will, once this matter is decided.” Xonea smiled at me, and not in a particularly friendly fashion. “As first ClanSon of the Torin, I say it is far from finished.”
I heard a sound that made me think of the jaws of an ice snare snapping around my ankle. Fortunately, it was the access panel behind me, opening to admit a tall, lean male dressed in black garments, his golden hair loose around his handsome if somewhat impassive features.
“Duncan.” I rose and almost knocked over a stand of t’vessna worked into the Jorenian symbol for the path, and went to my husband, taking his hands in mine. I needed to touch him in order to establish a telepathic link between our minds. They are going to send a fleet of ships to destroy Trellus. They found evidence of what happened and they’re blaming the colonists. They even found the wretched Sovant’s DNA on our garments when we were scanned.
Worry not, beloved. He pressed his mouth briefly to my brow before his clear blue eyes moved to study the faces of the other males. “I was not made aware that this welcoming committee intended to separate me from my wife in order to intimidate and interrogate her.”
Malaoan and Volea shifted in their chairs, clearly uncomfortable.
Xonea, in contrast, didn’t twitch a muscle. “Much as we were not made aware of your true reason for leaving Joren. Sit down, Duncan.”
When I began to tell him that he had no right to order either of us to do anything, Reever put one of his hands over mine. One newly healed wound slashed across the lattice of old white scars covering the flesh from his knuckles to his wrist.
“As you say, Captain.” He led me back to the table and sat down with me, his eyes never leaving Xonea’s. “Before anything more is said or decided, Jarn and I shield the colonists of Trellus.”
“As bondmate of a naturalized Jorenian, you have limited rights under our laws, Linguist Reever,” Volea said, his tone decidedly cool. “They do not include making decisions for a Ruling Council member, or shielding those responsible for threatening her life.”
“Then I will say the words,” I told him. “I shield the colonists of Trellus.”
Malaoan’s expression turned sympathetic. “Under ordinary circumstances, that would be acceptable, Healer, but in this case special considerations for your current mental state must be made.”
I tried not to grit my teeth. “What has my mental state to do with anything?”
“Your medical records indicate that you suffered extensive brain damage and severe emotional trauma while being held captive on Akkabarr,” the legal adviser said. “You persist in referring to yourself as another persona named Jarn. Add to this the ordeal you must have endured on Trellus, and it is apparent that your ability to make rational decisions has bsuch cases, under Jorenian law, the affected individual’s HouseClan is required to intervene and provide consent.”
It took my vocollar a few moments to relate all that to me in the language I could understand. Not that I understood it. “Do you mean to say that I am too crazy to shield the Trellusans?”
“No,” Reever said, his eyes never leaving Xonea’s face. “He is saying you need a member of HouseClan Torin to approve your decision.”
“The Healer’s closest blood kin, to be precise,” Malaoan clarified.
Reever spared him a glance. “My wife is not Jorenian by blood or birth. Her only blood relative is deceased. Under Terran law, as her husband, I am her closest relative.”
“Once my ClanBrother Kao Chose her, Cherijo became Torin,” Xonea said. “After he embraced the stars, my House assured that she would remain our kin by granting her citizenship and formally adopting her.”
I felt bewildered, as I often did when being confronted by actions I had never taken. All of these things had happened to Cherijo Grey Veil, the woman who had inhabited my body before dying on Akkabarr.
“I do not consider myself Terran or Jorenian,” I reminded them. “I was born on Akkabarr, among the skela of the Iisleg. According to their laws, I am the property of my husband and subject to his will alone.”
“You may consider yourself whatever you wish, Healer,” Malaoan said kindly, “but your citizenship has never been revoked by you or your HouseClan. As such, it takes precedence over this claim of Akkabarran citizenship.”
“Very well.” It seemed obvious that they weren’t going to allow me to escape this special consideration. “So who do you define as my closest blood kin?”
“That”—Xonea kept his gaze locked with Reever’s—“would be me.”
If I was not crazy now, I soon would be driven to that unhappy state. “Then, Captain, would you please give me your approval?”
At last he turned toward me. “First you will provide more information so that I may know you are making a wise choice.”
My limited experience in dealing with my adopted Jorenian brother had not been terribly successful. On a previous occasion, when he had tried to prevent me from attending to the victims of a plague that was destroying the Hsktskt homeworld of Vtaga, I had been forced to threaten to take away his command in order to stop his interference.
Now, it seemed, he had the upper hand. My former self had referred to this sort of situation in her journals. She had called it payback time.
I resigned myself to dodging more questions. “What do you wish to know, Captain?”
The big male sat back in his chair, seemingly at ease now. “I want the name of the offworlder who harmed the female patient you operated on just before you and Duncan departed Joren. I want to know why you concealed the fact that the explosive device implanted in her body was mounted with a trigger specifically designed to detonate upon contact with your DNA. I want to know who is trying to assassinate you.”
Xonea didn’t care for my request for time to verify the medical facts behind his last barrage of demands, but I felt sure he wouldn’t accuse me of stalling in front of the other Jorenians. He didn’t. Nor did he protest when I suggested we reconvene the meeting at Houseere he wanted me. I think my husband’s cold, unwavering stare also may have played a part.
Volea and Malaoan, who also sensed the rising tension between Xonea and Reever, quickly agreed to an adjournment, and after making polite farewell gestures, departed. As my ClanBrother left the conference room, he paused for a moment to loom over me.
“If the true reason for this fact-finding delay is to provide time for you and Duncan to leave Joren,” he said, a muscle twitching under his eye, “you will find that you must also obtain my permission for travel offworld.”
“Why would I want to do that?” I made my expression bland. “According to you, I am a mental deficient, and you have seen to it that I will be treated like one. My freedom has been taken away and my decisions will be made for me. Life could not be easier unless I were brain-dead.”
“I will have the name of the one responsible for this, Cherijo,” Xonea promised, glancing once more at Reever before he strode out.
After the door panel had closed and we were alone, my husband put an arm around me, and I allowed myself to lean against his shoulder.
I felt as weary as if I had spent three days fighting in a bloodsports simulator, until I formed a new link with my husband and his strength came flooding through it. How much do you think he knows about what really happened to us on Trellus?
Enough to justify an attack on the colony. Out loud, Reever said, “Marel is waiting for us with Salo, Darea, and Fasala at the pavilion. They arranged for us to have a private meal with them.”
I hated that we could not speak openly and freely, but Reever and I both suspected that the Jorenians were keeping us under constant drone surveillance—on Xonea’s orders, no doubt. “Then why are we standing here?”
After spending all my life on the frozen, wind-torn surface of Akkabarr, then weeks in the crowded, utilitarian envirodomes of an airless rock like Trellus, I could better appreciate the vivid charms of Joren. Above our glidecar, the sky, streaked with a multitude of colors, looked down at its beautiful reflection in the wide, gleaming fields of silvery yiborra grass. Flowering plants, the main staple of the Jorenian diet, grew everywhere, and in more colors than I could name. Nor did I mind the warmth and mild climate, although I suspected I would never feel at home anywhere but on the ice fields.