S. L. Viehl - Stardoc 01 - Stardoc

STARDOC

by S.L. Viehl

The First Stardoc Novel

scanned for #bookz, v1 html proofed and formatted by cstan 8670 & MollyKate 11-21-02

Contents

•PART ONE: Initiation

CHAPTER ONE - Terra

CHAPTER TWO - K-2

CHAPTER THREE - First Shift

CHAPTER FOUR - Taboos, Duty, Chickens

CHAPTER FIVE - Hsktskts Squared

•PART Two: Application

CHAPTER Six - Bartermen

CHAPTER SEVEN - Falls and Links

CHAPTER EIGHT - Dangerous Games

CHAPTER NINE - Confrontations

CHAPTER TEN - Hazard Clause

•PART THREE: Complication

CHAPTER ELEVEN - Offplanet

CHAPTER TWELVE - Clash of Wills

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Seductions of Failing

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - K2V1

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Epidemic

•PART FOUR: Resolution

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - That Which Recovers</h4

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Unexpected Allies

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Last Rights

CHAPTER NINETEEN - Begin Again

CHAPTER TWENTY - Calls from Home

First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

First Printing, January 2000

Cover art by Donato

For my daughter, Katherine Rose Viehl.

May you find your place in the universe more than you ever dreamed,

and for Catherine Coulter,

who made a dream come true.

PART ONE: Initiation

CHAPTER ONE

Terra

Contents - Prev / Next

Into whatever houses I enter, I will go into them for the benefit of the sick.

Hippocrates (460?-377? B.C.)

At that moment I was deep in the labyrinth of back streets in the worst section of New Angeles. I

was also thoroughly disgusted, scared, and ready to give up. Earlier stops at four crowded taverns had

produced no results. Oh, I'd gotten plenty of propositions, some even a sexdrone would find challenging.

Credit-jammers still watched me from the shadows, remote scanners ready, hoping I'd access a public

bank console. Glide snatchers had tried twice in the last hour to swoop down and grab the case I was

carrying. In broad daylight, the vultures.

Now I paused outside the fifth and last sleaze pit on Tavern Row. Above the entrance the words

"SLOW LAZY SAX" were projected in foot-high, bright blue dimensional lettering. Charming name. The

only good thing about the place was it was nearly deserted. I wouldn't have to push through another

gauntlet of drunks to have a look around.

I counted two hulking figures at the end of the counter, arguing in low growls while steadily draining

their drinks. The proprietor ignored them, his attention fixed on a vidisplay screen overhead. A rusted

comdrone unit clutching a saxophone was huddled in one corner, deactivated and badly in need of

maintenance. Farther back in the tavern was a third patron, seated alone, wearing what could have been

a pilot's flight suit.

That got my attention. I took another step and crossed the threshold. The sour bouquet of unwashed

bodies, spilled drinks, and burnt tobacco greeted my nose. A fat roach scuttled past my right foot to join

some of his pals creeping around the tables. My skin wanted to shrink from the smoke, filth, and

hopelessness.

Time had almost run out, I was desperate. What choice did I have? I walked in.

I started with the stocky man working behind the bar. He was idly rinsing out plas servers beneath a

sputtering biodecon unit. His eyes were riveted to the screen as it televised the near-electrocution of two

penalized runbacks.

He swore fluently when both shockball players had to be carried off the field by medevac. "Devoids.

Miavana Fins wasted that 'un sure." He examined me with mild surprise. "Ay-lo — get ya a swig, Fem?"

I was glad I'd researched the inner city dialect before coming down here. In his crude patois, the guy

was trying to be polite and ask what I wanted to drink.

"No, grats. Eyein' to get an offjaunt in a blip. Ya spill a taker?"

"That 'un," the bartender jutted his chin toward the loner. "Ship's the Bestshot. Jaunts the trades."

I squinted once more at the pilot. At this distance I easily made out the details of his countenance. He

looked like he was ready to go through puberty, not an interstellar flight.

One of the hulks at the bar snorted, catching my attention. A thin rivulet of bitterale foam ran down his

stubbly chin as he bared his chipped teeth at me.

"Ay-ay-ay, Fem," he said, and went on to make the usual lewd proposition. At this rate I'd be an

expert in pornographic slang before the day was over.

"Grats, redder lip a junker," I replied. Thank you, but I'd rather kiss a drone.

I debated whether to approach the man or move on to tavern number six. Bestshot wasn't an

inspiring name for an interstellar passenger shuttle. Not to mention the painfully juvenile appearance of my

potential escort, and the lack of taste he had in patronizing this waste station.

"Gotta gripe, Fem?" The bartender wanted to know what was wrong.

"That 'un eyes raw," I said. He looks too young.

"Cap's Oenrallian" the man told me. "Those 'uns eye plenty raw'til mid-doin'." The pilot was an

alien, whose species didn't appear to mature until middle age. "Jaunt much, Fem?"

I didn't jaunt, period, one reason why I hadn't realized the pilot was an offworlder. Embarrassed, I

smiled my thanks and started toward the pilot.

Lanky, pallid-skinned, and sporting a thick thatch of orange hair, the Oenrallian still appeared more

like a kid who had swiped his dad's glidecar than an experienced starshuttle pilot. The guileless amber

eyes he lifted toward me only iced the cake.

"Ya pard, eyein'—"

"I speak standard English," he interrupted in a oddly pitched voice.

"Oh. Good." It was a relief to abandon the local jargon. "May I have a moment of your time?" I

decided not to offer my hand, it might be considered offensive. "My name is Cherijo Grey Veil."

"Dhreen, of Oenrall," he said as he lifted his plas server to his thin lips. With his free hand he gestured

to the empty chair opposite his own. I saw five digits, but they were splayed at the ends and had no nails.

Spoon-fingers, I thought absently. I bet he didn't have to bother much with standard Terran utensils.

I sat down, took a breath. What were those things on top of his head? "How did you know I spoke

standard?"

"You're too sanitary to be local." His eyes made a brief survey. "What's a pretty Fem like you doing

in this part of the city?"

"I need transport to the Pmoc Quadrant."

"Why?"

"I've been transferred to Kevarzangia Two." Opening my case, I extracted the data discs for his

examination. It was becoming impossible to take my eyes from the two round red nubs that poked up

beneath his hair. Horns, maybe?

"Why not get space on one of the Terran transports?"

I was ready for that. "There's no space available, and I need to leave today if I'm going to make my

arrival slot." I made a "silly me" face. "There was so much to do before I left. You know how it is. I

simply forgot to make a reservation." Sure, and if he checked it out, he'd learn I could lie through my

teeth, too. I was counting on his greed to prevent that. "How much to make the trip?"

"Ten thousand, if I decide to take you." His tone was definitely not Terran, despite his familiar use of

the language. He sounded like a sterilizer duct beginning to clog. There was an odor coming from him as

well, something like pineapple mixed with chocolate. The smell wasn't bad, just weird.

"That's fine," I answered, and quickly put the necessary credit chip next to the transfer data. I thought

the sight of all that currency would settle the deal. Dhreen only slouched back in his chair.

"Why transfer to the border, Fem?" His curiosity was casual, dangerous. "Not a spot you Terrans

usually pick."

"I've been assigned to the colony as a medical physician." I pulled out two more discs that would

verify my identity and contract. The table was getting crowded.

"A doctor?" Dhreen frowned at me from under thick brows. "A neonate like you?"

It was the usual reaction.

I looked older than the Oenrallian, but not by much. I was short for a Terran female, too, just under

five feet tall. It had earned me delightful nicknames at Medtech, like "Igor" and "Half-CC." My weight

seesawed between slender and skinny, depending on my surgery schedule. I liked to eat, I just didn't

always have the time.

I wasn't homely. I had a smaller version of Dad's prominent nose and the same tilted dark blue eyes.

The first was slightly beaky, the last vaguely exotic. My long black hair reflected a silver sheen (inherited

from a distant Native American ancestor, my father claimed, with the same "grey veil"), and was braided

so it stayed out of my face. I wore a shabby, neutral-shaded jumper with no accessories. My physician's

tunic was much more dignified, but wearing it here would have put a sign around my neck that said rob

me, immediately.

"I'm a fully qualified practitioner."

He lifted a shoulder. "If you say so, Fem."

I pushed my ID disc across the table. "Check the data, if you don't believe me."

"Data can be rigged by any kid with half a neural center," he said.

"So can a starshuttle," I retaliated without thinking, then inhaled sharply. Had I insulted him? Dhreen

made an odd, hiccuping sound and slapped his spoon-shaped fingers against the table.

He was either laughing, or having a seizure. While I was trying to decide which, the Oenrallian

swiveled his head to one side. Whatever he saw made his mirth come to an abrupt halt.

"Look out." He scooped up his flask and server, and I glanced back at the counter. A plas bottle

missed my nose by inches as it flew past and hit the wall beyond us. I grabbed my discs and shoved them

back in my case.

The two burly Terran patrons who had been arguing before were now trying to beat the brains out of

each other's skulls.

"Larian Scum-sucker!" one shouted, knocking over his stool as he staggered back on unsteady legs.

"Eat my waste!" the other responded, just as cleverly.

Plas containers, I soon discovered, were effective projectiles. I ducked behind my chair to avoid a

particularly dangerous volley that shattered when it slammed into our table. Dhreen lifted his drink to me

in silent salute.

No doubt he considered this idiocy as impromptu entertainment.

The drunken pair began pummeling each other in earnest, knocking over tables, trashing the counter,

generally making a mess. Snarled obscenities punctuated the thuds of fists and limbs as they battled. The

bartender displayed no inclination toward stopping them.

"Can't someone do something?" I demanded, and cringed as pieces of a broken stool flew overhead.

Another one crashed into the comdrone, which abruptly activated and began trying to play "A Love

Supreme" through the dented saxophone.

"They're just emitting some condensation," Dhreen said.

Blowing off steam was one thing, but this was getting out of hand. I scrambled to my feet the moment

I heard the unmistakable sound of a bone snap over the blaring music. Dhreen reached out and caught

my arm.

"You better stay out of it," he said, but I tugged free.

"You!" I pointed to the bartender as I approached. "Get over here and help me, or I'll signal Area

Security myself!"

He reluctantly moved from his display to separate the two, which proved simple, given their level of

intoxication. I pushed, he pushed, they fell over. The first was groaning miserably as I crouched down

next to him.

Up close, he was the most unhygienic specimen of humanity I'd ever encountered. His garments were

beyond filthy, and from the thick envelope of body odor, I gathered he hadn't personally deconned in

months. No wonder it stank in here. The moment I put a hand on him, he howled and bared his teeth at

me again. This time he wasn't leering.

"Mitts off, ya—""

"I'm a physician. A patcher. Turn loose ya arm."

He actually tried to hit me, the ingrate. "Off me! Ya puny back hacker—"

"Clammit," I said, and shoved his flailing fist away from my face. When he kept struggling, I pinned

him in a prone position with my knees. A swift, ample dose of sedatives rendered him unconscious in

seconds.

My scanner confirmed the break was a transverse fracture of the ulna. I immobilized his arm with a

bonesetter from my case and scanned him for internal injuries. Filthy but lucky. Despite the ferocious

tussle, he was fine. The comdrone's damaged audio was steadily getting louder, and I scowled.

"Fuse that junker, will ya?" I shouted at the bartender as I went to look at the other man. The

discordant version of the Coltrane masterpiece was cut off a moment later.

The second oaf had a number of minor contusions, but otherwise was just as dirty and healthy as his

opponent. After a brief examination, I closed my case.

"Done?" I demanded. "Or ya crave a nap-stick, ditto?"

The undamaged brawler muttered something uncomplimentary to the female gender, got to his feet,

and returned to his stool. In a moment he was drinking again, as though nothing had happened.

"No one has a shorter conscience than a drunk," Maggie used to tell me. "Except your old man."

After I'd sent the bartender to contact area medevac, I rolled the sedated male to his uninjured side,

and tagged him with an MDID for transport. I used a chip I'd filched from a colleague in my building. The

last thing I needed was this sort of incident on my records. When that was done, I returned to Dhreen's

table.

The pilot watched me sit down as he took a considerable gulp of spicewine. I opened my case and

held out the price of my passage again.

"I like you, Fem." He palmed the disc, eyed the credit balance, then pocketed it. "Okay, I'm your

jaunt."

"We have to leave today," I reminded him as I smoothed a loose bit of hair behind my ear, then

replaced the stack of transfer discs in front of him. "All my authorizations are here, and in order. They

are not rigged."

"Sure, Fem, no heat." He grimaced at the discs.

"Call me Doc," I said. "May I ask you a personal question?" He nodded. Good, I simply had to

know. "What are those two things beneath your hair?"

"They're not horns." Dhreen grinned, rubbing his spatulate fingers over the protuberances I found so

fascinating. "They're close to what you call ears."

I checked with a discreet glance. He didn't have ears.

"Sorry." I decided to risk one more question. "How much have you had to drink?"

"This stuff?" Dhreen hiccuped again as he raised his plas. "Syntoxicants don't alter my internals, Doc."

"If they don't, what's the point of coming to a tavern?"

"Only place to get work," he said after he'd swallowed. "New Angeles doesn't permit non-Terrans to

solicit on Main Transport premises."

I was mystified. "Why not?"

He shrugged again. "Your world, not mine."

"You must pick up some… colorful clients."

"Oh, sure. Last trip I made was for a Terran I met here. Seems he had to transfer because of these

three girlfriends. Only one was Terran, you see, and when she found out about the other two being

non-Terrans, she tried to amputate his—" Those golden eyes squinted at my expression. "Maybe I'll save

that one for the jaunt."

"Yes, please." I brushed some fragments of shattered plas from my jumper. My father would have

been horrified to see me here. Correction. My father would have gone into full arrest, and expired on the

spot.

"You've got good reflexes," Dhreen said.

Yeah, I was a real pro at dodging things. Too bad I couldn't find a way around my present quandary

so I could stay on Terra.

"Never been in a tavern before, have you?"

I thought of Maggie, who had managed the last eighteen years of my home life. She had died a few

months ago, of a disease my father and every other physician she'd seen couldn't cure. My "maternal

influencer," as Dad called her, had once been a tavern waitress. She had been a great mom, although

she'd never gotten rid of her saucy tavern waitress' mouth. My father blamed Maggie for my irreverent

humor and irritating speech patterns, among other things.

"No." I gazed around me without bothering to hide my disgust. "Slow Lazy Sax" indeed. The city

code enforcers should run a full structure decontamination on this pigsty, I thought. Then again, maybe

the filth was the only thing holding the plasteel walls together. "My first, and hopefully last, experience."

"You handled that scrapper like you knew what you were doing," Dhreen said. I acknowledged the

compliment with a smile. He continued with a casual air, "So, who are you running from?"

My smile didn't waver — did it? "I'm not running from anyone," I lied. "Check out the data. I'm not

wanted for questioning or detainment." Yet.

Dhreen didn't press the issue.

"Look, Doc, I'm firing the engines in exactly four stanhours. You want space, you got it. Just don't

change your mind halfway to K-2. I'm not back-jaunting if you get chilled appendages."

"Cold feet," I corrected him while mentally reviewing what I could accomplish in the short interval

before launch. If I drove like a madwoman, and no one tried to stop me, I would just make it. "That's

fine." A thought occurred to me. "How many other passengers will be on this flight?"

"Just you and me, Doc."

Just me and him? Great. Just great.

Dhreen's thin lips quirked. "Don't get your scanners in overload. You'll be perfectly safe."

I had good reason to be cautious. Like everyone, I'd heard the horror stories about unsuspecting

passengers being abducted and sold off to slavers in distant sectors. Still, even independent shuttle pilots

were required to put up guarantee collateral to earn trade routes from Terra. It took hefty credits, too. A

lot more than Dhreen could earn by selling a dozen young Terran females.

Looking at him, my instincts told me he was harmless. Should Dhreen forget to behave himself,

however, I could quickly disable him — another of Maggie's legacies.

I'll only have to find out where his genitalia are located, I thought. If he has any of the external variety,

that is.

The Oenrallian broke into my musings when he asked, "What's your cargo look like?"

"It's below the standard weight limits. Some personal belongings, medical gear, and a cat."

"A cat?" Dhreen frowned. "Legal or illegal? Wait"— he held up his hand—"Don't tell me. Just put the

thing in a carrier, and make sure it doesn't get loose."

"I will. Thank you, Captain Dhreen."

"Dhreen, Doc. Just Dhreen." He lifted his drink in another mocking salute. "See you at Transport in

four hours."

"Where, exactly, will your ship be?"

Dhreen's thick eyebrows rose.

"Launch Position S-17. Can't miss her. She's the ugliest hunk of spaceware in dock."

Days before I had found Dhreen, I'd begun to quietly move my possessions out of my father's house.

Now all I had to do was get Jenner and my last case, retrieve and load my hidden cache into my

glidecar, and get down to Transport.

Piece of cake.

I trotted back to the hoverlot where I'd left my glidecar. Since it was still there, I paid the attendant

the last half of the substantial bribe I'd promised him for watching it.

"Zap back quick, Fem," he said, and grinned. Come back soon. I didn't bother to tell him that I'd

never come back here — or anywhere else on Terra.

No, I just smiled back, waved, and hit the accelerator. Hard.

Dad had commissioned a palatial estate just outside the city, after the New Angeles Corps of

Engineers had permanently stabilized the San Andreas fault. I'd been born on the grounds and had lived

there ever since.

The house itself was four stories and thirty thousand square feet of marble and glass that rivaled the

Allied League Headquarters in Paris. Architectural students often came out to study the unique symmetry

of the roof gables. Furnishings and decor were changed at least twice a year, and exclusive designers

regularly made tour appointments so they could photoscan and copy the interior for their clients.

I hated it.

Once I returned from the tavern, it took only moments to collect my things from the estate. Leaving

the mansion was not quite as simple. The drone staff were ever-vigilant, and one intercepted me as I was

sneaking Jenner out through the side entrance panel.

"Dr. Cherijo." The automated housekeeper slid to a stop behind me. "Inquiry?"

"Proceed," I said, trying to sound like Dad when he was in a hurry.

"Reason Jenner is being removed?"

"Routine veterinarian treatment," I lied, hiding the case behind my legs.

The housekeeper couldn't sense deception by intonation, as far as I knew, but it didn't withdraw.

"Item is not annotated on the daily household schedule."

"An emergency," I said, improvising quickly. "Non-life-threatening," I added for good measure, just in

case the drone became too helpful and volunteered to chauffeur me.

"Understood. Expected time of return?"

"A few hours, maybe more."

"Will you require assistance?"

"No." I peered at the drone's display and saw the entry being saved. "You may erase this entry."

"Last command disregarded. Dr. Joseph ordered staff record all of Dr. Cherijo's activities."

Yeah, I bet he had. Dad was nothing if not eternally obsessed with my activities.

"Confirmed. I'm leaving now. Tell my father—" I stopped. Bad move. The drone would question the

message, since I was supposed to return before Dad. "Never mind."

"Acknowledged, Dr. Cherijo."

From the house I drove like a madwoman to my office. There I retrieved my cache of cases from the

lower-level storage facility. Ducking a few curious glances while I used the hover lifts, I loaded up

everything that was important to me.

It wasn't much, I thought, looking at the pathetic little pile, then at Jenner's carrier. I had packed more

when I went to Asia for spring break during my Medtech freshman year.

I slammed down the hatch and broke speed records getting to Main New Angeles Transport. No

fatalities, but I did put a good dent in my passenger panel when I glanced off the front thruster of a

glidetaxi. I even learned a few phrases they never taught in Medtech, courtesy of the extremely irate

cabbie.

Less than four hours after I'd entered the tavern, I stood in front of the starshuttle Bestshot. I put my

cases down and rubbed a hand over my eyes, just to be sure I wasn't hallucinating.

"That is a starshuttle?"

Dhreen's ship resembled a refuse heap. Okay, maybe I was being uncharitable. An organized refuse

heap.

In comparison to the streamlined vessels crowding the shuttle docks, the Bestshot was a towering

mass of mismatched alloys and energy-scarred panels. The viewports were covered with streaks of

reentry carbon. Something was rattling and sparking beneath the booster section. Something that looked

important. I spotted the bottom half of the Oenrallian hanging out of the discharge vent of what could

have been the starboard engine, or a recycled glidebus chassis. Or both.

"Dhreen?" I called out as I marched over.

His bright head popped up, and he waved a greasy arm at me. "Jump in, Doc, I'll join you in a blip."

This is what happens when you dump your entire life and go racing off to the other end of the galaxy,

an inner voice intoned with dark glee. You end up on a ship called the Bestshot.

I located the entrance ramp, squared my shoulders, and entered the shuttle. The main cabin inside

appeared little better than the exterior. The decor was basic junk. A conglomeration of navigation and

control equipment crowded the deck, most of it salvage goods. The scent of burnt wiring lingered. I

wondered if Dhreen was serious about piloting this heap through fourteen light-years of unforgiving

space.

"She won't win any appearance competitions," said a voice behind me, and I glanced back. Dhreen

patted an external sensor display. "But she's stable, dependable, and delivers me where I'm routed." A

grin appeared as he noted my expression. "In the same basic physical condition I started."

"That's reassuring." No, it wasn't. I indicated my cases and animal carrier. "Where can I secure my

stuff?"

"I'll show you to your quarters."

Dhreen led me through an untidy gauntlet of tangled cables and various unidentifiable apparatus to the

back of the shuttle. With a grunt and a push, he opened a door to a small, tidier section. My spirits began

to elevate an inch or two. There were comfortable-looking rest slings positioned above the lower deck,

which provided tables, chairs, and even a small viewport. It even smelled clean.

"Home for the next week, Doc." He pointed to a corner sectioned off by hastily rigged plaspanels

with inhibitor webs to keep something small confined. "I fixed up a space for you to put your cat."

Jenner would loathe it. "That was nice of you."

"Just keep it out of the main cabin. You know how to strap in before we take off?"

I nodded. Now was not the time to mention I'd only been on one starshuttle in my entire life. "You'd

better secure your animal's carrier, too," Dhreen said. "Use the rigging on that wall over there."

At this reminder I put down my cases and peered into the carrier. Huge eyes glared back at me.

Uh-oh, now I was in for it. I felt Dhreen hovering behind my shoulder.

"Anything else I need to do?" I asked.

"No, unless you're going to change your mind."

I straightened, and gave him my best imitation of my dad's normal demeanor. A blast-freeze unit on

rollers, with lips, nose, eyes, and some hair added. That was Dad.

"Thank you for your concern, Dhreen, but I'm absolutely certain of my decision." Even to my own

ears, I sounded authoritative.

"Well said." Was that a smirk of respect, or amusement? "I'll leave you to settle in." With that, Dhreen

withdrew.

I waited until the door closed before I sagged into a chair, and ran a hand over my perspiring face. I

wasn't certain of anything.

At that moment Jenner made his presence known from the depths of the carrier. It was a single yowl

of feline indignation blended with imperious command.

Let me out!

"Sorry, pal." I released the panel latch and offered a comforting hand, which was summarily ignored.

My cat stalked from the carrier, tail high and head erect. Sleek and well shaped, His Royal Highness

undulated with each step, silvery fur bristling.

Hell hath no fury like a confined feline.

"Come on."

I scooped him up and placed him in the makeshift space Dhreen had prepared. He sniffed at the

plas-panels, and eyed the distance an escape attempt would require him to jump. After he tested the web

that prevented such a feat with one paw, he regarded me with irate blue eyes.

You've got to be kidding.

"Don't start," I said, and held out a peace offering of dried mackerel bits. He ignored them, and me,

and crossed to the farthest corner. Presenting his back to me, he began to sulk.

Jenner and I had been together since I'd found him eight years ago. Maggie and I had gone out for a

rare shopping trip, and I'd spied the wet, bedraggled kitten crouched in a gutter. When I had held out a

hand to him, he hadn't cringed away, as I'd expected. Instead he'd pulled himself up into a regal pose of

absolute disdain.

You may now rescue me, he'd seemed to convey.

"What in God's name is that?" had been Maggie's reaction to the dripping ball of fur cradled against

my chest.

"It's a cat."

"I'll signal Area Animal Control." Maggie had wrinkled her nose, then caught my reaction and shook

her head. "Oh, no, kiddo, you can't bring that into the old man's house."

At the time I was in my third phase at Medtech, and when I wasn't studying, I was listening to Dad

lecture me at length about his cases. Other than that, I ate and slept. That was my life.

"I'm taking him home," I'd said.

"Joey — "

I'd gazed at her once, the way my father did when she got overly verbal. That was all it took.

Later, I was informed by our vet that Jenner was a Tibetan temple cat, a rare breed with royal

bloodlines. That was the only thing that impressed my father, who reluctantly allowed me to keep him.

"At least," he'd said with faint distaste, "it is not a dog."

At the same time my new kitten had stared back at the great Joseph Grey Veil without blinking, the

hair along his neck rising stiffly. He'd even hissed.

I'd lost my heart to Jenner on the spot. Since Maggie died, he was the only friend I had left.

"Go ahead and pout," I told him. "You'll get hungry, eventually. Then what are you going to do, Your

Majesty?"

Jenner shot me a brief look that promised extensive, painful retribution.

"I'm sorry." I sighed, crouching down next to the plas-panels. "I know this wasn't your idea. But I

need you, pal."

Jenner pondered this for a moment, and decided not to argue with me. He rose, stretched gracefully,

and padded over to me. Planting himself next to the wall, he lifted his chin.

You may now beg forgiveness.

I was careful not to laugh — Jenner had definite ideas about who was the boss, and it wasn't me. It

took two handfuls of dehydrated fish treats and much scratching and stroking, but he finally calmed down

and settled in for a nap. I wondered what he was thinking as he blinked his lapis eyes closed.

Probably scheming how to acquire a larger portion of treats next time, I decided.

As for me, despite my affirmation to Dhreen, I wondered if I could really go through with this —

transferring to an alien world so far from everything I knew. I had no idea how I would be employed by

the FreeClinic. The contract I'd signed had no specific duties outlined other than "medical doctor." Those

two words covered a lot of territory.

The alternatives? There were none.

"Hey, Doc," Dhreen's voice startled me. I looked over at the wall display and saw his face on the

screen. "Strap in — we're preparing to launch." The display went blank, and I heard the engines rumble

into life. Jenner woke up as I slipped him back into the carrier, and objected loudly as I secured it to the

wall. Then I strapped myself in. My fingers felt numb, and trembled more than I liked.

"I'm going to love this," I said out loud as I tightened my harness. Sure, my inner voice agreed. About

as much as finding out what your father's been doing for the last thirty years.

How had I gotten into this situation? So many decisions to be made, risks to be taken. All by me,

whose life had previously been planned out to the minute. And I hadn't even done the planning.

My father had always decided everything: what I did, where I went, and who I saw. As a result, I had

studied to be a surgeon. I had gone to Medtech. I'd never had friends.

After I'd completed my training courses, Dad had me intern in the busiest trauma center on the New

West Coast. The first months had been a frantic blur. Snarling senior residents. Endless screens of

diagnostic theory. Double shifts in assessment, pre-op, and surgery. When I wasn't working, I was nearly

comatose.

"Sure, she'll make one hell of a surgeon," I recalled Maggie once snapped at my father, startling me

from a doze I'd fallen in over dinner. "If you don't kill her first."

I survived. I didn't dare do anything else. The few doubts I'd had eventually evaporated. True,

dedicating my life to medicine had been Dad's idea, not mine. In spite of that, each time I held a lascalpel

S. L. Viehl - Stardoc 01 - Stardoc

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