The Refugee (The Korvali Chronicles Book 1) (11 page)

She smiled. “I have my moments.”

He studied her hair once more. “It is not accurate to label red hair as red. There are many versions of this color.”

She shrugged. “Humans like simplicity, not accuracy. And I can’t comment… I can’t see reds.”

It was Eshel’s turn to be surprised. “You are colorblind?”

She nodded.
 

“I have read about this. It is absurd. A scan of your X chromosomes would identify the nature of the anomaly, and could be easily fixed. Have you surveyed the region around the receptor genes?”

“I have. The problem I ran into…” She stopped herself, glancing around. “We better not talk about this.”

Eshel, a look of recognition on his face, surreptitiously glanced around as well. “Obeying the Alliance’s rule is easy with others. There is no… temptation… as they know nothing of genetics.”

Catherine nodded, but said nothing.
 

“Why do you appear concerned?” Eshel asked her. “It is I who is sanctioned, not you.”

Catherine hesitated, fiddling with her fork. “It was made clear to me that discussing that, with you, would result in my being discharged and sent back to Earth.”

Eshel raised his eyebrows. “Did the Captain offer this warning?”

Catherine shook her head. “Commander Steele did. That’s why he made such a fuss about us talking in my office that night.”

Eshel did not reply.

After a long silence, Catherine noticed Eshel’s hand. “I have a question, Eshel. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” Eshel looked at her, indicating for her to continue. “Your tattoo… the others who escaped with you… they had tattoos as well. Two other kinds. Who were they?”

Eshel looked down for a moment. “Six of them, those with the branches of the tree… they were from the Osecal clan. They were people of science, seeking to associate with outsiders. The others were Moshal, one of whom was a Guardsman.”

“He helped you escape.”

“She,” Eshel corrected. “Yes. One has no chance of escaping Korvalis without the help of the Guard.”

She. “Were there other females in your group?”

“Two others,” Eshel said. “We are not as dimorphic as humans… but you could not tell they were female?”

“They were enshrouded when I saw them. But Vargas didn’t notice it. He didn’t even notice the tattoos until I pointed them out.”

Eshel scowled slightly. “How does such a person become a physician?”

Catherine laughed and moved on to a different topic. “I’ve received a lot of inquiries about you.”

“From whom?”

“Journalists. Scientists. Other people. They’re dying for information about you. Some of them offered me money. A lot of money.”

“Why do they come to you?”

“They know the brass will only give them limited information, so they try to wheedle it out of the rest of us. I guess word got out that I know you.”

Eshel’s expression grew cold. “What did you tell them?”

“Everything I knew,” she replied. “I even made some stuff up.”
 

Eshel stared at her.
 

She smiled. “That’s a joke. I didn’t respond to any of them. I wouldn’t share anything about you unless you asked me to.”

Eshel said nothing for a moment. “Perhaps they contacted you because they learned that you are my friend.”

Catherine looked up from her plate, a little taken aback at Eshel’s words. She realized he was right. They were friends, and she felt a sense of honor at having earned the title. “Perhaps you’re right.”

They finished their meals, cleared their trays, and left. Just as they reached the intersection that would send them in separate directions, they came upon a series of shelves built onto the bulkhead. Eshel stopped and examined the shelves, which were filled with a variety of random items, mostly clothing and computer equipment. Next to the shelves was a viewer with digital images of other items.

“What is this?” Eshel asked. “I have wondered since I arrived.”
 

“This is the Free Box. When you’re on a ship for three years, you tend to acquire things you don’t want, or need things you can’t get, so people dispose of their stuff here and other people take it.”

He peered at the stuff piled on the shelves. “A good idea.”

“Most of the time it’s junk, but once in a while you can score something good.”

“And the images?” he asked, looking at the photo display.
 

“That’s stuff people don’t want to give away, but want to sell or barter for a trade. Look through it,” she said. “You could probably find some things you need.”

“I will.”

They said their goodbyes, and Catherine left Eshel to the Free Box.
 

Catherine finished her shower, dressed, and turned on her viewer. An alert told her the ship was back in satellite range, so she sat down to see if her father was available for a holo-chat. She’d found a couple of brief articles on epigenetic therapy, written for a lay audience, that she wanted to show her dad. Since Steele had prevented her from working in the lab, she’d begun doing research in her quarters. She couldn’t accomplish nearly as much there, but she could still make headway by reading. Steele couldn’t prevent her from reading.
 

When she called up one of her directories to find the two articles, the computer misheard her command and took her to the wrong directory. She shook her head in annoyance. Just as she was about to restate the command, a series of files caught her attention. She didn’t recognize the numeric filenames. She never used numeric filenames. So she opened one of them.
 

The file contained the results of a genome scan, including a list of genetic loci. Confused, she examined the list and realized she recognized it; it was from her scan of Eshel’s genome, while he was in stasis. She examined the next file, then the next. The files contained the results of every scan she’d conducted when Eshel arrived. And, finally, she opened the last one: a large, multi-terabyte file. There, staring at her from her viewer, was Eshel’s genetic material.
 

Catherine’s face grew hot.
How did this happen?
Then she recalled accessing her network to cross-reference the four genes that Dr. Vargas’s initial scan had identified. She’d conducted every scan on her network; the software must have automatically saved each result. All the information Steele accused her of having, the information Holloway wished she’d had, she’d actually had all along.
 

She immediately pulled the files from her network and saved them on a portable drive. If Steele knew she had them, he would’ve spoken up by now. And he wouldn’t find them now unless he had Technology search the VirNet… the VirNet! She logged in and checked everything she’d backed up last time they were in range. And there they were, the incriminating files. She deleted them all.
 

Once off the networks, she opened the files again. How did Eshel conceive of such a design? How did he test it to make sure it would work? On Earth, doctors used gene therapy for single gene disorders like hemophilia and Huntington’s disease, and for treatment of certain cancers. But epigenetic therapy? They’d had partial success with one type of breast cancer and a few other rare conditions, but that’s it. To accomplish what Eshel had, to engineer the epigenome for preventative purposes, to ensure survival in extreme circumstances… no one,
no one
, had done anything like it.
 

“Open EpiGenomix,” she said. Her computer did as she asked. “Load file Finnegan Two.” Finnegan 2 was her new name for the file with Eshel’s genetic data. “Run methylation analysis.”

When the analysis completed, Catherine examined the results. She sat back in her chair; sure enough, the results showed numerous signs of hypermethylation, a clear sign of intentional alteration. She made a list of the other analyses she would conduct. She knew Eshel had altered his epigenome; he’d told her so. Now she sought to discover what he wasn’t free to tell her: how he’d done it.
 

Countless hours later and long after she should’ve gone to bed, Catherine had conducted every scan and analysis she could think of. What she needed now was to analyze a current copy of Eshel’s genetic material, for comparison. Eshel had created some of the epigenomic changes she saw… but so would the drug Eshel took to initiate his stasis. Now, the drug was out of his system. With a fresh sample from Eshel, she could clearly see the effects of the changes he’d made and begin to work backward.

Could she obtain such crucial information?

Asking Eshel for a sample, assuming he would even allow it, was too risky. If they were found out, Eshel would lose his asylum and she would be discharged. Even if Eshel were willing to maintain secrecy, she couldn’t put him in such a position.

She could obtain the sample without Eshel’s knowledge—an accidently pulled hair or some scratched skin cells under her nail from training, or perhaps a quick onceover with a medical scanner for other reasons…. No. She couldn’t do that. The Korvali were extremely guarded with their genetic code and took careful measures to prevent others from obtaining it. Some scientists even speculated that the Korvali robe, which almost completely covered the wearer when the hood was pulled up, was designed not to prevent outsiders from touching them, but to prevent others from obtaining their DNA. To go behind Eshel’s back would be far worse than collaborating with him secretly.
 

Catherine sighed, shut everything down, and put away her portable drive.
 

December 25th
 

Hi Dad,

Merry Christmas! Thanks for the old Christmas tunes—I haven’t heard those since Mom used to play them. Growing up, they always seemed kind of silly; now I cherish them.
 

Is the snow good enough for skiing yet? What I wouldn’t give to be off this ship and out there in the backcountry with you right now.
 

At Yamamoto’s request, I’ve been training Eshel in self-defense. It’s gone well so far—he’s still uncomfortable with the physical contact, but he handles it well. Because he didn’t grow up fighting or wrestling like most human boys, he’s pretty awkward. But he’s very hard-working and has surprisingly little difficulty handling the ineptness of learning a new skill. He makes no excuses and expresses no frustration. His height is an obstacle at times; but I assured him that once his training advances, his height, and the long reach that comes with it, will eventually become an asset to him. To be honest, I wasn’t sure how good he’d be at taking instruction from me (he doesn’t have much respect for authority), but it hasn’t been a problem.
 

Once Tom found out that Eshel eats second meal with me after training, he insisted that Eshel also eat second meal with us once in a while during the week. Eshel finds the idea of socializing over a meal odd, and he doesn’t need to eat more than once a day, but he was willing to rearrange his schedule to accommodate Tom, probably because he knew Tom would keep bugging him if he didn’t.
 

Oh, Dad, you missed a great poker tournament, one of the most exciting I’ve played in a long time. Ten of us started the game (including Eshel, who reluctantly decided to give poker a try). After seven players got eliminated, it came down to Tom, Eshel, and me. Between his expressionless face and his ability to calculate probabilities quickly, Eshel has become a formidable poker player. The others groan when he shows up to play. But most of them seem to have accepted him, although they’re still baffled by the fact that he refuses to answer certain kinds of questions and that he has, on one or two occasions, gotten up and left without a word. Tom gave him a hard time about that latter thing; apparently Eshel didn’t know that it’s customary to announce one’s exit from a social gathering. I still laugh when I think about it. The only one who seems to genuinely dislike Eshel is Mackey Middleton—Eshel and Middleton have exchanged tense words on several occasions, at least until Tom intervened. From what I can tell, Middleton is what Holloway would call a “twat.”

Anyway, Tom, as usual, started playing aggressively. I suspected he had a high flush, but he clearly didn’t suspect I was holding a full house. I pushed him all in and next thing you know, Eshel pushed his entire stack in and showed us four of a kind! Tom and I never saw it coming.
 

That’s not all. Tom had talked us into betting sick bay duty, and now I have to serve two of Eshel’s! You know I hate sick bay, Dad! What’s worse is they’re redeye shifts (didn’t you tell me that Vargas assigns redeye duty to people he doesn’t like?). Eshel doesn’t mind the shifts, as he dislikes Vargas as much as Vargas dislikes him. Anyway, I was the big stack at the table; instead of beating a drunken Tom and an otherworld newb, I wind up working redeye! To his credit, Eshel tried to take one of the shifts back, but I wouldn’t let him. He’s got studying to do and, well, I agreed to the stakes. It serves me right for letting Tom rope me into a high risk game.

We had another exciting poker game as well, although this time the excitement wasn’t due to the game itself. A couple of officers showed up to play, both new to Tom’s game but both experienced players. They were pretty aggressive players, especially a Lieutenant Haus, who I’d never met before. Turned out he’s a sore loser—Private Zander (who’s smarter than he seems) bluffed Haus out of a big pot with a lousy hand. Haus wouldn’t let it go and resorted to calling Zander a “service kid.” Needless to say, Tom lost his temper and he and Haus came to blows. Snow stepped in and they tossed Haus and his buddy out.
 

The irony is that Zander isn’t even a service kid like Tom and Snow are; he didn’t grow up on the base and he isn’t adopted. Tom has no problem admitting he grew up in military social services, but he’s still pretty sensitive about the service kid stereotypes and the common belief that they get preference when it comes to promotions. I don’t blame him. Tom has earned every promotion he’s gotten, and I’d bet more redeye sick bay duty that he’ll be Captain Kingston before he turns 40.