The Refugee (The Korvali Chronicles Book 1) (5 page)

“Since when is the Korvali joining the Alliance a priority?” Marks argued, looking around the table again. “They’re never going to.”
 

“I do not agree,” Ov’Raa replied, unruffled. “The Korvali now attend more Alliance summits than ever before, and they have much to offer the Alliance—”

Ferguson stepped in again. “Persuading the Korvali to join the Alliance, fruitful or not, is the Alliance’s concern, not ours.” She sat back in her chair. “We’ll report the truth without specifying Eshel’s identity. That will buy us time to create a plan for handling any future inquiries from them. Once I communicate with Admiral Scott, we’ll take the next step.”
 

Sensing that Ferguson was about to adjourn the meeting, the group began pushing their chairs back.
 

“There is another issue that needs addressing,” said Commander Steele. The officers reluctantly sat back to hear what the scientist had to say. “We need to establish how we’ll handle Eshel’s scientific expertise. He has advanced knowledge that will prove extremely valuable to virtually every scientist, human engineer, and genetic technologist that ever existed in this galaxy. We need to gain control over such powerful information, lest it be abused in some way.”
 

“Yeah,” Marks added. “Who knows what he could do with that knowledge.”

“The topic of Eshel putting this ship at risk has already been covered at length,” Steele replied coldly to Marks. “I am referring now to protecting Eshel from us.”

Just as Marks was to retort, the Captain put her hand up to silence him. “Ov’Raa?”

“Yes, Captain. The Korvali guard their genetic technology even more closely than their citizens, and they have shared very little of their knowledge.”
 

“Don’t the Korvali attend those scientific summits on Suna?” Ferguson said.

“They do,” Steele said. “On rare occasion. But they never share their methods. This refusal has ruffled the feathers of the interstellar scientific community and contributes to preventing the Korvali from inclusion in the Alliance. However, it is their knowledge, and their choice. We cannot expect Eshel to violate Korvali Doctrine simply because we gave him asylum. Even if he chose to, without necessary regulations the implications could be far-reaching and disastrous.”

Ferguson let out an exasperated sigh. “So he shares what he knows. Isn’t the entire purpose of science to share one’s discoveries for the betterment of society?”

“Manipulating genetic material doesn’t always result in the ‘betterment’ of society, Captain, which is why we have an extensive body of laws governing it,” Steele said. “The Korvali appear to be more advanced than us in genetics. They deserve dominion over their intellectual property. They may forgive our housing one of their scientists, but stealing their innovations will bring certain retaliation.” He paused. “However, if that does not convince you, may I remind all of you of the Nystrom incident that occurred five years ago? A genetic technologist—not to be confused with a genetic scientist—sold ninety-two people a gene therapy that would purportedly make them taller. All ninety-two died. When the authorities investigated, they found that the therapy came from Korvali sources.”

Ferguson nodded. “Yes. I recall that incident.”
 

“What the hell is a genetic technologist?” Vargas asked. “A fancy name for a lab worker?”

“They’re known as ‘biocrackers’,” Catherine said. “They hack into others’ information systems, steal their biological patents, and attempt to recreate and sell them illegally—”
 

“The point is,” Steele interrupted, “that such powerful information in the wrong hands could lead to similar incidents. And with Eshel aboard, any misuse of genetic material would have Alliance and Korvali authorities questioning you and myself, Captain.”
 

Ferguson sighed again, glancing at the time. “We’ve opened Pandora’s Box here. Until we can discuss this in detail, Eshel must refrain from sharing any of his knowledge with anyone, until further orders. In addition, the proceedings from this meeting shall not be discussed with anyone, until further orders. You’re dismissed.”

Catherine sat at the desk in her tiny office, reading a new paper on epigenetic engineering methods. She heard a double chirp, which meant that the Captain or XO had sent an alert. She checked her contactor:

Attention all crewpersons:

Three days ago, we responded to an SOS from a ship with 10 Korvali citizens aboard. Nine didn’t survive the journey from Korvalis, but one is alive and has requested asylum with our organization. His request has been approved.
 

This Korvali citizen, whose name is Eshel, will live and work among us. You are expected to treat him with the same respect afforded any other member of this organization.
 

Commander Yamamoto

Executive Officer

A few minutes later, her contactor gave a single chirp. A message, from Commander Steele.
 

My office. Immediately.

A glimmer of anticipation rose in her. Someone needed to advise the brass on Eshel’s knowledge and to ensure it wasn’t misused or exploited. And there was no one more qualified to do so than her. Steele was a geneticist, but he’d stepped away from his own research 15 years ago when he accepted his position as Chief. The field had changed dramatically since then. Steele would want to manage everything, but he needed her for the details. She smiled and quickly walked to his office.
 

Once arrived, she saluted and stood before her commanding officer. Steele glanced up at her, but didn’t ask her to sit. Steele’s thin frame and narrow face, along with his age, gave him a gaunt, mean appearance.
 

“Because of Eshel’s knowledge and the risks that come with it,” he began, “I am to oversee protection of Eshel’s genetic knowledge and provide the Captain and the Alliance with guidance on how to proceed with this challenge in the future.”
 

“Yes, Sir.”

“As such, I will need you to furnish any and all analyses, scans, or any other work you’ve conducted regarding Eshel. I will also need the file with his genetic information, as well as any and all emails or other exchanges you’ve had with Eshel. Once you give me this information, you must permanently remove it from your network and VirNet. That’s an order.”

Catherine blinked a few times. “You don’t… Sir, you don’t want me to help with this?”

“Did I request your help?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then address my requests.”

Catherine, speechless for a moment, tried to recall what he’d asked for. “I have no analyses or scans, Sir. I didn’t save those I conducted while Eshel was in stasis. I don’t have Eshel’s genetic file either, but Dr. Vargas probably does. And I’ve had no contact with him since talking with him in sick bay.”
 

Steele gave her a hard look. “You are aware that withholding such information could end your career with the Space Corps.”
 

Catherine felt anger spread through her. “Yes, Sir.” She knew he expected her to elaborate or to rephrase her answer in order to sound more reassuring. But she had no intention of doing either.
 

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Lieutenant.”

“I am withholding nothing, Sir.”
 

“You are the head of your lab. No one shall discuss genetics with Eshel, question Eshel in any way, or pursue any of the information you found when you examined Eshel. You are responsible for ensuring that you and your subordinates obey this order. If you violate any of it, you will be finished here and sent back to Earth. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Steele turned away. “Dismissed.”

Eshel descended the aft stairwell to the second deck and proceeded to the living quarters that Ov’Raa’s administration had assigned him. All non-commissioned crew shared their quarters, anywhere from two to four per room, depending on rank. Eshel’s bunkmates included one human, Private Suzuki, and two Derovians, Private Coran Mel’Ri and his brother Dorel.

Ov’Raa had told Eshel he’d chosen his bunkmates intentionally; Derovians, with their highly forgiving natures, would be least bothered by Eshel’s aloofness. Ov’Raa had warned him that his communication style seemed “quite unfriendly” at times. Eshel didn’t understand the purpose of being “friendly,” even after Ov’Raa explained what the word meant. He only knew that sleeping in such tight quarters with others, particularly otherworlders, was going to be difficult.

Nonetheless, Eshel did as his father taught him and prepared himself to greet his bunkmates according to their native traditions. He would shake hands with the human and perform the meron with the two Derovians. The meron was similar to the handshake, but with both hands and without the shake, where one clasps the other’s hands for a longer duration. Eshel took a deep, long breath in preparation, a small discomfort beginning to spread through his long fingers.
 

As Eshel approached the door of his quarters, he heard laughter and talking. When Coran spotted him in the doorway, he leapt up from his bunk. Dorel did the same, with just as much zest, while Suzuki slowly stood up, staring at him.
 

None offered their hands. Ov’Raa must have warned them, Eshel thought with some relief. From what he’d heard, Derovians especially could not resist offering their thick hands in friendship. The diminutive brothers greeted him, staring up at him with their wide eyes.
 

Not expecting a fourth, they’d spread out in the small space, their belongings stowed in what would be Eshel’s storage area.
 

“Many, many apologies, Eshel!” said Coran. “We’ve taken your space here with our things. Never did we expect to have a new crewmember, especially one who’s Korvali!” Coran shuffled over and began the hasty removal of his things, as did the others.
 

“You need not make much space,” Eshel said. “I own no more than what you see here.” He laid out his personal items on his bunk. Other than his robes, which he was told he could wear when off-duty, he had only one metal box. The men stared at the box.
 

Recognizing their curiosity, Eshel put two fingers on the box’s console. The lid snapped open. The others crowded around him; Eshel let them look inside, quickly backing away from their close proximity. The two brothers showed expressions of mild disappointment at the box’s contents, which were technical in nature.
   

“Do you not have images, or art, from Korvalis?” Coran asked.
 

“I do not. No piece of art would fit in this case. And we do not take images where I am from, as you do.”

Dorel, eager to chime in, said, “No images? Why not?”

“It is unnecessary.”

“How so, Eshel?” Coran said.

Eshel paused. “We do not need to take images. I recall all that I have seen.”

“What do you mean you recall all you’ve seen?” Suzuki asked him. “Don’t you forget details, or doesn’t the picture in your mind get… fuzzyish… until you see it again?”

“Fuzzyish?”

“Less clear, Eshel,” Dorel said.

“No.”

Coran and Dorel looked at one another, then back at Eshel.

“We can change the image, if you wish,” Coran said.
 

Eshel, not understanding at first, realized Coran referred to large digital image of a Derovian woman, who stood nude on a beach. The image took up the remaining bulkhead space between their two bunks. He then noticed that next to Suzuki’s bunk hung a similar image of a human woman.
 

“There is no need,” Eshel replied.
 

The men chuckled.
 

“You may not require all your space now, Eshel,” Coran said, “but you will collect things once we visit all the planets. We go to Derovia first,” he glanced at his brother with a big smile, “then Suna, then Calyyt-Calloq!”

Eshel hung his robes, put away his things, and sat down on his bunk.
 

Eshel woke to the sound of his contactor. He felt tired, his circadian rhythm still not quite adjusted to the length of a human day. Just as he emerged from what the others referred to as the “head,” the door sounded.

“Eshel… good morning!” Ov’Raa said, a big smile on his face as he entered.
 

Eshel did not reply.
 

“I see your bunkmates are on duty, Eshel. Is everything fine with Coran, Dorel, and Private Suzuki? How about with your new post?”

“Yes. Sir,” he added, having learned from his new CO, Chief Selway, that one must always properly address one’s superiors. “I begin duty soon.”

“Of course, Eshel! I will not keep you. I wanted to tell you that should any problems arise, any problems at all, Eshel, you must come to me.” When Eshel didn’t respond, he added, “The practical aspects of integrating an unfamiliar species are not so simple!”
 

Eshel agreed to Ov’Raa’s request, still not understanding why Ov’Raa bothered him. Once Ov’Raa left, Eshel changed into his uniform, which still felt constricting compared to the comfort of his robe. He reported for duty at the maintenance section of Engineering.
 

All maintenance crew reported to Master Chief Petty Officer Selway, a 35-year Space Corps “old-timer” who could keep a starship running efficiently under nearly any conditions. Such information had come from Selway himself. Selway had also taken it upon himself to teach Eshel the way things worked on a starship—where things were, and who did what and why. He had especially emphasized the importance of proper addresses.
 

Eshel found the use of salutes and such wordy addresses absurd. However, even more perplexing was Selway’s propensity to tell stories, particularly tales of past maintenance challenges and how he tackled them. Selway’s stories were extremely detailed and often quite long; it wasn’t unusual for him to devote as much as sixty minutes to a given story. Eshel, utterly baffled by this, said little, and often nothing, in response.