Dream Called Time: A Stardoc Novel - By S. L. Viehl Page 0,2

her head like a scolded kid. “No, Healer.”

“Good answer.” I turned my attention back to the patient. “The Terran female here presents with a genetically enhanced immune system which renders her impervious to infection and disease,” I said, not bothering to read from the chart. “Any injury she sustains, including the life-threatening variety, heals in a matter of hours. Her brain capacity is estimated to be several hundred times that of an average Terran, and includes exceptional intelligence, eidetic memory, and select superior motor skills.” I glanced at the dismayed faces across from me. “Any of you know how she was created?”

This time one of the male interns spoke up. “Her parent replicated his own cells and genetically enhanced them to change her gender as well as her physiology.”

“That’s correct. You get to skip the pop quiz I’m giving later.” I placed the chart back in the holder at the end of the exam table. “The end result was Dr. Cherijo Grey Veil, cloned and refined and engineered from birth to be the perfect physician. Would anyone like to take a stab at diagnosing her current condition?” I showed them some of my teeth. “I’m dying to know what it is.”

“She is violating an order of bed rest,” a low voice said from behind me.

I glanced back at the Senior Healer. Three- armed, one-legged, pink-hided with a bald head and a nest of white, thin, prehensile, meter- long gildrells around his mouth, the Omorr surgeon was my best friend and one of my oldest colleagues.

Judging by the flush currently darkening his features, he was also as pissed off as I was.

“Don’t forget appropriating medical staff and using diagnostic equipment without proper authorization,” I reminded him. “Nice to see you, Senior Healer. They told me you were on Joren.” Although how he got there, I had no clue.

“I was. I jaunted out on a scout to meet the ship. Leave us,” Squilyp said to the others as he hopped around to stand on the opposite side of the table.

Suppressing various expressions, gestures, and sounds of relief, the interns and nurses almost trampled one another trying to get out of the entry panel.

The Omorr smelled a little like bile, and looked tired, or older—or maybe both. A lot of things had changed, and I didn’t know why, but I was about to find out.

Or else.

“How many transitions did it take for you to get here,” I asked, “and how many times did you puke?”

“Seven jumps,” he said. “I vomited twice. What are you doing?”

“I’m putting together a workup on Dr. Grey Veil here.” Or, at least, the dimensional image of her. I was the original, the prototype, the living, breathing version of the simulated woman who currently lay on my exam table, naked and flat on her back. My back. Whatever. “I thought it might be helpful in finding out what the hell is going on, since no one is telling me anything.”

He started to say something, and then changed his mind. “You were advised to stay in your berth.”

“I’ll be happy to do that. Just as soon as I know how I got on this ship, where it is, who swapped out the crew, and what happened to my injuries.”

“You don’t remember?”

I folded my arms. “What do you think?”

“What have you been told?”

“Basically? Nothing. Every time I ask, they railroad me with some nonsense about psychological trauma. They removed nearly all the entries from my chart, and I’ve been locked out of the medical database.” I brushed aside a thick section of her/our hair, creating a part along one side of her/our head. “Is this where I got conked? How bad was it?”

“I cannot say.” He glanced at the simulation to avoid looking at me. “We were not present when you were injured, and the damage healed before you were recovered.”

Obviously, or now I’d be leaking blood or brain matter all over the deck. “Then show me what you extrapolated from my scans after you took me back from the League.”

“I do not have all the details on the incident—”

“Goddamn it, Squilyp.” The last shred of my patience finally parted ways with my temper. “Tell me what the hell happened to me.”

Shouting at him stiffened his gildrells into icicles—a sure sign he was offended—but he only addressed the control console. “Display program variation C-1.”

Like an invisible killer with an unseen ax, the imager erased a good chunk of my twin’s skull, vaporizing the bone and exposing the brain tissue. It was