The Refugee Read online

  She walked swiftly to the stairwell and descended four decks, mentally preparing her apology. After only three months, Cornelia’s crew quickly learned that missing sick bay duty, or otherwise angering Dr. Vargas, was unwise. When one science officer missed his duty, Vargas yelled at him in front of the other medical staff and assigned him to work both of his off-duty days in sick bay.

  Catherine arrived at sick bay, squinting from the bright lights. When she spotted Vargas near his office on the far side of the main chamber, he didn’t accost her, yell, or even appear angry. Instead, he impatiently gestured for her to join him.

  As she crossed the chamber to where Vargas stood, she noticed a body on one of the medical beds, a tiny, almost transparent IV attached to its hand. She stopped and took a closer look.

  He was an otherworlder. He was Korvali.

  2

  “I thought they were dead,” she said in wonder, staring at the Korvali.

  He was fair-skinned with short, light brown hair. She noticed the webbing between his long fingers, the absence of fingernails, and his small, almost non-existent ears… all characteristic of the Korvali. His clothing, the traditional Korvali robe, was slightly dirty. Otherwise, he appeared peaceful and unharmed.

  “They are dead,” Vargas replied, joining her at the bedside. “And I thought this one was too until my scanner picked up some very faint vital signs. He’s in some type of… stasis, and I can’t revive him. I’ve tried, believe me. His heart and respiratory rates are so slow they’re barely detectable. But he’s alive.” He turned to face Catherine. “When I scanned him, I found some irregularities in his DNA. They could explain why he’s in a coma, but I’m no geneticist. I need some answers.” Vargas, with his thick mustache and heavy build, looked at Catherine expectantly.

  Catherine stood up straight, doing her best to absorb everything Vargas told her. “I’ll do what I can, Doctor,” she said, hoping she sounded more coherent than she felt. She glanced at his viewer. “I’ve never seen one of their genomes before.”

  Dr. Vargas pulled the remote from the pocket of his white coat and scrolled to the scan results, which listed the four anomalies he’d found.

  “I need to see his entire genome, at chromosomal resolution,” she said.

  He handed her the remote. “The boy has twenty-three pairs of chromosomes, like we do.”

  I knew it, she thought with some excitement. “Some believe they’re the most similar to us, genetically speaking.” She instructed the computer to conduct a series of scans, each at increasing resolution. “How did the others die?”

  “Dehydration. I’ve got them chilling like popsicles in the cold chamber until I know what the hell to do with them.”

  She rolled her eyes, knowing he couldn’t see her. Catherine rarely got sick, but told herself if she ever did come down with something, it must wait until evening, when Vargas was typically off duty.

  Once the scans finished, she took a look at the results. “Interesting. Those four irregularities you mentioned—on chromosomes six, seven, and eighteen—they’re anomalous because his DNA has been altered there…”

  “Altered? As in, intentionally changed? How can you tell?”

  She ordered the computer to project a three-dimensional image of the genome. “You can see the markers,” she said, pointing at them. While Vargas walked around the image, she connected to her own network, entered her password, and uploaded the file of the Korvali patient’s genetic material. She reran her scans and cross-referenced each alteration with her human genomic library. One by one, the viewer displayed the names and descriptions of the four altered loci. Two of the altered loci were in a region involved in visual processing. The other two, on different chromosomes, appeared to have some regulatory function.

  She shook her head. “This couldn’t possibly explain his coma. Let me try something else.” Catherine conducted a different scan, again repeating her scans at increasing levels of resolution. It wasn’t until the third scan that she saw something strange. “What the hell?” she muttered to herself.

  “What do you see?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, staring at the viewer. “I’m picking up something, but the results don’t make sense. It almost looks as if the epigenome has been tampered with.”

  “The epigenome?” Vargas said, confused.

  “Yeah. It includes all the proteins and stuff the DNA is packaged in.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Because it controls the regulation of the DNA… which genes are turned on and off.”

  “Nothing like that showed up when I scanned him…” Vargas said, skeptical.

  Catherine shook her head. “A medical scanner wouldn’t detect something like this.” She continued to look, fascinated.

  “How could this explain why he’s in a coma? Was he attacked by a bioweapon? Or did they experiment on him like some kind of lab rat?”

  “I’m not sure.” Perplexed, she examined the remaining readout from her analyses. Suddenly, she sat back in her chair. “Holy shit.”

  “What do you see?” Vargas said, not noticing her use of profanity.

  She turned to look at him. “How long have the others been dead?”

  “Two weeks or so.”

  She nodded in excitement. “He hasn’t been attacked. They’ve engineered his epigenome. I think these alterations are the very thing that’s keeping him alive, like some sort of… epigenetic therapy!”

  “Wait, slow down,” Vargas said, putting his hands up. “Epigenetic therapy?”

  “Yeah… instead of altering the DNA, you alter how the genes are regulated. Think about some of those cancer therapies, and how they use those drugs to turn off the tumor genes. It’s like that… but far more sophisticated!”

  Vargas gave her a look. “Sounds pretty farfetched, Lieutenant.”

  “I know. But what else can explain this?” She gestured at the young man lying on the bed.

  Vargas shook his head. “The kid’s been in a coma for two weeks, and hooked up for nearly two days. He’s probably brain dead by now.”

  Catherine sighed, trying to hide her annoyance. Maybe Vargas was right. But she refused to believe it until she had a chance to investigate further, until there was no hope of his survival.

  “If what you say is true,” Vargas said, “why didn’t the others survive?”

  “Did you scan them?”

  Vargas didn’t answer. He immediately walked away, returning minutes later with scanned samples from the nine deceased. “I picked up genetic irregularities for three of them.”

  Catherine analyzed the samples. When finished, she shook her head. “That’s just a few DNA changes. I don’t see anything unusual in their epigenomes.”

  She stood up and approached the Korvali, looking at him closely. Then she noticed something: a mark on his left hand, just peeking out from the edge of his long sleeve. She leaned down for a closer look, and then slowly nudged his sleeve up, careful not to touch him. The marking was a tattoo, a fan-shaped form with irregular edges, appearing almost like a leaf, with an intricate design. It consisted of one strange color that Catherine couldn’t easily describe… like dark magenta.

  “Doctor,” she said, showing him.

  “A tattoo?”

  Catherine examined it for a moment. There was something familiar about it… then it hit her. “He’s Shereb.”

  Vargas just looked at her.

  “He’s a member of the Shereb clan, the clan that includes their monarchy.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “That’s the Shereb crest. I’ve seen it before, in graduate school.”

  Vargas motioned for her to follow him as he walked to the rear chamber. He entered a code into a heavy, secure door, opened it, and walked in. Catherine did the same, hugging her arms to herself as the frigid air engulfed her. The cold chamber. Narrow metal shelf-like protrusions lined three of the four chamber walls. Nine shelves were occupied, each corpse covered in a dark s
hroud. Several of the corpses hung partially over the end of their respective shelves, due to their great height.

  A hollow feeling came over her.

  “Lieutenant.” Vargas’s voice woke her from her internal reverie. He gestured at her to come closer, and lifted a shroud to reveal a long, thin, webbed hand, so pale in color that it didn’t appear real. It had no tattoo.

  “Left hand,” Catherine said. Vargas reached over and found the other hand.

  And there it was. The tattoo differed from their patient’s—it had many dark gray vines, or perhaps branches, spreading out from a common origin. Six of the bodies shared this crest, while the remaining three displayed a third crest, circular in shape and simpler in design. It had the appearance of a biological thing, but Catherine couldn’t decipher it.

  “This makes no sense,” she said, following Vargas back to the main chamber. “Why would a Shereb be on a ship with these other people who aren’t Shereb? Where were they going?”

  Vargas didn’t answer. Instead, he contacted the Captain.

  “Yes, Doctor,” Captain Ferguson’s voice rang through on Vargas’s contactor.

  “Captain. The boy is still comatose, but our geneticist has identified a tattoo on his hand that she claims is a crest of the…” Vargas glanced at her, “… the Shereb clan. The dead ones don’t appear to be Shereb.”

  “Are you sure?” the Captain replied in an obviously puzzled tone.

  “Yes. His genes have been altered too, and—”

  “Order two Masters-at-Arms to report to sick bay immediately. Contact me the moment the boy wakes up.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Catherine looked at Vargas, waiting for an explanation. But none came.

  “Please, continue,” he said. Vargas went back to the cold chamber. Upon returning, he remarked that the deceased Korvali wore robes of gray. “The boy’s is blue.”

  “Well, he’s male but he isn’t a boy,” Catherine said, eyes glued to the viewer. “His telomeres indicate that he’s around twenty-two years old.”

  “In Earth years? I don’t think so, Lieutenant. He has no facial hair.”

  “The Korvali don’t have facial or body hair, Doctor.”

  Vargas started to make another point, but was interrupted by another voice speaking to them.

  “My age is twenty-three, in Earth years,” the male voice said in a thick accent.

  She and Dr. Vargas turned around in unison.

  The Korvali was sitting up, conscious and alert, staring at them with pale, sea-colored eyes. The two Masters-at-Arms still hadn’t arrived.

  “Where am I?” he inquired coldly, his face expressionless. He looked primarily at Catherine as he spoke. She was standing now, inadvertently staring back at the Korvali’s unusual, penetrating gaze.

  Catherine waited for Vargas to answer. As the higher-ranking officer, it was his duty to speak, not hers. After recovering from his surprise, Vargas called for the Captain to report to sick bay.

  “You’re on the Starship Cornelia,” Vargas finally replied. “We represent the Space Corps, from Earth. We responded to your vessel’s SOS and brought you aboard close to two days ago. I am Doctor Vargas, the ship’s Chief Medical Officer. This is Doctor Lieutenant Finnegan, a science officer.” He paused. “I’ve been trying to wake you up.”

  There was a long pause. Then, the Korvali replied, “Attempting to ‘wake’ me would be impossible without the correct conditions.”

  Dr. Vargas glanced at Catherine, then looked back at the Korvali. “So once we supplied you with adequate levels of hydration and nutrition, you woke up on your own.”

  “Yes,” he replied, elaborating no further. He sat perfectly still on medical bed.

  Just then, two MAs entered sick bay, their weapons in hand as they advanced toward the bed where the Korvali sat. Dr. Vargas put up his hand, and the soldiers ceased their approach and stood aside.

  Vargas approached the Korvali with his scanner. The Korvali immediately recoiled. Vargas froze, unsure of what to do next.

  “Does the doctor have permission to scan you?” Catherine offered. “He won’t touch you.”

  The Korvali relaxed slightly, not taking his eyes off Vargas. “Yes.”

  Vargas raised the bed to a full sitting position and began scanning his patient. The Korvali looked uncomfortable but said nothing. Although it didn’t register initially, Catherine realized that he spoke English, and rather well, as though he’d interacted with humans before. He must be a scientist or government official, on his way to make a rare appearance at an Alliance function.

  Vargas finished his scan. “Lieutenant here believes that your ability to enter this stasis was due to some intentional mucking with your… genetic material.”

  The young man turned his attention back to Catherine, his unblinking gaze peering at her for a moment before he answered. “She is correct.”

  “You’re not recovered yet,” Vargas said. “Your heart and respiratory rates are better but they’re still pretty low, and you’re running a little hot.”

  “Let me view your instrument.” Vargas, eyebrows knitted, rotated the medical scanner so that the Korvali could see the readout. After examining it for a few moments, he said, “Each result is within normal range for my people.”

  Bewildered, Vargas looked at the readout again. He asked more questions. The Korvali kept his answers quite brief, appearing uninterested in conversing and, on one or two occasions, he simply offered no answer at all. Finally, Vargas gave up and went to download his scanner data. The Korvali turned his attention to Catherine.

  “The doctor is unaware of your customs,” she said once Vargas stepped out of earshot. “You will find that we all are.” The Korvali continued to watch her, signaling her to continue. “Are you willing to talk about your genome?” It was risky to ask him about genetics. The Korvali rarely shared information, especially about that. But something made her ask anyway.

  “Ask me anything.”

  Catherine, not expecting that response, scrambled to choose her most pressing questions. “So my hypothesis was correct? The epigenomic changes I saw were responsible for your stasis?” She spoke in her most scientific tone, which she used when she was nervous.

  “Yes.”

  “And your epigenome has been altered so you could survive?”

  “Yes.”

  Unfathomable.

  He looked at her, encouraging her to continue.

  “The alterations aren’t enough. What initiated this stasis?” Then the answer came to her. “A drug.”

  “Yes.” He looked almost pleased.

  “What kind?”

  “You know this. You have a… publication… that discusses a class of related drugs.”

  Catherine stared at him.

  “Are you not Catherine Finnegan, the geneticist who authored the publication on the six classes of methylation inhibitors?” As he spoke, his speech seemed to suddenly grow more fluid, his accent softer.

  “You know my work?”

  “Yes. We study all publications from Earth’s geneticists.”

  “Wha… why? Isn’t our work a bit rudimentary to you?”

  He thought for a moment. “Perhaps. It can also be… interesting.”

  Catherine couldn’t help but smile at his attempt at diplomacy.

  The Korvali smiled in response. It wasn’t a big smile or, really, much of a smile at all. It was a subtle change in his expression that somehow conveyed pleasure.

  “That’s an old paper,” she finally replied, recovering from her surprise. “Anyway, that’s as far as I got before you came to life… rather suddenly.”

  “Yes, you both appeared… what is the word?”

  “Surprised.”

  “Yes. Surprised. I am familiar with your language, but unaccustomed to speaking with… outsiders.” The word came out strange, like he was uncomfortable with it.

  “You haven’t spoken to otherworlders before?”

  “No.”


  Catherine, again torn between the many, many questions she wanted to ask, decided to stick with the most important ones.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, which designer did this level of work on you? Was it Othniel? We have so little information on Korvali genetics, but Othniel’s work seemed to be heading in this direction.”

  His expression changed, and he broke his strong eye contact, if only momentarily.

  Catherine felt a chill. She’d gone too far, asked too many questions. “Have I offended you?”

  “No. It is my work. I was the designer.”

  Catherine stared again. “You were.”

  “Yes.” He paused. “Othniel… provided guidance with the initial design.”

  “Othniel is your mentor?”

  “He was my father.”

  Catherine nodded, unsure of what to say. Sensing she was in dangerous waters, she dropped it.

  “You again appear… surprised,” he said.

  “You aren’t what I expected.”

  He looked at her with his sea gaze. “Neither are you.” He then held out his webbed hand to her. “I am Eshel.”

  Catherine, completely taken aback by the unexpected offering, stared at the long-fingered, webbed hand before she finally put her hand in his and shook it. She was embarrassed that he, the outsider, had to offer his name, rather than she or Vargas asking for it. “Catherine,” she replied.

  Before either could say anything more, Eshel’s powerful gaze was redirected elsewhere. When Catherine followed his glance, she saw that Captain Ferguson had arrived. She’d been so absorbed by the Korvali that she hadn’t heard Vargas announce her arrival. She quickly turned and stood at attention.

  Ferguson walked over to them, her graying raven hair pulled back into a bun. Her blue eyes had their usual gleam, her posture its usual confidence. “At ease,” she said, faintly waving her arm, not taking her eyes off the Korvali. “Welcome aboard. I’m Janice Ferguson, Captain of this ship. What’s your name, young man?”

  “I am Eshel,” he said, his manner once more aloof.