They were met at the cleared entrance by the xenologist in charge of the excavation. An exceedingly slender representative of her kind, the scientist resembled a triangular box mounted on three angled sticks to Ruslan. For a Myssari she had eyes that were almost soulful.
Her manner was a model of efficiency, however. Despite this being her initial contact with Ruslan and despite her unconcealed interest in the human survivor, she did not let her gaze linger nor did she waste words.
“Follow me, please. Your name/personal identifier is ‘Rus’lann,’ I believe?”
“Just ‘Ruslan.’ No epiglottal break in the middle.”
“I am Wol’daeen. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask. I will answer as best as I am able based on the available evidence we have managed to uncover and interpret thus far. In turn I hope that you will answer any questions I may pose.”
Not discourteous, he reflected, but for a Myssari decidedly cool. It didn’t matter. The friends he desperately hoped to make here did not include the members of the on-site scientific team.
A small mobile transport was brought over, into which piled Ruslan, Kel’les, San’dwil, Cor’rin, and the xenologist. As was usual when he was compelled to adapt his bulkier bipedal shape to the Myssari norm, he had trouble finding a comfortable place to fit. Giving up, he opted to sit on the floor.
The reason for the transport soon became clear. Lit by lines of luminescence hastily slapped onto the walls by Myssari technicians, the corridor ran deep into the mountain. It eventually terminated in a series of linked chambers whose contents the Myssari researchers were busy recording and cataloguing.
Guided by Wol’daeen, the visitors made their way to the last room. At its far end was a single elevator. That it still functioned was a tribute to its builders and to the self-sustaining power system they had buried inside the mountain. It had been many, many years since Ruslan had seen a piece of functioning human technology. Simple as was its design and function, when it started downward he found himself near tears. He struggled with his emotions.
If this is how you react to a working lift, he told himself, how are you going to handle seeing intact bodies?
Since the elevator shaft penetrated solid rock and there were no floors by which to judge distance, he had no idea how far they had descended when at last the lift came to a stop. Led by Wol’daeen, they exited into a sizable hall. Like the access tunnel, it was lit by luminescence that had been added by the first Myssari investigators. The floor underfoot was slightly ribbed to provide better footing in the presence of condensation, of which there was more than Ruslan had expected. He was estimating the water’s depth when they rounded a corner.
There they were. Other humans. Naked, intact, entirely whole, unravaged by starvation or the aftereffects of the plague. A long row of them, each sealed in an individual transparent tube. Their eyes were closed, their lips pressed together and sealed by an organic binder. Each floated, suspended in a slightly bluish liquid, as if asleep in a vertical bath. Their number apparently equally divided between men and women, young and old, their appearances were heart-wrenchingly normal. Though her words completely shattered the mood of the moment if not his hopes, he was glad they came from Cor’rin and not San’dwil or Wol’daeen.
“Hopefully, one of the females will contain fertile eggs.”
His mouth tightened but he said nothing. There was no reason to expect even a well-mannered Myssari xenologist to react to the discovery in anything other than an entirely scientific manner. If they could remove fertile eggs, perhaps they could also extract viable sperm. If one or both proved unusable, there remained the option of drawing intact cells from multiple sources. The full import of her detachment rolled over him.
They didn’t need him anymore.
No, that was not entirely true. They might no longer need him to clone and preserve his species, but when it came to answering questions and supplying explanations, he was still invaluable. He berated himself for wasting time on such thoughts. None of that mattered here and now. What mattered was the possibility of revivification of others like himself.
Wol’daeen did not object as Ruslan walked over to the nearest tube. Whether it was the first or the last in line he could not say. Hovering in the liquid within was a woman who looked to be only a few decades younger than himself—no more than eighty, possibly younger. Her flesh appeared firm, her skin smooth and unbroken. Periodic electrical stimulation of some kind had kept her muscles toned. Still discernible as blond through the blue, her hair was cut short and restrained by a restricting net. Tubes connected to her body circulated fluid that kept cells alive while she drifted in a state of suspended activity.
Stepping back, he let his gaze travel the length of the corridor. The neat line of tubes held no less than a hundred preserved humans.
“I don’t know for certain why this was done to these individuals, or by them, but I can hazard a guess.” He regarded his nonhuman companions. “Unable to find a cure for the Aura Malignance or a way to slow its advance, they had themselves put in suspension in the hope that one day a treatment would be found and they could be revived.” He shook his head slowly. “I doubt any one of them imagined the plague would die out by itself.”
Kel’les placed all three hands on various portions of his friend’s torso. “This must be very difficult for you to see.”
He nodded. “Difficult and exciting all at once. I’m trying very hard not to get my hopes up.” His attention shifted to the site supervisor. “You are going to try and revive some of them before you consider dissection, aren’t you?”
Wol’daeen tensed visibly. “Linguists are already deeply engaged in translating the relevant surviving operational materials. As soon as they and our engineers feel they have a reasonable grasp of the necessary science, we will certainly attempt resuscitation.”
“So we wait.”
Cor’rin joined Kel’les in embracing the lone human in their midst. As a demonstration of characteristic Myssari empathy, it was typical, but with six hands on him he felt unreasonably restrained. Cor’rin blew his edgy concerns away with a new thought.
“If resuscitation proves successful, what will you say to the revived? Seeing you will reassure them. Seeing us may have a counter-effect.”
He blinked. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I suppose I’d better think of something.”
“I am sure anything you can say would prove comforting.” Having introduced the human and those accompanying him to the great and wondrous discovery, Wol’daeen stepped past them as she headed back toward the lift. “If you wish, you may remain to carry out further observations. I ask only that you touch nothing lest you possibly damage some of the artifacts.”
Artifacts, Ruslan told himself. Like me. What was amusing was that, having come to terms with such descriptions of himself during his time on Myssar, he was not half as offended by the appellation as were San’dwil or Cor’rin. In voicing the admonition, the xenologist in charge of the find had mildly called into question their competency as field researchers. He observed his companions’ reactions with amusement. The caution was hardly necessary where he was concerned.
If the next moment of life was to be his last, the last thing he would do was risk damaging the revivification of another human being.
Far more time passed back at the main base than he would have liked, far less than he surmised. Though he strove to busy himself with whatever distractions he could find or invent, his thoughts were never more than a moment or two away from the damp crypt. When the call came to return to that underground mausoleum, he had to fight to contain his excitement.