On the uppermost level of detention they heard a faint mewling sound like something crying. It was plaintive and child-like, with a despondency all the more resonant to Trig because he recognized it in his own heart. He stopped and looked in the direction of the noise.
"You hear that?"
Kale shook his head. "It's not our business."
"What if they need help?"
Kale flashed him a tired look but didn't argue. They filed up the hallway, passing more cells of dead inmates, reminding Trig once more of neglected domesticated species that had been forgotten and left to rot by their masters. Kale kept the blasters half raised at his sides. The mewling noise grew louder until Trig stopped and stared into the final cell in the line.
A young Wookiee was crouched inside the cell. He was much smaller than Trig, probably not much more than a toddler. He was crouched down over the bodies of what had to be his family, two adults and an older sibling, clutching their hands to his face and holding their arms around himself as if to simulate a hug.
"Look at this," Kale murmured.
Trig saw what his brother was pointing at. The sickness had affected the dead Wookiees differently. Their tongues had swollen until they dangled like grotesque, overripe fruit from their mouths, and their throats had ruptured completely, splitting open to expose deep red musculature within. When the young one looked up and saw Trig and Kale standing outside the cell, his blue eyes shone with fear and dread.
"It's okay," Trig said softly. "We're not going to hurt you." He glanced at Kale. "He must be immune, like us."
"So what are we going to do about it?"
"Wait here." Trig ran back down the hallway to the abandoned guard station, the door left wide open by whoever had left their post to creep off and die in private. Stepping inside the booth, he found the switch to open the cells-the one that Wembly had died activating for them down on their own level. The bars rattled open, and he went back to where his brother still stood, looking in at the young Wookiee.
"Come on out," Trig told him. "You're free now."
The Wookiee just stared at them. It wasn't even making the crying sound anymore, but somehow its silence was worse. That was a lesson Trig was already learning-the silence was always worse.
"You can't stay here." Trig extended his hand toward the Wookiee. "Come with us."
"Careful," Kale said, "he'll take your hand off if…"
"It's okay," Trig said, keeping his hand where it was. "We won't hurt you."
Kale sighed. "Hey, man, look…"
"He's all alone."
"And he obviously wants to stay that way, all right?"
For a moment the Wookiee peered at him cautiously, as if-like Wembly's BLX-it was actually considering the offer. Trig waited to see if anything was going to happen. In the end, though, the youngster just bent forward and picked up the slack arms of its parents and pressed them to either side of its small frame. It wouldn't look up at Kale and Trig again, not even when they turned and finally walked away.
They were at the far end of the corridor when they heard it start to scream.
Trig froze, the fine hairs prickling all down his back. Just the sound made him feel as if his entire body had been coated with a layer of slick, half-melted ice. His breath lodged inside his lungs, caught just below his throat. The Wookiee's screams kept going-strangled, agonized screams, mixed with a horrifying, slobbering sound of something eating.
The screams stopped, but the grunting eating sounds continued, greedy and breathless, slurping and crunching. His mind flashed to Aur Myss in the cell next to theirs, the whispering and giggling and the sensation that it had been following them.
But that's impossible. Myss is dead. You saw it yourself.
"What is it?" he whispered.
"Not our business." Kale grabbed his hand. "Keep going."
Chapter 17
Tisa
The last of Zahara's patients died that night. In the end it happened very quickly. About half of them had been human, the others different alien species, but it didn't make a difference. In the last moments some of the nonhumans had reverted to their native languages, some had clutched her hand and talked to her passionately-if brokenly, through uncontrollable coughing-as if she were some family member or loved one, and she'd listened and nodded even if she didn't understand a word of it.
At Rhinnal they taught her death was something you got used to. Zahara had met plenty of physicians who claimed to have adjusted to it and they always seemed eerie to her somehow, more detached and mechanical than the droids that served alongside them. She tended to avoid such doctors and their cold, clinical eyes.
Waste brought the news of the final deaths with a neutral tone that she'd never heard before, a lack of affect so peculiar that she wondered if it had been programmed for the worst eventualities. Perhaps it was what passed for sympathy in the droid world.
Then, in an almost apologetic voice, the 2-1B added: "I've finished the analysis of your own blood as well."
"And?"
"You're obviously immune to the pathogen. What I meant was that I believe I've had some success in analyzing the immunity gene within your own chemical makeup and synthesizing it."
She stared at him.
"You found a cure?"
"Not a cure, necessarily, but a kind of anti-virus, if what we're dealing with is indeed viral in nature, something that can be administered intravenously." The droid held up a syringe filled with clear fluid and looked around at the infirmary, the bodies in their beds. "If there are any survivors aboard the barge, they ought to get this as soon as possible."
Zahara looked at the needle, belated salvation dripping from its spike. She should have felt some kind of relief. And later, perhaps, she might. But her first reaction to the news-if there are any survivors aboard the barge-was a profound sense of personal failure, manifesting itself as a sandbagged heaviness in the legs and belly. The health of the barge and its inmates and staff had been her responsibility. What had happened here over the last few hours was unthinkable, a collapse of such glaring magnitude that she couldn't look at it except through the filter of her own personal culpability. Sartoris might have been taunting her, but he was right. She would never live this down.
There's no time for self-pity, a voice inside her head said. You need to find out who's left, sooner rather than later.
As usual the voice was right. She did herself the favor of recognizing that fact, and pushed down on the black feeling inside her belly. To her mild surprise, it collapsed, or rather burst like a bubble.
"I'll be back."
"Dr. Cody?" Waste sounded alarmed. "Where are you going?"
"Up to the pilot station. I need to run a bioscan on the barge and locate any survivors."
"I'll go with you."
"No," she said. "You need to stay here in case anyone else comes for treatment." And then, sensing the droid's reluctance, "That's an order, Waste, get me?"
"Yes, of course, but given the circumstances I would feel much more comfortable if you would simply allow me…"
"I'll be fine."
"Yes, Doctor."
"Watch for survivors," she said, and walked out the door.
She didn't have to go far before the notion of survivors struck her as an increasingly unlikely prospect.
She stepped over and around the bodies, breathing through her mouth when the odor became too much. Almost immediately she wished she'd allowed Waste to come with her. The droid's prattling would've made everything else easier to take.