SEVENTY-FOUR
TOM ROM
When Tom Rom passed through the Klikiss transportal to Kuivahr, he saw that the tides were substantially down from the previous time. The flat seas were more of a quagmire.
On this trip, though, he would not be visiting Del Kellum’s distillery. Zoe’s researchers had already tested the sample kelp extracts and plankton distillates, from which they identified interesting antioxidants, as well as immunity and metabolic enhancers.
Now he meant to see what the Ildiran researchers had to offer.
After sending discreet inquiries, Tom Rom had made arrangements to go to the sanctuary domes. If he could convince Tamo’l that his employer had similar interests, the Ildiran researcher might even be willing to provide him with all the genetic data she had compiled on her misbreeds.
Now that the seas had dropped with the tide, the reef outcropping that held the Klikiss transportal stood high above a wet basin. Stagnant pools swirled with an oily sheen of plankton; dark clumps of kelp looked like tangled hair caught in a drain. The water level was so low that more mud than open water showed.
Tom Rom glanced at his chronometer. Tamo’l should have arranged transportation for him, but he saw no sign of a boat from the sanctuary domes. He heard a buzzing sound and saw a small open-framed flying craft wobbling toward him, dipping and bobbing in the air.
He worked his way down the outcropping that supported the transportal wall to an open area where the flying vehicle could land. It came in, extending struts to keep it balanced. The pilot stepped out, a human with reddish brown hair and freckles on his face. “Are you Mr. Rom? I’m here to give you a lift.”
He regarded the man coolly. “Call me Tom Rom. I wasn’t aware that humans worked at the Ildiran medical facility.”
“My name is Shawn Fennis, and I was born on the Dobro colony. My wife is Ildiran, and we volunteered to work with the misbreeds. Tamo’l thought you might like to see a recognizable face when you arrived. Some of the misfits are… startling.”
“I’ll thank her in person for the consideration, but it was unnecessary.”
Fennis gestured to a seat behind him in the craft. The gossamer flyer had a sturdy but ultralight construction. “Hop in and buckle up. And no sudden moves, because this thing is hard to balance.”
Tom Rom climbed inside and braced himself against the framework. The insubstantial flyer seemed likely to break apart in a strong gust of wind. When his passenger was situated, Fennis powered up the engines, and used his feet to nudge the flyer a few inches off the ground. At the last moment, the engines caught, and the craft flew away from the reef outcropping. With Tom Rom’s extra weight, the craft dipped low toward the pools of mud and plankton.
Fennis concentrated on flying, lifting the craft higher in the air. He shouted behind him into the wind, “One last thing, Mr. Rom—don’t fall out! If you hit that quick-slime, nobody’s going in after you.”
“Thank you for the warning. I do not intend to fall.”
When they arrived at the medical station, the sanctuary dome was exposed to the sun, covered with drying seaweed and smears of mud. The landing platform was high above the standing water, and Shawn Fennis skidded the flying craft onto the deck.
Tom Rom climbed out and waited while his escort secured the flyer. “My wife and I have only been here for a couple of months,” Fennis said. “Does your employer run a facility like this, to help mutations and defectives?”
“Her facility is called Pergamus. And, no, it is not like this. I’ll explain everything to Tamo’l.”
Fennis led him inside the sanctuary domes. The air smelled of medicines, disinfectants, and quarantine, but Tom Rom also smelled fish and salt and odd spices. This was not just a hospital or a research station—it was also a home for those Ildirans misbreeds who couldn’t survive elsewhere.
He recognized Tamo’l from his prior communications. She was pretty, with a scholarly look, obviously a halfbreed; her feathery hair had a sparkling quality. When Tom Rom greeted her, he tried not to stare at the two figures beside her. Both were male, or so he thought.
The taller one had three eyes, one of which was in a socket low down on the cheekbone. His skin was leathery, and his features looked as if they had been carved out of wax and left for too long under the hot Ildiran suns. One arm was shriveled and drawn up to his chest, while the other dangled long and loose, more of a tentacle appendage than an arm.
The other misfit was hunched over, but his head was at the end of an abnormally long neck, like a stalk bent upward. His skin was covered with thick, yellowish brown scales that looked like stained thumbnails.
Showing no disgust whatsoever, Tom Rom nodded to the head of the facility. “Thank you for seeing me, Tamo’l. My employer is very interested in your work.”
Tamo’l assessed his reaction, as if she had given him some kind of test, then she nodded with a smile. “You are welcome here, sir. I’m happy to share our work with a fellow researcher. Follow me and meet the rest of our people.” She turned, and her strange companions turned with her, moving with a unique awkward gait that they had developed to deal with their infirmities.
More misbreeds emerged from adjacent corridors and chambers in the sanctuary dome. They were an amazing conglomeration of misshapen bodies, overgrown faces, a patchwork assortment of limbs, skin types, fur, scales.
“During the breeding program on Dobro,” Tamo’l explained, “Ildiran researchers crossbred kiths in many possible combinations, including a separate group interbred with human colonists.” She caught herself, then forced the words out, “Human prisoners. I am one such halfbreed. My father was a lens kithman, my mother a human green priest. As you can see, not all of the mixed offspring turned out as healthy as I did.”
Tamo’l led him toward the medical research stations, which interested Tom Rom the most. Along the way, they passed living chambers, some dim, some bright, cluttered with possessions, blankets, tapestries, cushions. A group of the misfits preferred a damp environment, while others wanted dry, hot chambers.
“Kuivahr truly is the best refuge for the mixed-breeds. Obviously, they have difficult lives, often tragically short, although they can also live longer than the norm. The idea behind the Dobro breeding program was to develop hybrid vigor. Some of the mixed-breeds are indeed superior… but they don’t all turn out so well.”
Misbreeds played music, they cooked, filling the air with the interesting smell of spices and grease. There were even children, Tom Rom saw—and he realized that the misfits here interbred and formed families. They all turned their faces toward Tom Rom as he passed, several were blind, several had too many eyes.
“With so many specimens to study, you must have done a great deal of research,” he said. “My employer will be pleased with this data. Would you share your genetic records as well? Maybe she can find a useful breakthrough.”
Tamo’l faced him, her expression hard. “I do not think of these people as mere specimens. They are my friends as well.” She calmed herself with a visible effort. “I will, of course, share my information for the greater good, though I don’t know how applicable our Ildiran genetic research will be to your employer’s work.”
Inside a large chemical research lab, Shawn Fennis greeted an Ildiran woman warmly. “This is my wife, Chiar’h,” he said, as if he had won a trophy.
Tom Rom gave a polite nod, but he wasn’t interested in their relationship. He wondered if these two intended to have halfbreed children, or if they were frightened by all of the misfit halfbreeds they saw around them.