"I guess the records didn’t get transferred properly," the thing controlling my mouth replied. "When the war started, we were all so disorganized… important documentation might have got lost."

"But if you had this jaundice a full year," Veresian said, "there was plenty of time to file a report. The moment any member of the navy contracts an alien disease, it’s mandatory to notify the Admiralty. Direct to HQ, no exceptions."

"Yes," Festina added, "there are League issues involved."

I knew that: the League expected our navy to keep a sharp eye on threats to human life. The High Council couldn’t let such things slip between the cracks, or the whole fleet would be accused of willful negligence toward each other’s safety.

"Sorry," I said, "I wasn’t in any shape to submit a report… and I don’t know why the others didn’t. A breakdown in communications, I guess — everybody in the diplomatic mission must have thought someone else would do it."

That’s what the spirit possessing me said. But in my heart I knew it was no accidental slip-up. Sam was in charge of the mission, and in charge of me. Filing the report was her job, and apparently, she hadn’t done it. Why? Because she didn’t want official navy doctors getting involved, checking me out, discovering my tailored DNA? Or…

Something flickered in my brain, then disappeared.

The doctor spent another hour puzzling over my anatomy, but didn’t make much progress. As far as he could tell, the two doses of venom hadn’t caused any obvious damage; but since he didn’t know what my normal chemical balance should be, he couldn’t say if my body had gone haywire or if I was flat on the bubble.

"You’re almost three percent Mandasar now," he said in a voice full of wonder, "and frankly, frankly, I couldn’t begin to make a prognosis. The venom wasn’t as alien to you as it would be for a normal human. That could mean your body has a better chance of shrugging the poison off… but it could also mean the poison will have more long-term effects because your body is responsive to it. The purpose of venom is to change Mandasar metabolisms. Three percent of you could be mutating like crazy, and I wouldn’t know the difference."

That wasn’t so very comforting.

Veresian told me to come back the next day to see if anything had changed. I said all right, but was already going over excuses for getting out of it. (By then, it was me doing my own talking again — the spirit possessing me must have got bored and taken off.)

The doctor also asked if I’d submit to a complete physiological study for scientific purposes. I was an astounding case and should be written up in some journal. For that, he’d need my permission to go public… and I refused point-blank. If he did a full examination, he’d surely learn stuff about my genes that I’d rather keep secret.

Finally, the doctor demanded Kaisho come down and certify me as sentient: I wasn’t human, I wasn’t Mandasar, and considering what happened to Willow, Veresian refused to take chances. Tobit grumbled, "Aww, Doc, York’s a sweetheart," but Festina said it couldn’t hurt to get me double-checked.

"You don’t mind, do you, Edward?" she asked. "Better safe than sorry."

"Sure," I said… as if it didn’t bother me that Festina trusted Kaisho more than me. Tobit and I had told all about the spores planted outside my room — but I guess Festina didn’t care if Kaisho tried to Balroggify dumb old Edward. Kaisho was sentient; maybe I wasn’t.

Five minutes later, Kaisho stood in front of me, hair completely covering her eyes. It only took a moment before she said, "He looks fine." Then she laughed. "You don’t know how fine he is." Veresian didn’t seem all that reassured.

Tobit walked me back to my cabin. He didn’t talk much, but he stayed to help me check for Balrog spores, inside the room and out. We got the ship-soul to drop the lights almost to nothing, making it easier to see any glowing red specks… which is why we were practically in pitch-blackness when Tobit began to speak, low and gruff, from the opposite side of the room. "I peeked over the doc’s shoulder as he checked your records," Tobit mumbled, as if he was talking to himself. "That note about NO MEDICAL EXAMINATIONS? It was tagged onto your file twenty-one years ago. Long after you first enlisted. Which makes me think your father had nothing to do with it."

I stared stupidly at him in the darkness. "What do you mean?"

"Twenty-one years ago," Tobit repeated. "Wasn’t that the same time you picked up the pox on Troyen?"

I nodded. And swallowed hard.

"So not only did your pals on Troyen fail to report you were sick," he said, "someone hacked your medical records to keep folks from learning what happened to you. Someone snaffled you with that NO CHECKUP crap so navy doctors wouldn’t find out you were three percent Mandasar. And whoever did it was either an admiral or someone who could fake Admiralty authorization." Tobit’s face was completely lost in shadows. "So what’s the story, York? Who jerked you around? Do you know?"

"No," I answered — glad it was too dark for him to see my face, because one look would have showed I was lying.

There was only one person who could have faked up everything: never filing the proper reports and using Dad’s backdoor access to tag my medical records.

Why, Sam, why?

Since it was the first night of a new voyage, Captain Prope held a formal dinner in the lounge — the kind of dinner where people wear dress uniforms and try to act gracious. Everyone moves a bit more slowly; talks a bit more expressively; keeps conversation on "social" topics, instead of the usual, "What blazing idiot designed those damned fuel filters?"

Me, I wasn’t so good at witty repartee. I’m not much of a talker at the best of times, and it didn’t help that Jacaranda’s onboard clock was way off my current day-night cycle. My brain was still synchronized with the shifts on Willow… so dinner at 8:00 P.M. Jacaranda time felt more like three in the morning for me.

The problems of space travel that no one ever talks about.

The VIPs had to eat at the captain’s table: Festina because she was an admiral, Kaisho because her legs were the most advanced species on the ship, and me because… well, maybe Prope wanted to keep me under close watch. Not so long ago, she’d been ready to dump me on some ice moon; and I was still a man who knew too much.

The Mandasars had a table of their own right beside us. Naturally, it was lower than ours — only a few centimeters off the floor, with passable dining pallets laid all around. That had to be the work of Tobit and Benjamin: Explorers are always the ones stuck with figuring out how to make aliens comfortable. (Explorers spend a lot of time learning about alien customs; knowledge like that helps you survive on strange planets. You’d be surprised how many races will slit your throat over bad table manners.)

As for Tobit and Benjamin themselves, they were stuck at the back someplace, rubbing elbows with the enlisted. Since Festina, Kaisho and I sat at the head table, Prope must have decided there were plenty of Explorers on display already.

Festina sat on Prope’s right: the position of highest honor and the only possible place to seat a visiting admiral. For some reason I got the second best spot, on the captain’s immediate left. Next to me was that smarmy fellow Harque, who seemed to hold some privileged status aboard Jacaranda, even though he was only a lieutenant. Much-higher-ranking personnel — the chief engineer, the commander of Security, even the XO — all got shunted off to other tables. Maybe they had enough clout to ask for those seats; Harque was the one stuck under the steely gaze of both a captain and an admiral.