Raya laughed at that, glanced at the wall monitor that displayed Tip’s pulse, blood pressure, and oxygen. “Temp’s a little elevated. I could probably bring that down, but for all I know, it’s helping with inflammation and immune response.”

Kylee gestured at Tip’s leg. “At least the smell’s better. What was that thing you took out of him?”

Raya crossed her arms, leaned a shoulder against the puke-green wall. “Cheng and Shanteel Jones are dissecting it now. They’re not sure it’s a predator. At least, not of larger organisms. The gut’s more designed for digesting plants. Dr. Jones thinks that it might have just been afraid, somehow threatened, and was trying to protect itself, but that’s just a hypothesis.”

“Guess that didn’t work out so well for it.”

“Or Tip,” Raya noted. “But that’s the bush for you.” She fixed Kylee with her curious eyes. “How’s the hip and leg? Any pain? Any lack of mobility? Things got so busy I didn’t get to ask.”

“Leg’s great.” Kylee extended her left leg within the cramped limits of Tip’s bed. Flexed it. “I can’t tell the difference between my left and right.”

“Never bothers you?”

“Nope. You do really good work, Dr. Turnienko. For that, I owe you like, a whole lot.”

Raya’s flicker of a smile at the compliment died as quickly. “If that’s the case, could I run some tests? Take an image of your hip and femur? Maybe a blood sample?”

Kylee felt that cold caution slip into place. “Why?”

“Because you’re the future.” She gestured at Tip. “So’s he. You’ve grown up with TriNA. Part quetzal.” Again the flicker of a smile. “And, besides, you live in the bush. Chances are good that you might wind up in my care again someday. Like Tip, I want to give you the best chance to make it that I can.”

Kylee pursed her lips. “Yeah, that’s always a possibility, huh?”

And she did owe the woman. Not to mention that, even though Tip was still hanging on by a thread, he was alive. That was something, especially since on the flight in, she wouldn’t have given him a chance in hell.

Chapter 20

  20  

From the com room in the admin building in Port Authority, Kalico Aguila monitored the progress of the three shuttles flying in. Heard them report as they broke formation and split up for approaches to their respective landing sites.

Little more than oversized closet, this was Two Spot’s domain. The skinny com jockey, in his late thirties, practically lived here in the clutter of inoperative and mothballed photonic and hyperlink units, wrapped as they were in plastic. Instead, Two Spot ran his empire from the desk in the back of the room, dominated as it was by his radio.