sprang up out of nowhere. Nor were the brawns immune to the local plagues that just might choose to start at the moment they planeted. 'I thought all these sites were sprayed down to a fare-thee-well before they let anyone move in!'
'Yes, but that's the one I'm seriously concerned about.' And not just because it was a bug that got me. 'That, my dear Alex, is what they don't tell you bright-eyed young students when you consider a career in archeology. The number one killer of xeno-archeologists is disease.'
'Viruses and proto-viruses are sneaky sons-of-singularities; they can hibernate in tombs for centuries, millennia, even in airless conditions.' She flashed up some Institute statistics; the kind they didn't show the general public. There was a thirty percent chance that a xeno-archeologist would be permanently disabled by disease during his career; a twenty percent chance that he would die. And a one hundred percent chance that he would be seriously ill, requiring hospitalization, from something caught on a dig, at some point in his life.
'So the bug hibernates. Then when the intrepid explorer pops the top off,' Alex looked as grim as she felt. 'Right Gotcha.' She laughed, but it had a very flat sound. 'Well, sometimes it's been known to be fortuitous. The Cades actually met when they were recovering from Henderson's Chorea, ah, or so their biographies in Who's Who say. There could be worse things than having the Institute cover your tropic vacation.'
'But mostly it isn't' His voice was as flat as her laugh had been.
'Ye-es. One of my close friends is Doctor Kennet on the Pride of Albion. He's gotten to be a specialist in diseases that get archeologists. He's seen a lot of nasty variations over the years, including some really odd opportunistic bugs that are not only short-lived after exposure to air, but require a developing nervous system in order to set up housekeeping.'
'Developing? Oh, I got it. A kid, or a fetus, provided it could cross the placental barrier.' He shivered, and his expression was very troubled. 'Brr, that's a really nasty one.'
'Verily, White Knight.' She decided not to elaborate on it. Maybe later. To let him know I'm not only out for fortune and glory. 'I just wanted you to be prepared when we got there, which we will in, four days, sixteen hours, and thirty-five minutes. Not bad, for an old-fashioned FTL drive, I'd say.' She'd eliminated the precise measurements that some of the other shell-persons used with their brawns in the first week, except when she was speaking to another shell-person, of course. Alex didn't need that kind of precision, most of the time; when he did, he asked her for it. She had worried at first that she might be getting sloppy.
No, I'm just accommodating myself to his world. I don't mind. And when he needs precision, he lets me know in advance.
'Well, let me see if I can think of some non-lethal reasons for the dig losing communications.' He grinned. 'How about, 'the dinosaur ate my transmitter'?'
'Cute.' Now that their acceleration had smoothed and they were out of the atmosphere, she sent servos snooping into his cabin, as was her habit whenever a week or so went by, and he was at his station, giving her non-invasive access. 'Alex, don't you ever pick up your clothes?'
'Sometimes. Not when I'm sent hauling my behind up the stairs with my tail on fire and a directive from CS ordering me to report back to my ship immediately.' He shrugged, completely unrepentant. 'I wouldn't even have changed my clothes if that officious b- '
'Alex,' she warned. 'I'm recording, I have to. Regulations.' Ever since the debacle involving the Nyota Five, all central cabin functions were recorded, whenever there was a softperson, even if only a brawn, present. That was regulation even on AI drones. The regs had been written for AI drones, in fact; and CS administration had decided that there was no reason to rewrite them for brainships, and every reason why they shouldn't. This way no one could claim 'discrimination', or worse, 'entrapment'.
'If that officious bully hadn't insisted I change to uniform before lifting.' He shook his head. 'As if wearing a uniform was going to make any difference in how well you handled the lift. Which was, as always, excellent.'
'Thank you.' She debated chiding him on his untidy nature and decided against it. It hadn't made any difference before, it probably wouldn't now. She just had the servos pick up the tunic and trousers, wincing at the ultra-neon purple that was currently in vogue, and deposited them in the laundry receptacle.
And I'll probably have to put them away when they're clean, too. No wonder they wanted him to change. Hmm. Wonder if I dare 'lose' them? Or have a dreadful accident that dyes them a nice sober plum?
That was a thought to tuck away for later. 'Getting back to the dinosaur, com equipment breaks, and even a Class Three dig can end up with old equipment. If the only fellow on the dig qualified to fix it happens to be laid up with broken bones, in case you hadn't noticed, archeologists fall down shafts and off cliffs a lot, or double- pneumonia.'
'Good point.' He finished his 'housekeeping chores' with a flourish and settled back in his chair. 'Say, Tia, they're all professorial types. Do they ever just get so excited they forget to transmit?'
'Brace yourself for FTL.' The transition to FTL was nowhere near as distressing to softpersons as the dive into a Singularity, but it required some warning. Alex gripped the arms of the seat, and closed his eyes, as she made the jump into hyperspace.
She never experienced more than a brief shiver, like ducking into a freezing-cold shower, but Alex always looked a little green during transition. Fortunately, he had no trouble in hyper itself.
