Blood Is Not Enough

by Ellen Datlow

  “I’ll be right there,” she told the project technicians, pouring another mug of coffee. A cartoon on the office wall showed Dr. Insomnia holding an IV bottle and line in one hand, a Foley catheter and bag in the other, labeled respectively “Caffeine In” and “Caffeine Out.”

  She read the morning paper as the patients were brought in and interfaced, patient and doctor linked by the machine. At eleven Dutcher was wheeled in—a skeleton, swimming inside an expensive robe.

  “You understand what we’re doing?”

  He nodded. “Grasping at straws.”

  “You’re candid.”

  “I read the informed-consent information, though I didn’t really understand most of it. ‘Somatic self-image’—you intend to convince me that I’m healthy?” He laughed weakly. “That’ll take some convincing.”

  “The imager reads off a template—in this case, me—and sets up resonant signals in your body. It’s related to the placebo effect and to ‘faith-healing.’” The technician began applying the patient’s monitoring and invasive electrodes. Dr. Insomnia waved with her unwired hand and continued. “I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours. We’ll begin by convincing your body that it also is hungry and can handle food. We can’t step up your immune response and start fighting those metastases until you’re in positive nutritional balance.”

  He shrugged. “It all sounds like the doubletalk in ‘Time Seekers’ or those fifties sci-fi flicks—The Jellyfish from Hell”

  “Hey, I saw that,” the technician said, threading Dutcher’s IV line into the imaging machine. He handed Dr. Insomnia her headphones, then stepped toward the patient, holding another pair.

  Dr. Insomnia winked. “Close your eyes, lie still—and think of the British Empire.”

  She watched as Dutcher relaxed under the tranquilizer injection, the tensed muscles that clothed his skeleton gradually losing their harsh definition. The electroencephalograph showed increasing low-voltage slow waves. The pulsing blue light of his heart monitor slowed toward the steady rhythm of Dr. Insomnia’s monitor.

  The doctor gazed at an article and found the print slightly blurred. She closed the journal. Familiarity made dissection of the sensations difficult. There was the taste of metal, the itch of electrodes, the tingling of fingers and toes, the warm skin flush of blood dissipating heat acquired in passage through the analyzer. Dr. Insomnia felt as if her intellect were fuzzy; her mind seemed poised on the edge of a flood of memories.

  She focused on a brief printout of her own EEG—some decreased alpha, increased beta, a hint of theta waves. She was hovering on the border between wakefulness and stage-one sleep.

  “Too much feedback?” she asked the tech, her voice deep and isolated under the headphones.

  He scanned the gauges, then wrote on a pad, “Everything checks at this end. You’ve been working all morning. Maybe you’re just sleepy.”

  The blue pulses of the heart monitor synchronized.

  Dr. Insomnia tossed the journal onto the floor to join the pile. She turned off the lights, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the patterns made by the random firing of retinal neurons. She imagined a tree, a glacier, a bear skiing down the ice. She thought of less and and then nothing, suddenly shuddered, and leaped back from the edge of sleep.

  “Oh shit,” she said, as she had nightly for ten years. “I’ve got to get some sleep.” Her bed was striped with moonlight through the blinds. She heard the roar of cars on the busy street below, like surf against the beach, the omnipresent rumble becoming briefly silent as traffic moved on the cross street.

  She groped for the TV controls. The picture grew out from the center in an expanding presence of light.

  An Aztec priest rants on over a supine, writhing woman in a temple which is a redress of a set from Flash Gordon, which is in turn a redress from Green Hell. You can’t fool the doctor. The entire Aztec nation is a half-dozen extras in loincloths.

  “No no no,” the woman shrieks preparatory to the sacrifice; suddenly conquistadors enter and rescue her. The dying priest is dragged off by acolytes to be mummified—

  “Mummified? An Aztec?”

  Jump cut to the 1950s present. A small Mexican archaeologist is talking to a tall American one. “Hey, 418!” It is Dutcher, a head taller than anyone else in the movie, his face young but with the important lines already set in. His head is bent in a perpetual tilt to see his fellow actors.

  Everything is formula and predictable. The mummified priest walks around disposing of bit players. It’s really trying to get at Dutcher’s love-interest, who is:

  (a) the older archaeologist’s daughter, and

  (b) the reincarnation of the princess who was rescued before the first commercial.

  “Millions for defense. Not one penny for script,” Dr. Insomnia mutters. The spooky part is seeing Dutcher frozen in youth and health. Dr. Insomnia’s eyelids drift southward as the hero wonders how to electrocute the mummy.

  “Throw in a radio while it’s bathing,” she suggests, and sleeps.

  Mother says, “Eat. There are children starving in Europe.” Dinner writhes like a sacrificial victim and melts. I’m running outside into rain, steaming ground like a tropical jungle, snakes in the banana, papaya, pineapple trees. Screeching monkey laughter. Green hell?

  “Aztec Doom was on last night,” she remarked around the hovering technician.

  “One of mine?” Rich asked.

  “You weren’t very good.”

  “For what they paid, why bother?”

  Again the body snapped convulsively as sleep neared. Again the sad grope for the TV controls.

  “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” Rich says over the sheet-draped, desiccated corpse. People disappear from the small desert town for another half hour. Then some teenagers are trapped and barely escape the monster, an actor in a dust-colored mask and bodysuit. Events limp forward. Rich carries the young blonde to the electric towers while the dust vampires pursue, bent on stealing moisture, flesh, life …

  Dr. Insomnia sat back, feet on her desk, and contemplated her standard morning exhaustion. Her eyes were red as Christopher Lee’s in Satanic Rites of Dracula. She’d forgotten the last night’s dream before she could add it to her journal, but she had vague memories that it had been slow-going, like a Russian novel, or introductory chemistry for humanities majors. A plodding, sinking feeling.

  “Quagmired in a marshmallow sea,” she said aloud, pleased to have found the proper metaphor. She examined her breakfast doughnut once more, rotating it a full 360 degrees, staring at the multicolored sprinkles in the icing. She tossed it in the trash can, a perfect hook shot. Then she attended a departmental meeting, nodding sagely when necessary, and adopting an interested expression until her facial muscles ached. She felt as Rich must have, filming Desert Vampires, enduring take after take of trying to look concerned while other actors stumbled over their lines and speculated endlessly about the corpse.

  Rich’s handshake was firmer. “I think it’s working,” he said. “Look, I’m even drinking juice between meals.”

  She smiled. Never tell the patient he’s fooling himself. What had she accomplished with the other five? Some improved appetite, less nausea—marijuana might do the same. At best, they now had better attitudes.

  “I saw Desert Vampires last night.”

  “Not too selective.”

  “Channel 16 from Las Pulgas will run anything. Sometimes I think aliens have determined that TV waves are bad for us—they’ll depopulate the earth or turn us into zombies or something. So the aliens buy up UHF stations all over and beam out vacuous nonsense twenty-four hours a day, even though no one’s watching.”

  He looked thoughtful. “I think I was in that one. Fifty-eight. I played second lead to Gerald Mohr.”

  She hits the jackpot. A rerun of Time Seekers.

  “It only lasted one season. No one syndicates shows that lasted one season.” She lifts one corner of her mouth, her smile self-conscious even w
hen she’s alone with the TV. “No one? Channel 16 must take that as a challenge.”

  Dr. Insomnia loves the show. How can she not? It begins in Time Seekers’ top-secret future headquarters. A beehive-hairdoed woman screams. The sun is preparing to go nova. Dr. Meter—she remembers the runt scientist from her youth—whips out his slide rule—(slide rule!)—and announces that they only have 14 hours, 58 minutes and 32.5 seconds left to live.

  But as it continues, Dr. Insomnia forgets the camp, early sixties futurism. She falls back into her adolescence, when it was only the reassuring presence of Time Seekers every Wednesday that gave her purpose, like a tree pointing out a hidden path in an endless plain or a pyramid standing inflexible against erosion.

  The hero, blue-eyed and cleft-chinned, fights off various fiends, eventually arriving at headquarters. Dr. Meter says, “Quick, Rusty. Commander Stone needs you.”

  Dr. Insomnia holds her breath as the door swings open to the commander’s office. The past, especially an adolescent crush, is embarrassing. She always flinches at Herman’s Hermits albums or the execrable acting of one of her teen idols. But Stone is a pleasant surprise. Rich is as he should be, face with definite planes and seams in the black and white. Forty-five is kind to him—the lines and shadowed hollows giving character, while the chin is only starting to fall, the stomach to grow, the hair to disappear. His expression is a studied blank, every word and movement minimal but perfectly correct.

  “Shit. He can act,” she says, quite pleased that she need not be embarrassed.

  He sits behind the desk—“Naturally; he’s taller than Rusty”—and rattles through the exposition. The hero is almost out the door when Stone’s gravelly voice says, offhanded, “Oh, and, Rusty?” Dr. Insomnia says the words along with him. “All time and space depend on you.”

  The rest of the show is Rusty’s heroics through Tudor England and some primitive jungle planet, as he fights thugs and repeatedly rescues a kidnap-prone woman. Insomnia waits for these scattered moments when they cut back to Time Seekers’ headquarters. Dr. Meter paces anxiously. Stone sits on the edge of his desk.

  “Time is running out.”

  “I know. We can only hope Rusty succeeds.”

  And the tag scene: “You did it, Rusty. The Time president wants to thank you.”

  “He’ll have to wait.” Sparkle. “I’ve got a heavy date in Elizabethan England and I don’t want to keep the lady waiting.” Sprightly music as he winks and leaves. Stone looks furious but, as Dr. Meter shrugs fondly, Stone’s expression melts into a rueful grin. Fadeout.

  Fog and drums. A row of conga drummers along the lower border of Hippie Hill in Golden Gate Park. Am I a kid again or—no, I’m me. Hare Krishna chanters. Marijuana smoke overlying eucalyptus scent. Someone playing with soap bubbles; a large one floats over the trees toward Haight Street, unseen behind, the bubble growing and swallowing the park inside it. Standing at the edge of the bubble, translucent, pulsing, rippling with colors like oil on a wet street. A man sits outside the bubble, his back familiar. I must reach him, reach out, reach through the soap wall…

  “Sorry we’re running late. I overslept,” she said, marveling at the words.

  Rich grinned. “I get to go out in the sun today. I’ve got some energy to burn.” Enthusiasm seemed strange coming from the still cadaverously thin white-haired man.

  “Dr. Todd says you’re putting away four-course dinners now.”

  “First course awful, second course dreadful, third …”

  “In other words, typical hospital food. I’ll see if we can have some better meals sent in. Jeeves?” The technician rolled his eyes at the summons and turned on the machinery. White noise welled up in the headphones. Brains grew still in a semblance of sleep …

  She wheeled Dutcher back to his room. His voice was huskier and slower than Commander Stone’s, but it was sounding closer every day. “The best I can say for Time Seekers is that it was work. My first steady acting job after I lost the contract with the studio—I was too tall. Didn’t make it as a leading man and they couldn’t have a character actor dwarfing the romantic lead. Then I did that awful monster stuff and then TV, villains mostly. I’ve snuffed more people than Baby Face Nelson.

  “Time Seekers was just an excuse to let them use their back lot and old props. Mongol Horde with Enfield rifles—that sort of stuff. My wife would wake me from a dead sleep and I’d say, ‘Time and space depend on you, Rusty.’The hardest part of acting is keeping a straight face.”

  “Well, you kept one very well,” she said. He barely needed help getting from the wheelchair to his bed. Stone had always seemed in control, sitting impassively as the universe about him rocked with chaos. She remembered adolescent nights, lying in the dark inventing a background for the character, fantasies explaining his imperturbability. She laughed aloud. “You know, I don’t think I recognize you except when you’re in the background, half in shadow and slightly out of focus.”

  “That’s because the star’s contract specified that he be the one in focus.”

  She went to the doorway and stopped. “Another cherished mystery bites the dust. Thanks a lot.”

  Dr. Insomnia’s body did not rest. Like every body, it ceaselessly respired, digested, filtered, metabolized, excreted. And it served as mercenary soldier for six other unwell bodies. One night it looked at short strands of nucleic acids and responded with interferon. Another night a hapten inspired B cells to gear up into plasma cells and churn out immunoglobulins. Or a tuberculin test awoke the cell-mediated immunity and marshaled the killer T-cells.

  Dr. Insomnia’s body went to war while Dr. Insomnia’s brain watched Time Seekers and then slept. The roar of traffic subsided on the busy street. Solitary trucks rumbled by, shaking the apartment house. The sun rose over the mountains, illuminating the promise of another smog-filled San Yobebe morning. Light slid in between the slats of the Venetian blinds. The traffic built back up to surflike regularity.

  Dr. Insomnia still slept.

  Desert Vampires as it should be, hopeless and terrifying. We’re shot down on some desert planet, Time Seeker uniforms ragged and torn, waiting to die of the cruel heat or alien marauders or indigenous monsters. Commander Stone leads us, torn shirt, scraped cheek, mussed hair. He looks delicious. I’m wearing medic clothes; the others are extras; people from work. “Keep walking,” Stone orders, threatens, cajoles. “Toward the hills.” What’s in the hills? More rock and sand and hopelessness. Someone lags behind and disappears with a scream, us too tired to react. Only ashes. They pick us off one by one in the daylight. Jason dies again. Sean stands there with an astonished wide-eyed look and crumbles as sand. He’s layers collapsing one by one, while I hide my face in the tatters of Stone’s uniform and his gravelly voice says, “Don’t worry. I won’t let them get you.” Screaming: “They’ve gotten everyone else!” After all my hopes and expectations, I’m only a screamer needing to be rescued and feeling disappointed with myself. But he seems to expect, to like my helplessness. He says gravely, “They can’t get me. I’m a regular … "In a circle around us, the sand animates, pushing up into the figures of humans and then shambling forward, solidifying, reaching toward us …

  She awoke with the blankets on the floor, the sheet’s indentations across her face, and the twenty-four hour flu in her gut.

  The antibody test results came back later that week. “Just plain old influenza virus, last season’s variety,” Sean, her lunchtime lover, reported in a disappointed voice. “Any flu capable of downing Dr. Insomnia ought to be a brave new strain.”

  “I should be able to fight something so prosaic.”

  “Maybe you’re tired.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe I’m not tired enough.”

  Two of the six patients were dead. Three more merely hung on. Dr. Insomnia fought skirmishes, delayed implacable besiegers who would sooner or later burn, starve, dig them out. Every day, as dessert, they wheeled in Rich Dutcher, looking healthier with each session. Dr. Inso
mnia looked forward to him as she used to look forward to Time Seekers, a joyful cap to a train of miserable events.

  “You need more sun,” Rich said. “You’re pale.”

  “Thanks, doctor.” She coughed and felt a stab of guilt and anxiety. Mellow out, she told herself. It’s not like he’s immunosuppressed. In fact, right now his reticuloendothelial system is probably a damn sight healthier than yours. Aloud she said, “Bit of a cold.”

  They interfaced with the machine. White noise swallowed the remainder of the morning. She blinked, returning to awareness in the warm noon light.

  That evening she reviewed Dutcher’s chart. Hemoglobin normal. Lymphocyte count high normal. Weight increasing. Radiology noted no new growths, the old ones decreasing to small scars. On the bottom of one page the intern had scribbled, “Query—remission?” The word was sunbursting through clouds.

  Rich was awake and cynically watching one of his own movies. “Giant cockroaches,” he said. “I had real ones in my apartment while I was making this turkey. They gave me the creeps—my wife had to kill them. But here I am zapping fifty-foot ones with an electric fly swatter.”

  “Are you implying it’s unrealistic?”

  He snorted, an old man scowling at himself. “Look at me. That’s not acting, it’s sleepwalking. I’ll never be able to live it down. Fifty years after I’m dead they’ll be showing this dreck on the late late show.”

  “Yeah. Like now, you can watch TV and fall in love with Bogart thirty years after he died.”

  He looked at her sharply, dark eyes in a pool of light. “Do you always get entranced by flickering images?”

  She sighed. “It’s so much easier to love people who don’t exist. Safer too.” She shook her head as if waking to the situation. “Revelations at this early hour? I came in to give you some good news.”

  He listened gravely as she described his progress. “I’m the only one on whom it’s really worked?”

  “You know what I think it is? Ego. Only someone with a colossal ego could will himself to health. No offense?”