We went up a spiral ramp and around a few more turns before arriving at the clinic. I was shown into a room opening off the main space. It was small, clean, and flooded with that same sepia light from an angular window set high in one wall. The narrow bed was covered with a crisp gray sheet. I eased off the hoverchair, then stood balancing on one foot, looking dubiously down at my clothes. They bore obvious signs (not to mention smells) of having been hiked in for days on end.
“Go ahead,” said Tenvi, seeing my hesitation. “We’re used to the mess. All our patients are coming straight off the course.”
“Have you had many?” I asked.
She shook her head. “A few broken bones, a couple of cases of dehydration, one concussion from a fall. Nothing unusual for the Outmarch.”
“Still, they must have been disappointed to be pulled out of the contest.”
“Oh,” she said matter-of-factly, “we put them back in.”
I sat on the bed. Tenvi ran through a now-familiar battery of standard physical assessments while Specialist Reyansh asked me questions about the fall. Next she examined my ankle, first with her fingertips and then with three delicate silver instruments. She confirmed that there was a break, “a simple fracture of the fibula,” as she put it. She looked scandalized when I confessed to not knowing which bone was the fibula.
“I can tell you where the name comes from,” I said a little defensively. “I’m strong on etymology, not so much on anatomy.”
“The break is here.” Reyansh showed me a magnified image on her flexscreen. “It’s quite treatable. I see no need to send you to a larger facility. There’s nothing in your medical records to contraindicate the application of our medical equipment. I can heal the fracture right here, using this.” She held up a glass-tipped white instrument that looked like a touchscreen stylus. “With your permission?”
I nodded emphatically. “Yes. Please. Fix me up.”
She pressed the little device against a spot on the back of my right ankle, glanced at her flexscreen, adjusted the angle, and touched a control on the screen. The stylus began to hum lightly. Tenvi watched the readout over her shoulder. “It’s working,” she told me.
“I can’t feel anything.”
“The anesthetic is still in your system,” the doctor observed.
I watched the procedure curiously at first, but the sunlight was warm and the sheet beneath me cool and clean, and inevitably I began to drowse. I snapped awake again when Tenvi said worriedly, “She’s losing consciousness.”
“Look closer,” Reyansh retorted in good humor. “She’s at the end of a ten-standard-day survival trial. And she’s adjusting to a new diurnal rhythm. That isn’t unconsciousness, it’s sleep.”
It was. I slept for around an hour, or so I guessed by the slant of light across the little room when I woke. Tenvi was still there. She offered me water and asked if I’d like to stand up.
I twitched the sheet aside and gazed down at my right ankle, which had been wrapped in silver tape. “Do I need crutches?” I thought of Saresh again. “Or a cane?”
“Neither. It’s fully healed.”
My gaze snapped up to her face. “What?”
She said again, more clearly, “It’s healed.”
“I can walk on it? Already?”
“Yes.”
The next question, to my mind, was self-evident. “Can I hike on it?”
“I . . .” Tenvi faltered. “I don’t know.”
“What’s your best guess?”
She hesitated, studying my expression, then said, “I’ll get the specialist.”
Someone had helpfully put my backpack on the floor at the end of the bed. When the doctor returned, accompanied by Director Anziar, I was wearing it. I had laced my right boot on again. I saw Reyansh’s gaze drop to my feet and spoke before she could. “I’m grateful for your help. My ankle feels as good as new. I wouldn’t even know it had been broken. I’d like to return to the course now, please.”
The two glanced at each other. Anziar said, “Miss Alcott, I appreciate your commitment to the challenge, but there’s been no discussion of your returning to the course.”
“That’s fine,” I said, trying to channel some of Zey’s bright matter-of-factness. “We can discuss it now.”
Reyansh said slowly, “You’ve been pushing yourself in unfamiliar environmental conditions for the last ten standard days—or ten months, depending on how one counts. You’re fatigued. You’ve just been exposed to medical technology unfamiliar to your body. In my considered opinion, it would be prudent to rest.”
“If you were to become injured again . . .” Anziar added.
“Then I would call for help again,” I said steadily, “just like the first time.” She drew breath to speak; I cut her off. “The spot where I fell was close to a river. If you drop me back there, I’ll hike down to the water and make camp for the night. I’ll rest”—I looked beseechingly at Reyansh—“like you said, and move on in the morning.”
Reyansh said, “I’m afraid it’s out of the question.”
“But everyone else who was injured went back in.”
“A fact which has no bearing on your particular case.”
I took a deep breath. “I’d like to speak to my khavi.”
Anziar consulted her flexscreen. “Your team should be coming in any moment now.”
“Good luck,” Tenzi whispered as I passed her.
“Sigil to the stars,” I whispered back, and saw her smile.
I followed Anziar and Reyansh down through the Perch and out onto a broad terrace of the same blue-gray poured stone I’d seen indoors. The terrace overlooked the river valley. The dropoff beyond its edge was sheer. There were no railings; presumably Vardeshi could be trusted not to fall off. Doubting the same could be said of humans, I gave the precipice a wide berth as I followed the others across to the far side of the terrace, where a ramp curved down to the ground. The final approach to the Perch from below was a rock face nearly as sheer as the ones we had descended that morning. The rock was crisscrossed with natural seams offering minimal traction for determined climbers. The deepest such seam intersected the cliff edge a hundred yards or so from the terrace. My crewmates were spread out across it, looking like nothing so much as mountain goats clinging to tiny spurs of rock. I watched, trying not to think about how I was going to duplicate that ascent, while they scrambled up the last hundred feet or so.
Hathan was first to the top. I marched out to meet him, trailed by Anziar and Reyansh. I didn’t even wait for him to finish pulling himself up onto the cliff before I started talking. “Please tell them to put me back in. They can drop me right in the clearing where they picked me up. It’s an easy landing for a flyer, right? My ankle is as good as new, it’s like the break never even happened, but they’re saying I can’t go back in, so will you please tell them that I’m fine?”
The words burst out in a torrent. Anziar and Reyansh, who in our brief acquaintance had heard neither such velocity nor such passion from me, looked startled. Hathan didn’t. He didn’t even glance my way until he had brushed his hands off, surveyed the result, grimaced, and examined an inky blue abrasion on one forearm. Then he looked up and said crisply, “What?”
He was holding back a laugh; I could hear it in his voice. Encouraged, I tried again, more slowly. “Please tell Outmarch Control to put me back onto the course where they picked me up.”
“Why?”
The answer seemed so transparently obvious that my voice edged into shrillness. “Because I’m not done.”
He addressed Reyansh. “Her ankle?”
“It was a clean break,” Reyansh said, “and the bone appears to have integrated smoothly. But I’d advise against putting unnecessary strain on it.”
Hathan looked at me.
“Please,” I whispered.
He nodded, almost to himself, and said to Anziar, “I didn’t know it until I saw her on Rikasa, but Eyvri feels ivri khedai as strongly as any of us. It�
��s her first new world, and it might be her last. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather work an ice mine on Zarakhat than be planetbound for life. I know it isn’t what you planned. I know you’d rather have her here under your eye. So would I. But it costs you little, and it means everything to her, so why not give her one more day in the sun?”
My heart soared. Whether or not Anziar yielded to his argument, the fact that he cared enough to make it—and understood me enough to make it so well—filled me with radiant happiness. I thought distantly that it had been a sound instinct on his part to appeal to her sense of ivri khedai; if anyone could be expected to feel the lure of fresh air and exploration, it would be the Outmarch director.
Anziar said, sounding more sympathetic than she had before, “I’m afraid she doesn’t have another day. Her window closed”—she checked her flexscreen again, ostentatiously, though I had no doubt she knew perfectly well what time it was—“over an hour ago.”
“No,” I said suddenly. “It didn’t.” I unshouldered my pack and dug through it while they all watched. Zey, who had reached the clifftop too, drifted over to see what was going on. After a tense moment I pulled a handful of damp nylon out of a side pocket: my bikini top, with the challenge token still knotted into its strap. I thrust it triumphantly at Director Anziar. “I have this. I earned it fair and square. It buys me extra time, right?”
She said reluctantly, “That’s correct.”
“How much?”
“Only the course engineers have access to that information.”
“Then, for all you know, I’m still in the race. And I’d like to finish it.”
She gestured at the other members of Team Ascendant, most of whom had now gained the summit. “Your team has already finished. Without you.”
“That’s fine,” I said firmly. “I can do it on my own.” I tried not to think about the sheer cliff a few paces to our right.
Hathan said, “Out of the question.”
I looked at him in surprise; if he felt that way, why had he spoken so ardently in my defense? Before I could process the reversal, he said, “I’ll go with you.”
“You—” My voice caught. I cleared my throat and tried again. “You will?”
Anziar echoed, “You will?”
He answered her. “Why not? It’s the easiest way to keep her safe. Look at it as an extra measure of security. If you put the word out that she’s off the course due to injury, no one will be looking for her in the woods. At this point I assume most of the other teams have already finished anyway.” She nodded slightly. He went on, “If it looks like we won’t make it back in time for the reception, one of my crew can pick us up. They could stand to log some flight time in atmosphere.” Seeing her skeptical look, he added dryly, “And, as it happens, I know the route.”
I stared at Zey. He stared back at me. Our joint incredulity eclipsed speech. The suggestion was outrageous, and he and I both knew why. So did Saresh, who had finished his own climb and joined our little circle. He listened with a faint frown while Anziar said, “You’re proposing to spend another day hiking the same ground you just covered in two hours?”
Hathan said, “Certainly. Why not? After tomorrow, we all have two months of darkness to look forward to between here and Earth. I’m not in any hurry to go inside.”
“I . . .,” said Anziar. “When you put it like that, I don’t see how I can refuse.”
“Neither do I.” If there was a trace of ironic humor in Hathan’s voice, it was gone when he spoke again. “Director, if you’ll provide us access to a flyer, I’ll have one of my crew drop us in the valley.”
I couldn’t look at Saresh. I looked at Zey instead. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again and said, “I’ll fly you out.”
I thanked Anziar and Reyansh and promised to be careful and to signal at the first sign of trouble. The words reeled out almost too easily; I didn’t think about them at all. I was filled with a queasy exhilaration, like I’d downed three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach. Somehow, in the last few minutes, events had veered from the merely unlikely into the outright fantastical. I was going back into the Rikasan wilderness. With Hathan. Alone.
Hathan offered his own terse thanks, and we walked away. As we rounded the side of the Perch, I saw the flyer on which I had been evacuated still sitting on the hexagonal platform. “I’ll get the access codes,” Zey said, and went toward the Perch.
When he’d gone, Hathan said, “Eyvri, this is all happening very fast. I’m trying to get you back on the course before they change their minds. But if our history makes the thought of being alone with me uncomfortable for you, I completely understand. Zey can come with us. He might complain about it, but he wouldn’t really mind. One of the Perch staff can fly us out.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. Misinterpreting my silence, he said, “If you’d rather I didn’t go with you, I can arrange that too. If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to go. I feel a certain responsibility to . . .” He paused, looked away, and it struck me that he was struggling to articulate his thoughts. It was rare to see him fumble for words. I listened, my heart pounding, as he went on. “I promised to protect you. I know I haven’t done a very good job of it. But I can’t do it at all from here. I hate the thought of sitting up here, waiting, knowing I can’t help you if anything goes wrong.”
“Actually,” I said, “I think it should be you. It’s our trip—yours and mine. It has been from the start. Everyone else was just along for the ride. And I’m not uncomfortable. I feel safe with you.” I went on, surprised as before at how easily the words flowed out and how natural they sounded. “It might be different if we hadn’t done the Listening. But we did. The Flare was awful, but it’s over, and I’m sick to death of talking about it.”
“So am I,” he said quietly. “Then you don’t want me to ask anyone else to come with us?”
I shrugged. “It’s up to you. I’ll be fine either way.”
“It should be simple enough to arrange for a dropoff if you change your mind.”
It wasn’t long before Zey joined us in front of the flyer. He brushed his fingers across its metallic skin to bring up the login interface. Instead of keying in his newly acquired access code, however, he turned abruptly to face me. “Eyvri, I’ll tell you straight, I don’t love this idea. I know you’re trying to play it cool, but I don’t think you should be out there alone with him.”
“Thank you,” Hathan said mildly.
Zey gave him an irritated look. “You know what I mean. Or, more to the point, you don’t. No one does, except Eyvri. And Ziral, but she’s not here to agree with me.”
“Are you telling me you’d be afraid to sleep out there alone with Saresh?” I challenged him.
“Probably not. But it’s not the same.”
“Because he’s your brother?”
He gave me a look of pure exasperation. “No, you idiot, because I wasn’t locked in a room with him.”
Hathan said, “If you’re so concerned, why not come with us?”
I stared at Zey, trying to drive the words Back off like a battering ram straight through whatever invisible wall kept the mind of a Blank insulated from the thoughts of others. I was fairly sure he could read it in my face, even if he couldn’t hear it.
“I would,” he said, “but I’m pretty committed to a dinner that wasn’t flash-heated. And a bed that isn’t the ground. I just didn’t feel good about dropping you out there without saying anything.” He continued, speaking just to me, “You know your doctor back home contacted me after the Flare, right? We messaged back and forth a couple of times. She told me about the metaphor she uses for the two sides of the human mind. The rational one and the animal one.”
“And?” I said.
“And I think we both know the animal voice is louder at night.”
I said grudgingly, “I get where you’re coming from. But I really think it’s going to be fine.”
Zey nodded. “All right.
Just keep your flexscreen close, okay? If anything happens, call me. I don’t care what time it is. I’ll come get you. Or switch places with”—he nodded at his brother—“him. Or whatever. Just call.”
“I promise you I will.”
“Good.” He tapped in the access code, and the door slid open.
It seemed like no time at all before Zey was setting the flyer down in the clearing where I’d broken my ankle. He came down the ramp with us. “You’re sure?” he asked me again.
“I’m sure.”
“Okay.” He lifted his right hand, palm facing us: a human farewell. “Good luck.” He turned and went back up into the cabin. The ramp retracted; the door slid shut.
And then he was gone, and we were alone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The river was even closer than I’d imagined; it was only a few minutes later that we stepped out from under the trees. The stones underfoot were flat and bone pale. They clicked together like dice as we walked down to the water’s edge. Here the river ran broad and shallow, just as I had pictured it. The upstream end of the beach was dominated by a sloping boulder the size of a house. The deep pool in its lee was half in sunlight, half in shadow.
“This is where we crossed,” Hathan said. “We could camp right here, but I think the best sites will be up there.” He nodded toward the downstream end of the beach, where a narrow spit of forested land reached out a stony finger into the water. We topped off our water flasks, then headed that way. Almost at once we found a level clearing with a view of the river. I started unpacking my gear. Hathan waved me away. “Go on. You’ll be swimming in the dark if you don’t hurry.” I snatched my swimsuit and towel out of my pack and ducked off into the trees.
Bright Shards (The Vardeshi Saga Book 2) Page 35
