by S. L. Viehl
“I’m all right. Seal the damn wound and get me another pair of gloves.” I glowered first at the nurses, then Reever.
“Aren’t you people listening to me? Move!”
“Of course, Healer,” Adaola said.
She had the smallest set of bonesetters in her hands.
Just what was she planning to do with those?
“Now, Adaola!”
I found out Jorenians do lie. Before I could defend myself, the other nurse had a syrinpress in her large blue hand and pushed it against my throat. The sedative went to work instantly. I stared helplessly up at Reever.
“The patients . . . Have to . . . help . . . the . . . ”
“I know.” His hand touched my brow. “I know.” Blackness.
I woke up briefly while they were prepping me for surgery. Felt the pain, though it was distant and nonthreatening. Adaola’s eyes narrowed over the edge of her mask as she bent down to me.
I had to know. “How . . . bad?”
The mask rippled as she replied. “The femoral artery in your leg is completed severed. You have second- and third-degree burns on both hands, as well as severe lacerations and tissue damage. There are twelve separate fractures of the phalanges and metacarpals; three are compound.”
“Squilyp . . . operating?”
“Yes, Healer.”
I got out two last words before I went under again.
“No . . . amputations.”
Post-op Jorenian nurses were efficient, competent, and dedicated individuals. They didn’t take any nonsense from their patients. Even those who usually gave the orders.
“Healer, will you lie down!” Iolna said from her position at the vitals display. For the tenth time. She forgot to say “please,” too.
I sank back on the pillow. My lips were as thin as my patience. I had been out of surgery for more than six hours. Most of my meds had worn off. I was conscious, rational, and in a considerable amount of pain. Now all I wanted to know was exactly what that Omorr had done to me.
“Signal Squilyp,” I said. For the tenth time.
“By the Mother.” Iolna didn’t normally use Jorenian swear words, but I could see it was becoming a temptation. “Resident Squilyp is taking a rest interval.”
He could sleep later. “Signal him anyway.”
“Healer. Please.” The reproachful tone was worse than the all the “by the Mothers” she kept scolding me with.
“Oh, all right.” I sulked, then brightened. “Time to change my dressings?”
“No.”
“There could be signs of infection.” I was hopeful.
“Let’s check.”
She cursed softly. “You have antibacterial dressings on both hands.”
“I think I can feel some serious keloids forming.”
“Healer Cherijo.” The nurse thrust aside my chart and came to the berth. “I know you are distressed, but you cannot remove the dressings. You cannot check for infection. There has not been time for scars to form.”
“I’ll think of something,” I muttered.
She heard. “I have checked the human database. There is nothing you have not thought of. Please.”
I could pull rank. After all, Squilyp worked for me now. The reason for that made my temper abruptly evaporate. “Sorry.”
Another six hours passed before I saw Squilyp’s handiwork. By the time the big moment arrived, I was so impatient I would have cut the dressings off myself. I would have done it, too, if I didn’t have nearly every finger in a bonesetter. Adaola, the replacement post-op nurse, gently unwrapped my hands. Iolna had already gone off duty, muttering to herself as she left about gags and sedatives.
The Omorr, who looked almost as bad as he had after our fight, bent over me and performed a visual scan. He made a non-committal sound that puffed out his gildrells.
“Well?” I was flat on my back and couldn’t see a damn thing.
“Scanner,” he said to Adaola. She placed it in his membrane. “Status?”
He was ignoring me. Typical doctor-patient arrogance. I should have known. I was an authority. Just not on this side of it.
“Extremely ill-tempered, demanding, and prone to frequent outbursts,” the nurse said. “Otherwise she’s making an excellent recovery.”
Ill-tempered? Demanding? I tried to pick my hands up to check them myself, and found Adaola had strapped my arms with berth restraints. Outrage made me jerk against them.
“Remain still, Doctor,” Squilyp said. He was examining my right hand while making multiple passes with the scanner.
“If someone doesn’t start talking to me,” I told the group at large, “I’ll make the worst patient you’ve ever treated seem like a recreational interval!”
“You are the worst patient I’ve ever treated,” the Omorr told me.
“That’s right. Go ahead and insult me, now that I can’t smack you,” I said. “I won’t be stuck in this berth forever, Squid Lips.”
Squilyp moved from the right hand to the left. The scanner hummed. My nerves frayed. The nurses were giving each other these weird, troubled looks.
“How is she?” I heard Duncan Reever ask.
I lifted my head and peered eagerly past the green and blue tunics. “Reever!” I forgot we weren’t speaking to each other anymore. “You’re human, you have to be on my side. Do something. Challenge Squilyp!”
He came to stand next to Squilyp. They exchanged a completely masculine look. It pushed me to the about-to-scream level in my frustration.
“Is she becoming difficult?” Reever asked while he gazed at me. The same way he would a slide smear under a ’scope.
“Becoming?” The Omorr let out one sour chuckle. “Becoming?”
The ship’s linguist nodded. “Her temper is swift to flare.”
“Swift?” My voice squeaked. “I’ll have you know, Duncan Reever, I am being restrained!”
“That’s because you won’t hold still,” Squilyp said. I muttered something they didn’t teach you in Medtech. He glanced from me to Reever. “Has she always been this rude?”
“Since the moment I met her,” Reever said.
“That’s it.” I still had legs that worked. Basically. “Unstrap me. Now.”
To my complete astonishment, Squilyp nodded to Adaola, who released the arm restraints. Despite my previous impatience, I didn’t lift my hands up. I couldn’t.
“You did get my message about not cutting off my hands, right?” I asked the Omorr. He didn’t reply as he made a chart notation.
I closed my eyes. Tried to control my breathing. I wasn’t afraid. I was just going to wait a little while before I looked. A decade or two.
Reever reached over, grasped my wrist, and lifted my hand. “Open your eyes, Cherijo.”
I did. I saw my hand. My swollen, burned, sutured, splinted, but undeniably whole hand.
It looked bad. Awful. Revolting. I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my life. Bonesetters ensured I couldn’t move my fingers. Who cared? They were still intact. Still attached.
The burns appeared to be the most serious damage. Deep red and promising a wealth of pain, once the rest of the meds wore off. I turned my hand, then raised the other.
“I thought I had third-degree burns,” I said. I saw nothing to indicate Squilyp had performed any skin grafts.
“You did,” Adaola said. “Twelve hours ago.”
The Omorr handed her my chart. “Remarkable. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
There was a lot more he’d never seen decorating my DNA. Now was not the time to update him on that.
“What about the fractures?”
Squilyp held up his scanner so I could see the display. It showed three transverse breaks, and innumerable hairline fractures. No bone chips. No tissue missing. Ligaments and tendons all accounted for. He pointed to the most severe site.
“I pushed this proximal phalanx back into your finger.” He pointed to another area. “This metacarpal as well.” He went on to desc
ribe the areas where third-degree burns had eaten away sizeable chunks of flexor and extensor muscle tissue. He scanned my hands once more. “Even your keratin flaps—”
“Fingernails.”
“—your fingernails have begun to grow back. I removed all of them, Doctor.”
I checked. Small half-crescents were sprouting at the ragged end of each finger. Humans rarely regenerated a nail once it had been surgically removed. To achieve this would have taken a miracle—plus about three weeks of healing—times ten fingers.
Squilyp dismissed the nurses, then regarded me thoughtfully. “I would appreciate your telling me exactly what you are, Doctor Torin.”
Uh-oh. I stared at my hands. “Apparently, very lucky.”
“But not human. Or not like any human I’ve ever treated.”
Reever and I exchanged a glance. Although everyone knew I was being hunted by the League, the facts behind my creator’s genetic tinkering were known only to the Captain, Tonetka, and Reever.
“It’s a long story,” I told the Omorr. “One I’d like to tell you someday. For right now . . .” I lifted a shoulder. “Let’s skip that.”
“I see.” He completed his chart notations with no sign of visible irritation. “I’ll be back to check on you during my next rounds. Stay in the berth.”
“Yes, sir.” I managed a clumsy salute. He nodded and went on to the next patient.
Reever was the only one left. He looked exhausted. The color of his skin had a grey cast to it. Both eyes were slightly sunken and rimmed with red.
The words spilled out of me. “I thought you were mad at me.”
“I was. I am.”
He wasn’t going to give an inch. As usual. Not that I warranted any better. “Then why are you here?”
The fair head tilted to one side. “I am trying to imagine you as the mother of Xonea’s children. I find I cannot do that.”
That should have made me lose my temper, but it didn’t. “Me, too.” I thought of all the Jorenians wounded in this last attack, and became even more dejected. “I have got to get out of here.”
He misunderstood me. “Tonetka is gone. These people need you more than ever.” He cast an uncertain glance at my hands.
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking the same thing,” I said. “Not much future for a surgeon who can’t hold a lascalpel, is there?”
“You will heal.”
My injuries would. I had serious doubts about my soul. “What about you?”
He studied my berth panel. “I’ve requested that Captain Pnor allow me to disembark on the next non-League world we reach.”
“What?” I jerked, causing fresh needles of pain to radiate from my hands. Then I sat back and closed my eyes. “You don’t have to do that, Reever.”
“It is the wisest course of action.”
“I know,” I said. When I opened my eyes, Reever was gone. Which saved me from telling him I planned to surrender to the League as soon as Pnor would let me off the ship.
It took a week to convince Squilyp to release me, and then only by using some fairly dire threats. He refused to permit me to work, and made a few threats of his own when I tried to insist.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” I said as I headed for the corridor.
“I’ll notify Security,” the Omorr called after me.
As it happened, Ktarka Torin was being discharged at the same time, and we walked out together. Most of the gyrlifts remained inoperable, but I welcomed the chance to stretch my legs.
“I don’t know about you,” I said to the educator as we walked down the corridor, “but I was beginning to hate that berth!”
“I feel the same . . . relief.” She made a tentative movement of her shoulders, and winced. “Such inactivity is almost as unpleasant as the burns were.” She glanced at my bandaged hands. “Have your wounds mended, Healer?”
“Not yet, but I’m getting there.” I wasn’t going to complain about my bandaged fingers. Not when so many had suffered much worse. We arrived at my quarters. “Would you like to come in for a server of tea, Educator?”
An hour later, we were on our third server of Terran chamomile, Ktarka listening as I related some of the highlights of my year as a colonial trauma physician.
“You did not,” Ktarka said after I’d described the tense encounter with Rogan and a mob of rioters during the K2VI epidemic.
“I did.” I smiled. “You should have seen how fast that room cleared out.”
“Surely you did not open the containment barrier?”
I shook my head. “Just the sound of releasing that first latch was enough.”
“You are so . . . composed, Cherijo,” she said with a shade of envy. “No matter what the crisis.”
“Composed? Me?” I snorted. “I’m usually yelling at everyone.” I put down my server, and watched Jenner as he curled up next to my guest. “You’ve got yourself a slave for life now.”
Ktarka stroked his pelt. “He is a gentle creature.” Jenner raised his head so she could scratch under his chin, then eyed me. Keep this one around, will you? “What are your plans for the future, Healer?”
“I’m not sure.” I lied. “How about you? Will you be staying on board the Sunlace, or getting off at Joren?” I asked.
Her hand froze. The beautiful face went absolutely still.
“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t mean to pry.”
“My Chosen remains on Joren,” Ktarka said. “I cannot return.”
“Your Chosen?” Once bonded, young Jorenian couples were practically inseparable. “Don’t you want to be with him?”
“You do not know my history.” I shook my head. She placed her server down carefully. “No Torin would speak of it. My dishonor shames them.”
Dishonor? Now there was a bad word among the Jorenians. Majorly bad. “Ktarka, if it’s none of my business, say so.”
“No, I will tell you.” She made a bleak gesture. “When my time to Choose arrived, I was in Marine Province, among HouseClan Torin. As it was an honorable House, I remained to make my Choice.”
I didn’t understand all the who-got-Chosen-by-who complexities of Jorenian culture, but nodded anyway.
“I knew I had found my Choice when I met Konal Torin.” She rose gracefully to her feet and stepped around the sofa to head for the viewport.
Funny how when Jorenians got upset, they automatically went for the view. “Konal must have been a special guy.”
“Konal was my Choice,” she said. “I was young, and wished to surprise my new family, so I told no one of my decision. Not even Konal.”
“What happened?”
“There was a celebration. I stood and spoke of my heart.” Her voice dropped to a bare whisper. “I Chose Konal.”
I was with her so far. Which made it even more confusing. “Ktarka?”
She turned around. Raw suffering drew tiny lines around her mouth and eyes. “Some days before I made my Choice, Konal had Chosen another.”
“Oh, no. Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“The Choice banns were not given to me.”
“Choice banns?”
“They announce the Choice, and the time of the bonding ceremony.”
“That’s it?” She was exiled from the homeworld because someone screwed up the wedding invitations? “Excuse me for being blunt, but why are you still alive?”
“I attempted to divert my path, and failed. My dishonor and my cowardice shamed my ClanParents.” She rested her hands on the back of the sofa. “HouseClan Torin adopted me, and Captain Pnor offered me a position so I could leave Joren. I have been content here.”
“Do you still have to honor your Choice?”
“Until Konal dies, or I do, yes.”
“But you don’t have to kill yourself, right?” She nodded. I began imagining how many ways I could inflict pain on Xonea Torin. As a physician, I knew where all the best nerve endings were located. There were a lot, too.
“This is absolute nonsense.”
�
��I Chose.” Ktarka said it the way the other Jorenians did, with that hushed reverence.
“Just when I think I’m beginning to understand your people, Ktarka, I find out I don’t.” I stood up, went to her, and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. The whole business stinks.”
One dark eyebrow arched. “Why say you this? I made the Choice, and brought dishonor on my name.”
“Why didn’t they make Konal go?” I asked. “After all, it was partially his fault. He didn’t tell you about his Chosen.”
She looked shocked. “I did not know you would understand.”
“Believe me, I know all about inauspicious Choices.” I went on to tell Ktarka about what Xonea had done to protect me.
“Without your consent? How can you remain so calm? I would divert his path!” she said, then made an embarrassed gesture.
I smiled. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of giving in to him. Xonea is going to find out, up close and personal, just how stubborn Terran females can be.”
Medical leave, I decided, was a subtle form of torture. And that was only on the second day after my release. Squilyp had signaled me to report for my first physical therapy session. An hour later, I decided the Omorr wasn’t trying to take my place, only drive me insane.
“Squeeze the spheres, Healer,” Adaola said.
We were sitting in the therapeutic room. I held a soft plas ball in each palm. I curled my fingers, then uncurled them.
“Again.”
I’d had about enough of this. “How many agains am I looking at here, nurse?”
She pursed her lips and consulted my chart. “One hundred repetitions for each hand.”
I squeezed. Pretended one was Xonea’s head. The other Squilyp’s. Something popped.
“Healer.” Adaola took the deflated remains of each ball from my hand, and studied them for a moment. “Perhaps we should try weaving.”
There were more death ceremonies to get through. Seven crew members had died during the attack. Six Jorenians, including Tonetka. We’d lost the trader from Garnot, too. He had been taking a tour of the Sunlace just before the mercenaries struck. He and his guide had been blown out into space with most of level five.
