by S. L. Viehl
I closed my eyes for a moment. A practicing physician who had never made it to residency, treating patients using ancient texts he thought were funny. It was a wonder he hadn’t wiped out the entire tribe.
The old-fashioned titanium scalpels Wendell had unearthed for me gleamed, cold and menacing. I’d been trained to cut with a blade as well as a laser, and once I’d even been forced to resort to using a chunk of razor-sharp tooth to perform surgery.
But this was Reever. I wanted only the best for him. And I’d ended up stuck with the worst.
Quickly, I scrubbed up beside Wendell, who was whistling as he leisurely used an old brush on his grubby nails.
“Tell me, Florine, how did you end up down here with these Indians?” I asked him. It was better than beating him over the head with a torso brace.
“I met Rico through the shockball junta. I, uh, owed them a bit of creds for some games I bet on.”
“Why didn’t your father bail you out?”
Wendell assumed a pained expression. “Dad sort of got tired of my hobbies. We parted ways a few years ago. When Rico came to me, we got to talking, and he said he needed a cutter. Said he’d pay off all my debt chips if I worked for him. So here I am.”
“Rico got a raw deal,” I muttered, but Wendell heard me.
“Well, not all of us can be top of the class, slave-until-you-drop Cherijo the Goddess Grey Veil, you know.”
I ruined my sterile scrub by grabbing the front of Wendell’s none-too-clean tunic and pulling him close. “Listen. That’s my husband on the table over there. You’re going to be top of the class today, or I’ll excise your lungs with a rusty spoon, minus inhalant. Got it?”
“Sure. Sorry.” He glanced over at Reever as I let go of him. “You positive you want to do this yourself?”
“You’re not touching him.” I scrubbed again, furious at myself for wasting precious moments on someone as slimy and self-interested as Wendell. “Hurry up. I want to get started.”
We went to the table and I cut Reever’s tunic off, then sterilized his abdomen.
Wendell noticed the knife, still buried in Reever’s side, and scanned the wound. “We’re doing a, uh, nephrectomy, are we?”
“No, you idiot.” I checked the infuser lines, then Reever’s pupils. “He only has one kidney, we can’t cut it out.”
“The renal trauma looks bad—his ureter has been severed, and there’s extensive damage to the cal—cal—”
“Calyces.”
“Right. And the glomer—glomer—”
“Glomeruli.”
“That’s it. Are you sure you can repair it?”
I glared at him over my mask.
“Stupid question, right.” He took position by the instrument tray.
I held out my gloved hand. “Scalpel.”
My hand shook a little as I placed the sharp edge of the instrument against Reever’s skin. Blood welled up as the tip sank in.
Oh, God. I was cutting open my husband’s body. Not a patient, not an anonymous collection of organs to be repaired. Reever. I was cutting into Reever with a knife.
I can do this.
The trembling disappeared, and I made the long, straight incision.
“Uh, Cherijo, shouldn’t you remove the weapon from the wound before you do that?”
“Shut up, Wendell. This isn’t a teaching class.”
If I’d had a scope, I could have repaired most of the damage without cutting Reever open. As it was, I laid open the tough inner muscles of his abdominal cavity and spread his ribs out of the way.
The kidney itself lay tucked under his liver, a tiny organ only five inches long. It appeared in worse shape than I thought; it should have been enlarged to make up for the missing kidney. Instead, it appeared to be slightly withered.
“The renal artery’s been nicked. Suture laser—” I closed my eyes. There were no lasers. “Suture silk.”
“We’ve got Vicrol synthetic or PDS. Take your pick.”
“What? That stuff hasn’t been used since the turn of the century.”
Wendell smirked. “PDS lasts longer, but has double the absorption rate and doesn’t handle as well. I recommend the Vicrol.”
“Good idea.” I took the needle from him and started sewing. “Save the PDS for your mouth.”
“Don’t be mean.” Wendell leaned over, blocking the overhead emitter. “Wow. I’ve never seen such small stitches.”
“Get out of my light, you moron.”
“Sorry.”
“Suction.” I repaired the artery, which was fed directly from the aorta, and then gingerly extracted the knife. I threw it across the room, heard it slam into the wall. Too bad Milass hadn’t been standing there. “Pack the entry wound with sponges. Have you at least got a cauterizer?”
Wendell held up the small instrument. “Voilá.”
“Take care of those small bleeders.” I started inspecting the glomerular filtering units and the medulla. The organ was literally ruined. With any other patient, I would have performed a nephrectomy and yanked the kidney out. As it was, I had to patch what was left together and hope it would hold out until I got Reever to a hospital and on hemodialysis.
That meant I had to go back to Joe. Maybe he’d find us first. Which was fine. I’d do whatever I had to, to keep Reever alive.
Wendell swore, and dropped the cauterizing tool. “Sorry.”
I looked over, saw the mess Wendell was making of the simple job. The thin thread of my patience finally snapped, and I tossed the bloody probe in my hand into the tray. “Get out.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re done. Get out of here.”
“But, Cherijo—”
“Get out!” I shrieked, and Wendell ran.
I took several deep breaths, then looked down at Reever’s face. He was still out, thank God. I added a little more fluid to his mask, then went back to work.
Two hours later, I finished closing, and put the Lok-Teel on the table to clean up the blood. Wearily, I stripped out of my gear and sat down beside my husband. The monitor showed his vitals were low, but steady.
“Well, honey, we made it.” I rested my forehead against his motionless arm, and wept for a long, long time.
Even after the tears finally stopped, I couldn’t get rid of the ache in my heart. The only kidney Reever had left wouldn’t last very long, even with the repairs. I might have bought him a few weeks, but in the end it was inevitable: He was headed for complete renal failure.
I had two choices: put him on dialysis, or come up with a transplant organ. If I didn’t do one or the other, Reever would die.
After the surgery, I spent the rest of the day monitoring him. Kegide brought me food I didn’t eat, and lingered.
The way he stared at me got on my nerves, fast. “What?”
He didn’t answer, but pressed his hand against his throat.
Maybe he had laryngitis, and wanted something for it. I scanned him, and was surprised to find he had no vocal cords. They hadn’t been surgically removed, so Kegide must have been mute from birth. What had Hok said? Not right up here.
A second scan showed distinct developmental malformations in several sections of the brain. Mute and cerebrally handicapped. He probably had the mentality of a small child.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
Kegide picked up the clay pot of the stew he’d brought me, and placed it in my hands.
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” I gave it back to him. “You can eat it, if you want.”
He sat down and polished off the stew. As he did, Milass walked in.
“The chief wishes to see you. Come with me.”
“Your chief can drop dead. And you can go sit on a knife.”
“You might be tasty looking, but you have a foul mouth.” Milass went toe to toe with me, his eyes level with mine. “If you were my woman, I’d poison your food.”
“If I were your woman, I’d eat it.” I stepped in front of Reever
. “I can’t leave him alone right now. He’s still in danger.”
“Kegide. Go fetch Burrow Owl to sit with him.” Kegide lumbered out, while Milass looked at Reever over my shoulder. “You did a good job on him. He should be dead.”
I could have happily buried a scalpel in his kidney at that moment. “So should you.”
“You have a discourteous mouth, patcher.” He put a heavy hand on my shoulder, and squeezed. Bones shifted under his grip, but I didn’t twitch an eyelash. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Take care what comes out of it, or I will see you squirming on the end of my blade.”
“Do you know how many people I’ve cut open since I picked up my first blade?” I leaned in and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Thousands.”
Kegide came in then with one of the women, and Milass shoved me away. “You come to the chief’s fire. He waits for you.” Then he stalked out.
I spoke with Burrow Owl, who had only a rudimentary knowledge of first aid, but seemed agreeable and understood what to watch on the monitors. “If anything fluctuates, send Kegide to get me at once.”
I went out into the tunnel and back to the central cave. Rico was standing with Hok and a group of other men by the fire. A beautiful young girl was clinging to the chief’s side.
It was easy to see why. Rico had the commanding presence of a chief, and wore his primitive garments with ease and style. A thong pulled his long black hair back from strong, defined features. He didn’t smile much, but when he did, it was as potent as a slap.
He looked over, saw me, and said something to the girl before gesturing for me to approach. She sauntered off, but not before giving me a dirty look.
“You sent your psycho dwarf for me?” I asked, planting my hands on my hips.
“These are the players you must fix,” Rico said, waving a hand toward the dozen or so men. All of them showed obvious external indicators of their hybrid blood—some more blatantly than others.
It was unusual to see so many half-Terrans, given the GEA, but not a surprise. Most of the galactic humanoid races had proved to be cross-fertile. It had stunned twenty-second-century Terran scientists, who had always snottily insisted it to be impossible. Until they’d gotten hold of some alien DNA and found out just how wrong they were.
Now they debated whether Terrans had, like other humanoid species, descended from an original founding race. Popular opinion was an unwavering no, but what could you expect from a species that had once thought their world was as flat as a pancake and the center of the universe?
I looked over the group. There were facial corrections to be made, pigment and other dermal mutations to be altered, and in a few cases, some major reconstructive work. All of which I couldn’t do with the limited quantity of medical supplies and instruments the tribe had.
“I’ll need better equipment, numerous pharmaceuticals, and someone with medical training to assist me in surgery.”
“Wendell—”
I lowered my eyebrows. “Not Wendell.”
“Very well. Talk to my advisor.” Rico thumped Hok on the back. I saw the wince before the hunchback could conceal it. “He will get you whatever you need.” With that, he went after his girlfriend, who giggled and threw her arms around his neck. He disappeared with her into the largest of the lodges.
Must be pretty nice to be the chief around here.
I turned to Hok. “Have you got something to make a list with?”
“Just tell me. I’ll remember.” At my skeptical glance, he gave me a twisted smile. “I am a hataali, patcher. I can remember songs that take three days to sing. I assure you I will do the same with whatever you tell me.”
I gave him the list. He made no comments about my demands, but shook his head when I got to the dialysis rig. “That will not be needed.”
“How the hell do you know what I need?”
“I worked as an orderly in a hospital on the reservation. You don’t need to perform any kidney operations on our tribe.”
“If my husband dies, I’m not going to operate on anyone. Get the damn rig.”
“There aren’t many to be had anymore. Organ cloning is the treatment of choice.” He gave me a thoughtful look. “I can get you the components to make one.”
“Fine. What about nurses?”
“A few of the women have practical knowledge.”
Practical knowledge. They probably smeared patients with colored clay and rattled things over them. “Not good enough. What about you? You said you worked in a hospital.”
“I sterilized equipment.” He actually blushed. “I have had no training.”
Again with the training. Was I ever going to be in a situation where I had competent help? “You’re the brightest one I’ve met down here so far. I’ll train you myself.”
“If the chief permits it.”
I glowered. “The chief will permit it, or he and I are going to have another little chat.”
I went back to Medical, dismissed Kegide and the Indian woman, and performed another series of scans on Reever. He was running a low-grade fever, but roused as soon as I tried to wake him.
“Hello, wife.”
“Hi, yourself, husband.” I adjusted his infuser and injected a standard antibiotic, to deal with the budding infection. “How do you feel?”
“Sleepy.” He looked around. “Where am I?”
“In my new medical facility. One room, no equipment, and the supplies are at least a century old. Sort of reminds me of the FreeClinic on K-2.” He tried to touch his side, but I caught his hand. “No messing with my suture site.”
“Were you able to repair the damage?”
“Mostly,” I lied. “Want to tell me what happened to your other kidney?”
“According to my parents, I was born with only one.”
“That explains why you don’t have any surgical scars.” I paused, wondering exactly how much I should tell him. I’d been in a similar situation before, with Kao. But with his sensitive Jorenian physiology, he’d already known he was dying.
I couldn’t keep Reever in the dark. He had a right to know.
“Duncan, I was able to temporarily fix the damage, but your kidney will eventually stop functioning. Hok is getting me what I need to set up a dialysis rig for you, and once I find a replacement organ, I’ll perform a transplant procedure.”
“If you don’t?”
“Then you’ll die.”
He curled his hand around mine. “I have much to live for. Do what you can.” Then he drifted off to sleep.
I shut off the light emitters, sat beside him, and felt something brush against my legs.
Jenner. I picked him up and held him on my lap. He sniffed at Reever’s hand, then nudged mine.
“He’s okay,” I told my cat as I scratched gently around his ears. It didn’t sound like I was deluding myself. “He’s going to be fine.”
I set up an adjoining alcove in the tunnel as an outpatient treatment room, and started working on the first hybrid.
Small Fox didn’t quite live up to his name. He was a walking hulk who played as a frontline blocker, and used his massive torso to keep other linemen from attacking the center kicker. None of that made any sense to me, but I wasn’t much of a shockball fan.
Small Fox’s problem was the genetic heritage his alien father had passed along to him. Namely, an extreme case of hypertrichosis, resulting from an abnormal androgen production level, stimulated by his alien DNA. Small Fox’s body was, quite literally, covered with hair. If that wasn’t bad enough, the hair was bright green in color.
“No one ever called you the Jolly Green Giant?”
“Not after I passed three hundred pounds.”
“Hmmm.” I ran a bioanalysis on a hair sample. It was copious, it was green, but it was plain human hair. “How have you managed to conceal your condition so far?”
“I shave before every game,” Small Fox told me, and winced as he rubbed the grassy stubble on his face. “Twice a day, every day.”
I used a small vat of depilatory cream to de-hair him this time, then prescribed a daily dose of an androgen-suppressant compound.
“If that doesn’t work, we’ll have to use electri-stim on the follicles directly.” Which would take about forever. “Report back to me in a week and let me know how you’re doing.”
A second player presented a more complex problem for treatment: leg bones that curved inward, which often made him trip when running upright, like a human, instead of on all fours, like his alien equine parent. Protruding bony knobs at his knees and ankles didn’t help.
I trimmed away the protrusions, which served no purpose, and dressed the sites. If he’d been a child, I could have operated on his legs to correct the abnormality of the tibia and fibula. Since the bones were ossified, I’d have to approach it from a physical therapy angle.
I prepared a couple of weight packs, and showed him how to stretch the tight muscles with some simple exercises. “Once those patches heal, work on your legs with these, every day. Get them loosened up, and you’ll be able to keep your balance with your legs spread farther apart.”
He hobbled out, and I went to check on Reever. The fever had improved, but he wasn’t ready to go waltzing yet. I’d get him up and walk him tomorrow, I decided.
My next patient was waiting for me when I went back to the treatment room. Thousands of small, dark purple discolorations covered his face, hands, forearms, neck, ankles, and feet.
“Hi, there. Who are you?”
He folded his arms and glared at me. “Spotted Dog.”
“Great name.”
The rest of his body appeared unaffected, and although he had an unusual arrangement of genitalia, without the discolorations, he’d easily pass for Terran.
“If you were a lot older, I’d say these were age spots.” I circled around him, trying to figure out why his torso only had a couple of spots here and there. “Do they pop up anywhere else?”
“Sometimes on my legs, and chest. They go away in winter months.”
I stepped back and studied him. Of course. Everywhere his garments covered him, his skin was relatively normal. The discolorations occurred only on the parts of his body that were constantly exposed to the elements. I took a blood sample to be sure.
