by Gwynn White
I hang up the phone and replace Dad’s pillows. I leave his room and enter Vivian’s.
Vivian breathes softly. Her heart monitor beeps quietly with every heartbeat. My own heartbeat pounds like a war drum in my ears.
I sit in the chair next to her bed and look at her. Vivian is the reason I am here, in this room and on this earth. If things had been different for Vivian, I wouldn’t even exist.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for what you went through.”
Vivian doesn’t respond.
“I’m Michael’s son. Mikey. You knew him a long time ago. He says you loved him. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. It sucks.”
I laugh at my own words.
“I think I can help you.”
I stand up next to the bed and fumble with the side rail. I finally get it lowered. I drag the chair closer to the bed and kneel on it. Leaning over, I take Vivian’s hand in mine. Her hand is warm.
I take a deep breath.
I lay her hand flat on the bed and place my palm over hers. It is not a perfect fit; my hand fits inside hers but doesn’t match up. I place my hand so that the tops of our palms line up, and each of my fingers is placed perfectly on top of hers. I press down.
I will my skin to fuse to hers. My hand feels like it’s been dipped in fire, but I don’t dare mess with my nerves. I ride the pain and force myself to go on.
Finally our skin is perfectly fused. I try lifting my hand, and Vivian’s is stuck to it. Her hand lifts enough with mine to bend at the wrist.
I press our hands back down on the bed. Now comes the hard part.
There is a skin barrier between us, and I have to pierce it. Maybe I should have cut both of us before I started this, but it’s too late. I’d have to cut us apart and start over. Too messy.
Bone is the only way to go. I force my finger bone to grow out and down. It’s painful. I feel the bone tearing through muscle, tearing through skin, until it penetrates Vivian’s hand. The heart monitor beeps loudly, continuously. I pause to catch my breath, and the nurse rushes in.
“Thomas, is everything alright?”
I nod, placing my other hand over the one holding Vivian’s. There’s some blood, not a lot, but enough. I don’t want the nurse to see it.
“We’re fine,” I say. “I’m just talking to her.”
The nurse checks the heart monitor and smooths a hand over Vivian’s hair. “It’s good that you’re talking to her. She obviously likes it.”
I want the nurse to leave.
“I’ll let you know if anything happens other than her heart rate,” I say.
The nurse nods. “Okay. I’ll leave you alone, then.”
She does.
I wipe the sweat from my brow with my free hand. The pain is difficult to think through.
I have the opening to Vivian now, through our ring fingers. I switch from bone to nerves. I extend my nerves along the bone until they are deep in Vivian’s hand. I plant the nerve in the palm of her hand and fight the pain to sense what I can of Vivian.
She is in pain, too. Her hand is crying out, ordering her to move away from the source of the pain. But her body is not responding. I connect my nerve to a couple of Vivian’s, then I trace those nerves up to her brain. I get as far as the top of her spinal cord. The nerve signal won’t go any farther. Vivian’s body is lacking the proteins necessary to carry the message on.
I have the right protein. I picture it in my head as I flex my fingers, the protein that allows all the nerves to join up and the signals to travel. I have to get that protein inside Vivian.
I force my body to produce that protein. It floods my brain, and I gasp out loud. All the signals my body is sending out are traveling at super speed, and I’m on sensory overload.
I shake my head to clear it, but I can’t get rid of the proteins yet. I have to…do something. I have to send them into Vivian.
It takes me a few minutes to get used to the onslaught of signals. And it leaves me light-headed. Feeling faint but purposeful, I gather all those proteins in my brain and send them on their way along my nerves. Down my neck to my spine. From the spine to my arm. Down my arm to my hand. Down my hand to my finger. Down my finger to Vivian.
The next part is the trickiest. I can sense the nerves I’ve connected to, but the rest of Vivian’s body is a mystery to me. I do not have a direct connection to her brain. So I simply follow the network of nerves. It’s like following a rope in the dark. Hand over hand, you let the rope guide you, but you have little idea of where you are unless you reach a hand out to feel. So that’s what I do. I follow the nerve in her hand until I come to another one. I sense it. I’m in the meaty part of her palm. I follow that nerve down until I come to another at the top of wrist. I continue on, following and sensing.
When I hit a nerve connected to the muscle in her forearm, the monitor beeps loudly. I ignore it. I find that outside stimuli are becoming easy to ignore. I process them so fast that they are barely a blip on my radar.
I notice that my breathing has become shallow and labored by the time I reach Vivian’s brain. I’m sensing a good portion of her body, the left side, at least, and besides the pain I have caused and the lack of proteins, her body is healthy. As I penetrate the brain, I begin to sense her mood. It is curious. She knows something is happening, but she can’t yet feel what that is. I probe deeper into the frontal lobe, and Vivian and I both gasp aloud.
The pain overwhelms her. I had a buildup of it, and I knew what was happening and what to expect. Vivian did not. But she’s a seasoned Dweller. Before I can say a word, Vivian shuts down the nerves in her hand and arm.
She opens her eyes and slowly rolls them in my direction. “Who?” she says.
I’m in her brain. I know what she wants to say.
“I’m Thomas Van Zandt, Michael’s son.”
She tries to speak again, but her tongue is too dry.
“I’m not…” I start to say, and then I realize that Vivian doesn’t know anything about what she’s been through. Her memory stops back at the Attic when Dad was still with her. I can’t explain everything to her now, and she shouldn’t hear it from me even if I could.
“I’m your son,” I say, confirming her belief. “I’m trying to help you. You were lacking the protein necessary to come out of a coma. I’m giving you the protein.”
Vivian nods in her head. You’re adorable, she thinks. Perfect. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you.
Tears fill my eyes. I cannot believe that her first thoughts would be for me. Or her child.
You look like Mikey, she thinks.
“People tell me that,” I say, and my vision blurs.
Vivian must be able to sense me, as well. She is suddenly alarmed. You’re sick, she says. Where is Michael?
“Around,” I say, trying hard to remember where Dad is.
You need to eat, she thinks. You need to eat now. Please. Call someone. Where is Dr. Sykes?
“I don’t know,” I say, my words slurring at the end.
Cut the connection, she screams in my head. Cut it now!
I fight to remember what I’m supposed to be doing. “I’m not there yet,” I say. “Almost there. Need to get to the cerbllmmm.”
My mouth isn’t working right.
Vivian shuts down more of her nerves, but the process is slow. Her brain is not responding as quickly as she wants it to. But she’s making it difficult for me to work. I’m like a salmon fighting to swim upstream.
I can no longer speak. So I think to her.
Let me help you.
No! she thinks. Not for me. Please! Not for me. She is sobbing in her head.
I finally reach her cerebellum and repair the deadened parts of her brain. Some kind of chemical had saturated her brain cells and essentially numbed them. I regrow them. I restore them. I give her the power to create the protein on her own.
I bring Vivian back to life.
“No!” she screams out loud.
And my hear
t sto….
To Be Continued…
Continue the System Series in book two, Systematic.
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About the Author
Andrea Ring was born and raised in Orange County, California. At age eight, she wrote an essay proclaiming she wanted to be an “auther” when she grew up. It only took her thirty years to realize her dream.
She enjoys beating her four children at Boggle, reading science fiction and fantasy, and eating bacon. She hates to exercise, but loves taking walks with her family through Old Towne Orange. She's lucky to be married to the love of her life.
Her favorite ride at Disneyland is Indiana Jones.
Her favorite movies are The Princess Bride and Better Off Dead.
She thinks every book should contain a love story.
Did we mention her love of bacon?
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Soron’s Quest
Robyn Wideman
Soron’s Quest © copyright 2015 Robyn Wideman
Published: July 2015
About Soron’s Quest
A young warrior must find his way!
Soron is tired of combat. Growing up in the harsh world of Northern Solotine, Soron has been fighting his entire life. He is only a young man, but already a battle-hardened veteran.
He longs to pursue a new less violent life, but the people of Northern Solotine, and the very land itself seem determined to keep that from happening! Vicious beasts, a harsh land and a northern chieftain bent on destroying his village and killing his father all stand in the way of Soron's goal of a simple and peaceful life.
Chapter One
Soron stood sword in hand, waiting for the beast to attack. He had been travelling for weeks searching for a source of hexin. Hexin, a rare mineral, was a source of fascination for young Soron. Its unique properties blended well with iron to make beautiful metal artwork. But hexin was rare. Soron had searched far and wide, until at last he found a large outcropping of the magnificently malleable material, deep in the Glug Mountains.
The problem was the mineral outcropping was close to the lair of a snow Yeti. The snow Yeti was a reclusive predator that roamed the high mountain ranges of Northern Solotine. Normally, the creatures preyed on sheep, goats, and once in a while one would come down from the mountains and steal a farmer’s cow. During the lean winter months, Yetis were known to seek out bear dens. Attacking the fearsome, hibernating animals provided the Yetis with large sources of food. Today, there was a Yeti hunting Soron.
The beast was beyond the tree line, stalking Soron. But a shift in the wind gave its presence away. The strong odor of the Yeti contrasted with the clean, crisp mountain air that was tinged with the light floral scent of high valley wildflowers growing haphazardly throughout the area. The Yeti smelled like the foulest body odor imaginable combined with rotting meat and a wisp of cat dung.
Soron had no interest in fighting the beast. He would gladly leave the reclusive monster alone. But something told him that the creature did not feel the same way. While most of the wild animals of Northern Solotine recognized man as an enemy to be feared, Yetis were most definitely not in that category. They feared nothing and likely looked upon Soron as a suitable snack.
Adrenalin coursed through Soron’s veins as he waited for the beast to attack. Branches snapped and broke, brutally brushed aside as the beast blasted out of the bushes. Soron turned his body slightly, bringing himself in line with the charging beast. So much for letting the beast live, thought Soron. The beast seemed determined to make a meal out of him.
As the large creature closed in on him, Soron swung his sword. Instead of attempting to duck his attack, the Yeti simply raised its sinewy arm, letting Soron’s blade cut into its arm while it came forward. Unfortunately, the Yeti delivered a blow of its own. The heavy, clawed paw slammed into Soron’s chest, sending him soaring through the air. Soron landed with a heavy crash; his ribs felt like they had been rearranged and breathing was now difficult. Soron looked up at the oncoming yeti. So far, the mammoth killer was winning this battle, but Soron was no ordinary man. He was a northerner and the son of the mighty chieftain Theron. Theron was one of the rare and mighty northerners who were descendants of giants. The bloodlines were not as strong as generations in the past, but the extraordinary size and strength was still a marker of the unique heritage.
Still, even with his exceptional size for a man, Soron was in trouble. The Yeti was barely wounded, while Soron could feel at least one broken rib. His mobility and endurance would be severely limited from this point on.
Soron focused, rising to one knee. He waited until the Yeti was within striking distance before pushing off the ground, pivoting as he lifted his weapon. Soron swung his razor sharp sword in a deadly arc intended to decapitate the attacking Yeti.
Having already felt the stinging touch of Soron’s blade, the Yeti wisely jumped back instead of trying to block the deadly blow. The tip of Soron’s blade slipped harmlessly in front of the monster’s neck. The Yeti gave a loud, rumbling growl. It did not like the level of resistance Soron was putting up.
Soron smiled at the yeti. The outcome of this battle was yet to be determined, but at the very least he was making life difficult for the dangerous monster. “Come on, you big, ugly brute. You want to eat me? Be careful you don’t bite off more that you can chew.”
Despite his outburst of bravado, Soron knew he was in trouble. His breath was coming slowly; his wounded ribs were sapping his energy fast. But his own words were giving him ideas. If he was going to end up as Yeti lunch, the very least he would do was make sure he gave the beast the indigestion he had promised. Soron lowered his sword slightly, and stumbled forward.
The beast reacted quickly. It tried to take advantage of Soron’s weakened state by launching itself at him in a quick rush, before Soron could swing his sword in a defensive maneuver. The rush worked, within fractions of a second the beast was too close for Soron to swing his sword around.
But Soron’s stumble was a feint; he had no intention of swinging his sword again. This time when the beast rushed him, Soron pushed forward, using his faked stumble to gain momentum. When he was almost about to collide with the beast, he grabbed his sword blade, held it like a spear and thrust it deep into the Yeti’s belly.
The blade went deep, slicing into the large predator until the tip of the blade protruded from the beast’s back.
The yeti howled in agony; its dying scream could be heard for miles. Soron stood against the animal’s chest; he could feel the beast’s claws against his back, where they had sliced through his leather tunic. But the monster’s claws no longer tore into his back, nor did the animal move.
Exhausted, it took Soron a moment to realize the monster was dead. The only thing holding the large beast up was Soron’s weight against it, leveraged by the large sword running through its stomach. Soron slid to his right, pushing sideways on his sword as he did. When the monster started falling, Soron yanked his sword free. The dead Yeti collapsed on its side.
Soron slowly sat down next to his vanquished foe. He felt no jubilation or exhilaration from his victory. He was simply content that he would live to see another day. Not yet twenty, Soron was a veteran warrior, one tired of bloodshed. There had been a time when Soron relished battle. He had enjoyed the rush of adrenaline that accompanied having an enemy attack. The test of manhood had intrigued him as a boy. But as he grew older, the intrigue died off; few, if any, of his enemies had the skills and strength to defeat him. As word of his exploits grew, so did the number of warriors that wanted to test themselves against the young prodigy. Soron could hardly stay in his father’s town longer than a week without some warrior coming to test him.
Other northern tribes attacked Amradin, the small city home to his father’s tribe, providing ano
ther constant source of battle. Theron, his father, was a mighty chieftain and now some were proclaiming him King of the North. Theron saw this as a way of unifying the local tribes, a way to bring peace to the volatile region. Soron knew better.
Peace was not the northern way; war was in their blood. Proclaiming a king might bring together the local tribes, but it would also create a prize for the large tribes farther north to reach for. Creating a kingdom in the north would not bring peace; it would bring battle on a larger scale. Soron could not see a way to convince his father to end this folly. So instead, Soron wandered the north, searching for the rare minerals he could use to make jewelry. He sought activity as far away from war as he could; he longed to create rather than destroy.
His search for hexin was a success, if not for the minor inconvenience of the Yeti attack. As Soron sat there beside the corpse of the once mighty beast, he reflected on his own past and his future. Was this the way he was to die, wandering the mountains alone, victim to one of the many predators that roamed the harsh land? It is ironic, Soron thought, I came out here to avoid battle. Yet here I am, once again about to tend to battle wounds.
Perhaps it wasn’t just the people of the north that he needed to avoid. The very land itself was a harsh enemy, filled with monsters and predators eager to eat him. Perhaps he should find a new home, one not so filled with violence. But that was a thought for another day. First, he had to make sure he survived this one.
Soron stopped his overthinking and concentrated on his current situation. Gently taking his tunic off, he assessed his wounds. Lightly, he ran his fingers over his ribs. The bruised area was large and at least one rib was broken. As long as the broken ribs didn’t cause any other injuries, he would live. He would have to return to Amradin to see a healer, but that was a small price to pay for good health. With a small smile he consoled himself, at least he would not be returning empty handed. He had a whole Yeti to carve up for meat and more importantly had found a source of hexin. Just thinking of the beautiful items he could create with the rare mineral made Soron happy. Yes, returning to Amradin would be okay.
