Eternity Row

by neetha Napew

  Squilyp called me over to perform morning rounds with him, and we discharged most of the inpatients who had come in with injuries from the brief Hsktskt attack. Several signals came in from Qonja, which we both ignored. Our double-hernia patient, Yarek, proved to be healing rapidly and anxious to return to duty.

  “Other archivists must work double shifts to compensate for my continued absence,” he said as he tried to talk us into discharging him. “Surely I can sit at my duty terminal and run analysis programs without risking physical injury.”

  “Oh, sure, no problem. And when you’re off duty, of course you wouldn’t teach any classes, or lift so much as a throwing dagger to demonstrate something for your students, right?” I watched the telltale shift of his white-within-white eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

  “You are a tyrant, Healer.”

  I batted my eyelashes at him as I completed my scans. “Flattery will not get you discharged, ClanCousin.”

  One of the nurses interrupted us with her concern over Dhreen’s monitors, which were showing unusual cardiopulmonary fluctuations, and Squilyp decided to take him out of sleep suspension long enough for a full examination. He left me to finish rounds, which I continued until crashing sounds came out of the critical care unit.

  “What now?” I ran in.

  Squilyp was holding Dhreen down by pinning him to the berth with his body. The Oenrallian struggled wildly, tearing at the monitor leads with scrabbling hands.

  “Stop that!” I pushed between the two males and hauled a restraint strap over Dhreen’s chest. “Squilyp, get his legs!”

  “Let me out of this contraption,” Dhreen said, then coughed up some blood. “I need some air.”

  Between us we got him restrained, but I already knew what the problem was from the heat emanating from his skin. I turned and grabbed a syrinpress and a scanner. “Temperature’s spiking. One hundred fifteen degrees. He’ll stroke out on us.”

  “I can’t breathe! Get off!” the Oenrallian yelled as his wavering fist connected with the side of my head.

  Squilyp turned and bellowed, “Nurse! Coolant paks, stat!”

  Fever in an Oenrallian was much more lethal than in humans, as their lung/heart organs automatically valved off blood circulating to the extremities. It rendered the feverish patient irrational, then unconscious. A healthy Oenrallian body would kick-start itself by reopening those arterial valves once the internal temperature dropped to a normal one hundred and five degrees.

  Dhreen’s tattered lung/heart, on the other hand, couldn’t stand that kind of strain.

  “Cardiopulmonary rate falling. Thirty-two cycles.” Squilyp reattached the leads, then grabbed a chest tray and brought it over. He shoved a mask over Dhreen’s nose and mouth and placed him on pure oxygen. “Blood pressure still dropping. One-sixty over forty.”

  Our patient shouted through the mask, the gist of which suggested Squilyp and I attempt something anatomically unlikely with our respective heads.

  “Gee, Dhreen, I find the Omorr attractive, but that kind of thing would really upset my husband.” I injected the Oenrallian with an aggressive analgesic, yanked off the berth linens, and tore open his patient’s gown. Dhreen’s suggestions went from obscene to vile. “Where are those paks?”

  As if conjured, three nurses appeared beside us and began slapping the plas-encased coolant gel onto his limbs and torso.

  I kept a chest scanner on continuous as I watched the monitors. “Come on, come on. Body temp’s still rising. One-sixteen. One-seventeen.”

  Someone yelled from outside the unit, then the door panel slid open and a black-and-yellow blur hurtled toward the berth. “Dhreen! What are you doing to him? Dhreen!”

  She landed on top of the Oenrallian, who got an arm free and grabbed at her head. “Get off!”

  Ilona cried out in pain as Dhreen ripped the ring from her ear. “No!”

  “Nurse!” I pulled her off, and thrust her into capable blue hands. “Take her out, treat her ear, and keep her out.”

  “Let me go!” Ilona tried to struggle, but it was rather pitiful, considering the Jorenian female was twice her size. “No, I want to stay with him!”

  The Oenrallian managed to dislodge his mask by whipping his head to one side. “Get out, you fatuous nuisance!” he shouted at his mate. “You’re nothing but an irritant, always suspending yourself from every appendage on my body!” Then he threw the earring at her face, where it left a bloody mark before bouncing off and rolling under the berth.

  Ilona stopped struggling to stare at Dhreen with unblinking, tear-filled eyes. The nurse wisely took advantage of the moment and guided her out of the unit.

  “I guess you remember who Ilona is.” I watched as the indicators began to slow. “Leveling out. One-seventeen. Replace the torso paks with fresh ones.” I glanced down at Dhreen again. “What, no more creative propositions for me and Squilyp?”

  “You think you’re so unique,” he said, practically spitting the words. “Your dilemmas are nonexistent collated to mine.”

  He might be furious, but hearing him mangle Terran delighted me. “At the moment, I have to agree.”

  As the nurses removed the paks, four Lok-Teel oozed up onto the gurney and onto Dhreen’s body. I’d seen them do that before, on Catopsa.

  “Leave them,” I said when one of the nurses went to detach them. “They’re attracted by the toxins in his blood. They’ll absorb them out through his skin. Just arrange the new paks around them.”

  “Take this slime off me!” Dhreen shouted.

  Squilyp put a membrane on his brow and bent over. “Try to relax, pilot. Breathe deeply and slowly.”

  “She despises me,” he told the Senior Healer. “You might as well let me expire.”

  So he remembered me, too.

  “No, Dhreen.” The Omorr eyed me across the berth. “She’s going to save your life.”

  After an interval that stretched into forever, Dhreen’s body temperature slowly began to cool. He began muttering to himself as he slipped into a semiconscious daze. The Lok-Teel remained in place, steadily removing impurities from the Oenrallian’s bloodstream.

  “One-sixteen. Heart rate stabilizing.” I glanced up and saw Dhreen’s face grow slack. “One-fifteen. Cerebral pressures?”

  “Sluggish, but improving.”

  A half hour later, we had Dhreen sleeping peacefully and his body temp back down to normal. More tests would have to be performed to ensure he’d suffered no systemic damage, but at least we’d gotten him stabilized again.

  “We should put him back in sleep suspension,” Squilyp said as I ran a complete blood series. “He’s at less risk of infection that way.”

  “Not a good idea,” I said, and nodded at the data on my screen. “Look at his counts. In his species, fever is a form of anaphylactic shock. Leave the Lok-Teel in the unit; they may be able to help.”

  “What do you think triggered this episode?”

  “I’ll run an allergen series, but my guess is he’s reacting to the suspension drugs.”

  Gildrells turned into spokes. “He couldn’t be-he’s a pilot. He’s flown dozens of deep space jaunts!”

  “Maybe.” A chill ran up my spine as I glanced at the critical care unit. “Maybe not.”

  “Your pardon, Healer, Senior Healer.”

  We both turned on Qonja. “You were relieved of duty, resident,” my boss said, his voice matching his gildrells. “Return to your quarters at once.”

  “I have been reinstated to my position, and will report for my usual shift tomorrow.” He handed the Senior Healer a data pad, gave me one of those irritating, cheerful smiles, then strolled back out of Medical.

  “Did Xonea reinstate him?” If he had, the ship was going to be minus one Captain.

  “No.” My boss sounded odd as he passed the pad over to me. “According to this, the Ruling Council on Joren did.”

  I signaled the Captain, and filed a formal protest to be sent back to the Ruling Council. “I
don’t know who this guy is, Xonea, but I don’t want him around me.”

  “I will relay your concerns.” Xonea made a note on something, then looked up at me. “Report for combat training after your shifts ends.”

  “Didn’t you hear a single word I yelled at you this morning?”

  “I have your objections to our defense tactics under consideration,” my big brother told me. “You are still required to complete this inspection assignment.”

  “You said combat training.”

  “You must undergo the training in order to correctly inspect the programs.”

  Terrific. “Who’s my teacher?”

  “I am. Report to environome six.” He terminated the signal.

  I closed the channel and rested my head against my palms. I needed to find out exactly who this psych resident was, and what was going on with him and my ClanBrother. Meanwhile, if I told Duncan about these lessons, he’d get mad and probably get into it with Xonea. If I didn’t, I’d be hiding stuff from him again.

  Doesn’t this relationship thing ever get any easier?

  In the end, I compromised-I sent a relay to my quarters, telling Reever I’d be late for dinner because I had to begin the training program inspections. I didn’t mention the words “combat” or “Xonea.” It would have to do.

  Nine minutes later, I reported for my training, and began warming up. My ClanBrother didn’t join me, but took up an observation position beside a table piled with assorted bladed and energy weapons. “You get started without me?”

  “No. You have already been through the primary level training program. We shall begin with secondary level exercises.”

  I wanted to feel flattered, but I was still too steamed about Boy Shrink going over everyone’s head and my inability to stop him. “Can I use any of this stuff on Qonja?”

  “Try to temper your behavior around the resident until we have a decision from the Council.” The door panel opened before I could say what I thought of that, and Xonea’s expression lightened. “Thank you for coming, orderly, Doctor.”

  I watched as Wonlee and Vlaav entered the envi-ronome, both wearing sparring garments, then eyed the weapons table. “What are these secondary level exercises, Captain?”

  “You will face multiple opponents.”

  Wonlee, a former League Lieutenant who had become my friend after losing his wife during our enslavement by the Hsktskt, was an Esalmalin. Sharp, thin spines covered virtually every inch of his skin, and he had more claws and teeth than a roomful of Hsktskt.

  Vlaav, who was entering his third year of surgical residency under Squilyp’s watchful eye, was a Saksonan. Bubbly scarlet hemangiomas crowded his species’ skin surface, making him appear like a gigantic, overripe fruit. He had no spines or claws, and his teeth were blunter than mine.

  “Them?”

  My ClanBrother nodded. “Dr. Irde and Orderly Wonlee volunteered to assist me.”

  “Could you have picked someone a little easier than Won? Besides Vlaav, I mean?”

  Vlaav ducked his head, mumbled something, and headed for the door. Wonlee only grinned at me, displaying most of his pointed teeth.

  “Dr. Irde, please stay.” Xonea gestured to both males. “You both can contribute greatly to Healer Cherijo’s training.” He shook his head when I tried to say something. “You will follow my instructions during training, just like any member of the crew.”

  I was willing to go along with this because of Marel, but even I wasn’t that stupid. “I didn’t agree to become a pin cushion-no offense, Won.”

  The Esalmalin inclined his prickly head. “None taken.”

  “Orderly Wonlee is an expert on League assault techniques and weaponry.” My ClanBrother gestured toward the table. “Dr. Irde’s species has enjoyed considerable success using alternative weaponry.”

  “Can we do this without the weaponry? Please?”

  “For this session, we will only practice hand-to-hand assault and defense maneuvers.” Xonea marched me to the center of the practice quad. “Allow each of them to demonstrate one method.”

  “I’d better not need bandages after this.” I spread my feet and centered my weight. “Okay, Won, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “League troop protocol during individual engagement is to initially eliminate enemy mobility.” Wonlee dropped suddenly, and the next thing I knew I was facedown on the mat beside him. “Like so.”

  “Great protocol.” I sat up. When he would have helped me to my feet, I shook my head. “Show me how you did that.”

  Won demonstrated, this time going for Xonea. The Jorenian merely vaulted over him before the Esalmalin so much as laid a spine on him. Then they made me do it to Vlaav, who proved to be almost as nimble as Xonea. That, or I was too slow and clumsy to nail him.

  “Okay, Dr. Irde.” I rolled to my feet and went after him. “Let’s see why Saksonans are supposed to be such hot fighters.”

  Vlaav, who looked very serious, didn’t move. Just as I got within smacking range, he lifted his upper limbs and slapped them together. Every dermal pocket on the inside of his arms instantly burst, spraying us both with bloody body fluid.

  A second later, I was on my knees, sputtering and trying to wipe my eyes clear with the sleeve of my tunic.

  “That’s-that’s disgusting!” I yelled, as soon as I’d spit the hemangiomatic fluid from my mouth.

  “Let me help.” The Saksonan bent down and wiped my face with a piece of cloth Xonea tossed him. “It’s disgusting, but harmless,” Vlaav assured me. “It was not always so. My people once deliberately infected themselves with various diseases before entering into battle.”

  “Bacterial warfare delivered via infected body fluid. Very nice.” I took the cloth away from him and scrubbed. “Humans don’t maintain enough of any body fluids to squirt in the enemy’s face. If that much blood comes out of us, we die.”

  “Such attacks are common among nonhuman species,” Xonea said.

  He’d done this on purpose. I could feel it. “I’ve been subjected to a couple of nonhuman species attacks already, thanks. Is the demeaning part a central aspect of the program?”

  “Only if the participant is a complete novice in battle.”

  “Perhaps Duncan should spar with you,” Wonlee said, oblivious to the undercurrents flowing between me and my ClanBrother. “He is a well-trained warrior, but Terran, like you.”

  Won was right, of course. The Hsktskt had taught Reever to fight in a slave arena, and as a result he used their bizarre, nonhuman moves to stomp pretty much anyone who came at him. I’d seen some glimpses of how he’d learned to fight when we were linked. It wasn’t something I wanted to experience personally.

  “It’s better if I keep my marriage out of the warrior’s quad.” I looked at the stains on the front of my tunic, and frowned. “Be nice if I had something like Vlaav does, though.”

  “You can use a blade as well as any warrior on the ship,” the Captain insisted.

  I went to the table, and examined the lethal assortment. “I don’t mean to kill. To... disarm...” I picked up what looked like a short black stick. “What’s this?”

  Won came over, took the stick, and twisted it. Both ends shot out and turned it into a long black stick, which he whirled around in a blurry circle. “A goreu staff, from my homeworld. It is used instead of a blade during training.”

  “Kind of long to be a pretend sword.” I grabbed it when he tossed it back to me and planted one end on the deck. It appeared to be a good foot taller than me. “It’s just a telescoping device, right? Spikes don’t shoot out of it or anything, do they?”

  Won grinned. “No, it merely elongates.”

  “Handy.” I measured it again by holding it against my body. During a visit to Asia as a Medtech student back on Terra, I’d discovered one form of the martial arts that had briefly fascinated me. When I returned home, Joseph had vetoed training, but allowed me to purchase instructional vids. I’d never really used the lessons I’d learne
d, but I hadn’t forgotten them. “Can you make it shorter? Say, hack seven inches off each end?”

  “Of course, but why?”

  I turned the staff sideways, dropped down, and slammed it into the backs of his central leg joints. Two seconds later, Won lay on the practice mat and stared at me, shocked.

  “That’s why.” I hefted the staff, thought of Qonja, and nodded. “And take off eight inches.”

  A few days later, Squilyp and I met to discuss options on how to deal with the ever-increasing problems with our Oenrallian patient. I would have done that over the diagnostic console in his office, but the Omorr steered me out to the corridor.

  “We need to take a meal interval,” he said, adding when I protested, “you missed at least two today.”

  Three, but who was counting? “I checked the scaffolding chamber; the clone liver won’t be ready for transplant for at least another four days. Since when do you worry about my diet?”

  “I am worried about this new resident, but we can’t talk in Medical-he listens to every conversation we have. We must also determine how to replicate those hypercells if we’re going to save Pilot Dhreen, and perform the necessary test trials.”

  “I hope we have time to do all that.” In the galley, I walked up to the prep unit and dialed up the first thing on my personal menu-mixed Chinese vegetables on steamed rice with almond tea. “What are you having?”

  He punched in his own choice. “Vreah stew.”

  “Does it look like a bowl of live worms?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  As we sat down with our trays, I noticed Salo and a group of engineers making gestures of greeting toward us from several tables over, and waved back at them. Each male wore a warrior’s knot in his matte-black hair, which meant they were probably old battle buddies. It was unusual to find Xonea’s second-in-command in the galley at this time of night; generally, Salo spent his off-duty time with his bondmate and child.

  “Looks like Xonea’s bright idea to deploy the cannons has everyone talking.” I tasted my tea, and eyed Squilyp’s stew. It didn’t look like worms, but it was bright yellow, pulpy, and had purple spiny things in it. “Does that really taste better than it looks?”