Neptune Crossing
Page 70
*
The sensation of pain was pervasive. He flickered in and out of consciousness, in a haze of red. His eyes refused to focus, but he was aware of two shadowy shapes moving nearby, and metallic drumtaps and voices. Then he blinked, and both of the shapes were gone.
He tried to turn his head, and felt a flash of new pain.
/// Don’t move! ///
gasped the voice in his head.
/What—?/
/// I’m healing.
It’s very difficult . . . ///
and then the voice faded away.
He had a dim memory of heavy objects falling toward him, but he couldn’t quite place what had happened. He began to sigh, but it hurt too much. He breathed in slow, shallow waves . . .
When awareness came back to him, he found that he could focus on a ceiling overhead. He couldn’t quite identify it. He didn’t think it was his bunk, or Julie’s . . .
He felt her hand on his forehead, cooling and soothing with her touch; he was burning with fever. She was speaking softly, not in words, but with comforting sounds. His chest hurt, but he was able to breathe a little more easily. Now Julie was leaning to kiss his forehead, and now his lips . . .
When he blinked and focused, he realized that he was on the deck of the engineering compartment, staring at the ceiling. He recalled at least two or three heavy metal cylinders hammering into his body. Where were they now? Weren’t there supposed to be robots around to help? What about the mission? He felt nearly weightless; the gravity must have been cut back; maybe he could just turn . . .
/// Very carefully, ///
whispered a fatigued-sounding voice. Who was that? Charlie? He’d never heard Charlie sound so tired . . . except once . . .
/// Never mind that.
Can you move your eyes? ///
He tried, carefully. It made him a little dizzy, but he managed to refocus on another part of the ceiling.
/// Can you move your head slightly? ///
He tried. His head and neck blazed, but he was able to turn his head slightly to the left. Blinking his eyes back into focus, he saw a black-eyed robot peering down at him.
“John Bandicut—are you well?” squawked the robot.
The sound of its voice made his ears ring. He didn’t try to answer.
/// I think we’ve repaired
the most critical damage . . . ///
/I—what—happened?/
The quarx’s answer seemed to require an almost overwhelming effort.
/// Do you remember . . .
the tanks striking you? ///
/I—think so./
/// The robots . . . didn’t compensate properly
for the change in gravity.
They couldn’t support . . . the tanks. ///
He felt faint for a moment. /That’s stupid,/ he whispered. /I should have . . ./
/// They are unsophisticated machines. ///
/But I should have . . ./
/// You were in fugue.
I’m sorry. ///
/Sorry?/
/// I wasn’t . . . feeling well . . . couldn’t help. ///
/Oh. You sound tired now./ He shifted his gaze from the waiting robot to the ceiling again.
/// Yes . . . very.
The healing . . . getting you out of critical danger . . .
demanded . . . much of me.
It’s not done, but I . . . ///
Bandicut felt a flicker of alarm. /You aren’t hurting yourself, are you?/ His head throbbed with the effects of the sudden surge of adrenaline. /Charlie—?/
/// Yes, well I . . . I don’t know how much . . . ///
Bandicut closed his eyes and counted to four. /Charlie,/ he whispered slowly and carefully. /Don’t put yourself at risk—not even to heal me. I can’t do this thing alone./
The quarx sounded wearily unconcerned.
/// Your survival . . . is paramount.
Your skills will be needed— ///
/No, listen. I—/
/// —at the end.
Absolutely essential.
I am . . . expendable. ///
/Charlie—/ His head was buzzing with a confusing welter of physical and emotional pain. /Don’t. You hear? You’ve . . . saved my life. That’s all you need to—/
/// There are still . . . repairs . . .
I must facilitate . . . ///
Bandicut drew a breath and prepared to try to sit up. /If you mean this pain, I can live with it./ He gasped, pushing himself up from the deck.
“John Bandicut—are you injured?” squawked the robot.
“Nappy—help me—sit up!” he croaked.
The robot clicked and hummed, and a pair of metal arms awkwardly levered him into a sitting position. He was dizzy, and his chest hurt like hell; he must have had some cracked ribs that weren’t healed yet. God, what sort of damage had those tanks done to his body? He sat, panting, gathering his strength, before telling the robot, “I want—to go—to my cabin. Help me—stand up.”
“John Bandicut—we should summon medical assistance,” advised the robot. “I have been calling on all frequencies, but with no response.”
“There is no one, Nappy. Just us. Come on, now.” Bandicut started to get up, swaying dizzily.
/// John, I’m not sure . . . ///
/I’m going to . . . lie in my bunk, damn it./
There was no further protest from the quarx. The robot awkwardly stretched to its full height, supporting him under his left arm. Hobbling painfully, Bandicut made his way to his cabin. Through a blaze of fire in his chest, he managed to get himself onto his bunk, and he gasped instructions to Napoleon to go to the galley and get him some juice and crackers.
Then he fell into a troubled sleep.