by Kelly Jensen
He was in the medical bay and had apparently been in a coma. For several days.
Where was Dillon?
The urge to sit up rippled through him again. Lang quashed it by gripping the sides of the chair, pleased on the one hand that his arms and fingers seemed to work, disturbed on the other by… a number of things.
“Where’s Dillon?” Lang asked. When Upero did not make an immediate answer, Lang issued a different instruction. “Can you raise the chair, please?”
“Complying.”
The chair lifted to an upright position, the slower rate giving his blood ample time to redirect. Dizziness threatened but abated with a few controlled breaths. Again, Lang asked, “Upero, where is Dillon?”
“I do not know.”
“What do you mean, you do not know? Why are you being vague? You’re not programmed to be vague.”
“I am attempting to dole out sensitive information in batches small enough not to cause either panic or a relapse to your previous condition.”
Lang’s brain replied with a mental series of dots, followed by a swooping sensation as his head, heart, and gut attempted to fly out of his body and fall to the ground. “What happened? He’s not… Why was I in a coma? Where’s Dillon? Is he in stasis? What happened to us?” Thankfully, his lips clamped together before he could continue with such inevitable questions as, “Is he alive? Can we save him? He’s not dead, is he?”
Stars, please let him not be dead.
“Elders Vagnan and Obele took Dillon into their care early Thursday morning.”
Nearly two days ahead of the deadline. Why? How?
Dillon was gone?
Smacking dry lips, Lang mulled over the taste of lost time and memories for a long, painful moment. Then he started pulling at the IV someone had inserted into his forearm. Now that he was more aware of his body, he could feel the sensor patches at his temples and on his chest. The catheter snaking down the inside of his thigh. “How did I get here? Wait… Thursday morning? What happened Wednesday night?”
Dillon was gone.
By the time Lang had detached everything inserted into and taped onto his body, Upero had related the events of Wednesday night: Lang and Dillon had been on the sofa, talking, and then they had fallen silent. For three hours. Upero had assumed they were engaging in intercourse until Lang’s vital signs began to skew in the wrong direction. At that point, Upero activated the visual pickups mounted in the columns separating the various areas of the large apartment and noted that Lang and Dillon were lying on the floor in front of the sofa, neither of them moving. The AI tried rousing them using the speakers mounted in the columns, and through Lang’s smartwatch. When neither Dillon nor Lang responded—and Lang’s vitals continued their downward slide—Upero had sent an alert to Elders Vagnan and Obele.
The only positive in the whole situation, so far, was that the AI had not had to call 911.
Feeling curiously more comatose than when he’d woken up, Lang pushed up out of the chair and stumbled to the lift tube. “Apartment.” The boom of transport barely registered before the door slid open to reveal his bedroom. Continuing his shambling walk, Lang made for the bathroom, where he instructed Upero to start the shower. Having an AI wired into the apartment worked for more than emergency callouts—especially when one couldn’t exactly remember how the shower worked, or perform only jerky actions with their hands.
While he washed “several days” of coma from his skin, Lang refused to think. The emptiness of his mind couldn’t last forever, though, and shortly afterward, thought crashed back in. Lang exited the shower in time to brace his hands against the counter opposite before leaning forward to squeeze his eyes shut. He held his breath. Recently filled lungs tightened, becoming hard balloons behind his ribcage. His thoughts buzzed. As the seconds passed, the sound grew louder. After a minute, the noise between his ears drowned out all thoughts but one. His chest began to burn. At two minutes, a dull throb had replaced the burn. His lungs would begin to quiver soon, the tightness becoming a series of cramps as his body sought fresh oxygen.
“Are you in distress, Steilang?”
Upero’s question broke his concentration. Lang exhaled, biting back a wail of despair. Curling his fingers tightly against the granite of the counter, he drew in another lungful of air, ready to repeat the exercise again.
“Levels of cortisol—”
“Enough!” Lang let go of the counter. “I have lost he who was more dear to me than air. Of course I’m fucking stressed.” And angry enough to curse, apparently. He darted his hand back to the counter, collected the cup they used to store their toothbrushes, and dashed it to the floor. The cup bounced once, spilling the brushes, and rolled beneath the counter.
“Do you require assistance?”
Growling, Lang turned and strode through his apartment to the kitchen. He needed more noise. More chaos. He paused in front of the large pantry at the end of the kitchen before flinging open the doors and selecting the first appliance his hands fell upon. He pulled it off the shelf, whirled in place, and tossed it to the floor. The plastic cracked, and something metal shot from the end to wobble across the tile.
Not loud enough.
He grabbed the next appliance, noting the glass insert with grim satisfaction, and hurled it to the kitchen floor. The blender smashed beautifully, the glass shattering with a rainbow of sound and fury, the metal beneath skidding across the tiles with a grating squeak.
“Steilang?”
Lang reached for another appliance.
“I would advise against—”
“Damn it, Upero! Let me break things. I don’t know how else to express what I’m feeling.” Clan were not supposed to vacillate through such crests and troughs.
Lang didn’t feel particularly clan as he eyed his collection of brightly colored kitchen gadgets, though, searching for the one that might make the most noise as it came apart on the floor. His beloved spiralizer or the cherry red KitchenAid?
“Steilang, I am concerned.”
“You’re… what?”
“Your behavior is not rational. I am at a loss as to how to assist you in the current situation.”
KitchenAid, definitely. He could always get a new one in a different color. “So you’re concerned.” Did Upero understand the context of what he’d said?
“I believe so, yes.”
“You are a program, Upero. You can’t be concerned.” Or vague.
Upero’s lack of response could be taken one of two ways: processing time as it came up with an appropriate argument, or hurt. Why did the silence feel like hurt?
When had his AI begun to develop emotions on top of a sense of camaraderie?
And how was he supposed to deal with Upero’s hurt when his own heart was a ragged lump of meat?
Lang flung the pantry doors closed and turned to lean against them. He closed his eyes and calmed his pulse. Breathed in and out instead of trying to hold in one lungful of air until he exploded or expired.
“Steilang?”
“What?”
“Dillon left you a note.”
“You are only just telling me this now?”
“You were otherwise occupied.”
“Here’s a hint. If you wanted me to stop breaking things, you should have mentioned the note.”
“I apologize.”
“Where is it?”
It was on the laptop. Lang slumped into the chair in front of his desk and tapped a key to wake the screen. The note appeared right away as an open word processor document, and Lang’s gaze flicked to the date in the upper right-hand corner first: January 24.
“Upero, what day is it?”
“Today is Sunday, January 27. The current time is 7:56 p.m.”
Dillon had left the note four days ago. Where did everyone think they were? “School… work…”
“Using the voice clips I have gathered for such occasions, I placed a call to Josh on Thursday morning to inform him Dillon would be absent for the remainder of the wee
k.”
“What excuse did you give?”
“He is unwell. You both are.”
Huh. “You used the same excuse with my office?”
“I did.”
Heaving out a sigh, Lang directed his attention back to the screen and started to read.
Lang,
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never willingly hurt you. Because I don’t want to unwillingly hurt you or anyone else, I’m going with them. It won’t be forever. I refuse to believe it will be for long enough to be forever. But it’ll feel that way.
I love you, Lang, and when I get back, I’ll say it every day. I don’t know what meaning the word love has for you, but for me, it’s everything. It’s caring for someone so deeply that their happiness and well-being become your own.
Be safe,
Dillon.
Chapter Thirteen
They didn’t stick a needle in his spine, but otherwise, stasis sucked about as much as Dillon had expected it might. Being revived was marginally better in that he didn’t recall any of it until consciousness claimed him once again. He was unplugged, and somehow on his feet, dripping goo onto a grid-patterned floor. His mouth tasted like a cross between peppermint gum and popcorn, which should have been truly disturbing. He had no idea how long he’d been standing, dripping, or where in the galaxy he was. The last thing he remembered was being driven across Manhattan to a shady warehouse along the East River and a larger than usual transdoor.
A seam in the wall beside him parted, revealing a brightly lit recess. A disembodied voice spoke from, well, somewhere: “If you would step into the cleansing array.”
Oh, goody, a blast shower. Perfect remedy for being virtually kidnapped, thrust into a stasis chamber, and shipped halfway across the galaxy. At least, that was where Dillon assumed he was. Really, he didn’t know and didn’t much care. Not being on Earth seemed the most important detail. Not being with Lang.
“Do…” His voice cracked. Dillon cleared his throat and tried again. “Do you have an update on Lang—Steilang’s condition? Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“I am called Ecero,” the AI replied. “We are expecting an update packet from Upero within the next burp.” Ecero hadn’t actually burped. He’d used some vocal equivalent that Dillon could only assume was an alien measure of time.
Loss dragged Dillon’s shoulders down. His memory of what he’d done to Lang was sharpening as the effects of stasis faded. He cast a longing glance at the open chamber behind him and briefly considered asking to be gassed again. Being unconscious forever would get rid of this feeling—these feelings. He’d done something awful to someone he loved. Had nearly killed Lang. He was a menace and a danger. That it wasn’t truly his fault counted for nothing.
Worse, he was ill-equipped to cope with being so far from home. He didn’t have Lang’s strength or resolve.
“The cleansing vestibule is ready,” Ecero repeated.
Dillon enjoyed the energetic scour of charged particles across his skin about as much as he had anything since Vagnan Jordy Jord and his bodyguard had first visited Lang’s apartment. Afterward, he was given a robe to wear—a voluminous pile of cloth he was supposed to drape and swirl and fasten just so.
“Can’t I have some pants? Where are the clothes I was wearing before? When was before?” His throat hurt less now. “How long have I been gone? Where am I?” How is Lang? Is he sad? Does he miss me? Will I ever see him again?
A shelf slid out of the wall to one side of the now closed cleansing vestibule. Folded on the shelf were his jeans and T-shirt, apparently cleaned and pressed. Gratefully, Dillon put them on, the feel of soft denim sliding up over his legs nearly enough to make him cry. After wrestling into his T-shirt, he bunched the material in front of his face and mopped at his eyes. Damn blast shower had done something to his tear ducts.
A second shelf slid out, smaller than the first. The smartwatch Vagnan had left on the dining room table all those eons ago lay in the center. “Please put this on.” the AI’s voice came from the watch.
“Are you going to answer any of my other questions?” Dillon fingered the strap. “You’re not as talkative as Upero. What’s with that? Is Upero programmed differently, or is it Lang…” Voice cracking again, Dillon left the rest of the question dangling.
“A station AI differs from a personal AI in that I am not programmed toward a specific user. Given enough exposure to any individual, I may become customized to their preferences. I am not authorized to answer your other questions. Please equip the monitor bracelet. Vagnan Jord’Wren awaits you in Convergence Room Two.”
Another door opened to reveal a long corridor. A lift tube awaited him at the end.
“Follow the lights to Convergence Room Two,” Ecero instructed. “Do you require any assistance walking? I can extrude a rail from the wall for your benefit.”
Dillon felt if not fine, then capable, as though he’d been down with a fever for a few days, or had missed a couple of essential meals. His emotional state was another matter entirely, and as the odd numbness of stasis continued to recede, it threatened to compromise his able parts. But he could walk, damn it, and didn’t need any fucking rail.
Rather than swear at the blameless AI, Dillon said, “I’ll be fine.” Something niggled at him, though. Something the AI had said earlier. Filing the niggle away, Dillon followed the lights to the lift tube. He stepped inside and waited out the lurch and boom as Ecero transported him to… another level? Or halfway across the galaxy? How far could a transdoor extend, anyway?
The door slid back to reveal another hallway with a subtle stripe of light along one wall, ending at an open doorway. Convergence Room Two resembled a small conference room—with all the furniture growing out of the floor and walls. A highly reflective table, six superbly ergonomic chairs, view screens flanking one wall, and what he supposed could be called a credenza. A long, low counter extending across another wall, the underside marked by regular seams. Cabinets?
Dressed in robes similar to those Obele wore, Vagnan occupied a chair at the head of the table, because of course he did.
Clearing his throat, Dillon walked farther into the room and grabbed the back of the closest chair. “Okay, I’m here, but before we do anything, I need my questions answered.”
“Hello, Dillon. I am glad to see you looking so well.” Vagnan gestured toward the chair Dillon was gripping. “Would you care to sit?”
Yeah, he would, because his legs were feeling a little rubbery after the long trek to the convergence room. Why couldn’t they call it a conference room like normal people?
Because they’re aliens, Dillon.
Oh, yeah.
Dillon pulled out the seat in front of him and sank into the comfortable curve. “I need an update on Lang.”
“Now that we are out of burp space, we can expect a report from Upero shortly.”
“Burp space?”
“A pocket of space between two fixed points? More like a tunnel.”
“And you call it… Never mind.” Mentally, Dillon married the measure of time to the name of whatever-the-fuck wormhole deal they might have used to jet away from Earth and let it be done. “Just so you know, I’m not feeling very cooperative right now. Once I know Lang is okay—” With a gusty sigh, Dillon pushed his hands across the slick surface of the table. What was this stuff? Smoother than glass and not as cold. “I don’t know how I’m going to feel then, either. I don’t want to be here, and I’m”—Jesus, was this a therapy session or something? Stop with the feels—“I’m regretting my haste in agreeing to all of this.”
Vagnan remained unmoved by his impassioned speech.
Dillon drew his hands back toward him. The glass or whatever it was flowed silkily beneath his palms. “What is this?”
“A visual array.”
“Like a screen?”
“Yes.” Vagnan tilted his head. “Dillon, I do understand this is a difficult situation. I would be lying if I said that I
would strive to make it as pleasant as possible. But this is not what humans call a vacation. We have serious work to do before determining if your talent can be trained and mastered.”
All the feels rushing around inside Dillon’s head and chest threatened to spill up and over, and, for a moment, Dillon considered letting it happen: collapsing over the table or visual array in a tumble of tears. But he wouldn’t get any sympathy from Vagnan—not that he wanted it from the uptight Jordy Jord—and the tears wouldn’t do anything other than leave him feeling more wretched than he already did.
He sniffed them back. “I need to know Lang is all right.”
“Your commitment to Steilang is noted and will be taken into account.”
“Are all Jord as cool as you, or are you special?”
Vagnan’s expression wavered, though Dillon couldn’t tell if the slight creases at the corners of his mouth were concern or humor. “You have an interesting personality, Dillon.”
“Heh. So when do we get started? Where are we? How long is this going to take?”
“Do all humans ask as many questions as you do, or are you special?”
Laughter bubbled up from Dillon’s throat. He choked it back. “Don’t try to charm me. I’m a one-man man.”
Vagnan smiled. “Understood, though that was not an attempt to, as you put it, charm you. I would like our relationship to be cordial, however.”
“Uh-huh. Keep me up-to-date with Lang, and we can be friends.” Dillon pushed back from the table. “Where can I get something to eat? And when are you going to start answering my questions? I’ve got about a hundred others, just so you know.”
“Ecero, please deliver sustenance to the array.”
The seams beneath the credenza glowed briefly before drawing back over a series of illuminated cubbies. One had a glass of suspiciously cloudy liquid, the next a bowl of fruit-shaped objects, the third a plate of light brown squares.
“I’d advise drinking the restorative solution first. It will settle your digestive system and prepare you for solid food.”