by Karl Beecher
“Very clear, sir,” he croaked. “Come along, Mokk.”
Tiffin marched away with his head held high, and with all the dignity he could scrape together. Mokk scampered after him. Although the little oik knew better than to smile, Tiffin swore he could hear the cadet laughing inside.
“Sir,” whispered Mokk, “was that what’s termed ‘a successful inquiry?’”
Tiffin gave him a slap round the head. “Shut up!”
“Ow!” Mokk rubbed his skull. “What was that for?”
“Because that was all your fault.”
“Why, what did I do?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll think of something.”
They passed through the hangar exit and were greeted by the cool air and grey, miserable skies of Procya.
“Anyway,” continued Tiffin, “all is well. I accomplished my goal there. We’ve confirmed that the target is already on Procya. No doubt, he’s already at Saint Barflet’s. Now for the next stage of my plan.”
“Which is?”
“We set up a base of operations at the hospital and begin scouting for the opportunity to snatch the bastard.”
29
“So,” said Colin, “here I am again. Sitting on a bed, wearing a surgical gown.”
Tyresa hummed in acknowledgement.
“You know,” he continued, “I’m starting to think I’ve been cursed to keep doing this for the remainder of my life.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Tyresa, thumbing through a slate, couldn’t have sounded less enthralled than if Colin were discussing various shades of concrete.
“You know,” he ploughed on. “It’s funny how little the proceedings seem to change in this situation. Whether it’s Earth, Ceti or Procya, medics always seem to want me wearing nothing but a flimsy gown that’s open at the back and reaches down barely below my hips.”
He tugged at the gown, trying to make it cover more of his pasty legs.
“Great,” breathed Tyresa. She checked her wrist computer, something she’d been doing compulsively the last half hour.
“And that’s to say nothing of the examinations they subject me to. It’s as though every doctor and nurse in the universe is determined to poke and prod into every conceivable nook and cranny of my being. And what for? The problem’s in my brain. Peering into my earhole might do some good, but what they hope to find inside my—” He coughed. “—in other holes, I can’t imagine. Sometimes, I think the ultimate goal of the medical profession throughout all space and time is simply to have a good old laugh at the sick.”
“Colin!” snapped Tyresa. “Will you—” She stopped and composed herself. “I mean, why don’t you take a rest or something, huh?”
Colin looked at her. She was sitting at the other end of his private hospital room, which Saint Barflet’s had been kind enough to provide. It was actually quite spacious, his bed large and soft, and the furnishings—closets, comfy chairs and a carved wooden table—looked like they’d come from a Victorian parlour.
“Sorry, am I bothering you?” he asked.
Tyresa forced a smile so fake it looked painful. “Not at all.”
Colin had to admit he might have been a teensy-weensy bit complainy about hospital life. However, he could say one thing in favour of Saint Barflet’s. While the medics of CryCorp had been largely indifferent to him, and the doctors on Ceti had made him the object of cold curiosity, the staff here were gracious and considerate.
Actually, that wasn’t true.
A few staff members, including Colin’s specialist, Gunga, were extremely nice to him, while the rest proved every bit as hostile as Tyresa had warned. But Colin hadn’t found a way to predict which ones would behave in which way. It was all very confusing.
In fact, ‘confused’ described Colin’s overall feelings about Abrama very well. In addition to the curious medics, he’d also been trying to deal with his glimpses of Abraman life. The segregation of non-believers prayed on his mind, but he’d also learned more about the life of women. Colin had soon noticed that not one of the doctors around him was female. When he’d raised the topic, he’d learned that the medical profession was just one of many closed off to women as being unsuitable on account of their ‘fragile nature.’ As it turned out, feminine fragility was a disqualifier from all the most important occupations.
Still, Colin felt ambiguous about the place. In one sense, he honestly liked Abrama. Its culture was orderly and restrained, the people formal and very respectful (to one another at least), the permanently overcast grey weather achingly British. It seemed idyllic in many ways, so long as you were a religious male. But he couldn’t escape his visceral dislike of the way women and non-believers were treated. It was hard to imagine settling here and somehow turning a blind eye to it.
However, that was all academic. Colin couldn’t settle here, even if he wanted to. He was a non-believer, a heretic, which would make him a member of that terribly-oppressed class. If he stayed here, he too would find himself segregated and queueing in grubby alleyways for handouts.
Pretending to be a believer would be useless. He had wondered why the native non-believers didn’t simply convert in order to improve their lives, but it turned out to be not as simple as that. Every Abraman had to undergo a faith test that scanned the brain directly to detect religious fervour. It wasn’t enough to say you believed. You had to actually believe.
Which served to confuse Colin even more. Non-believers were not admitted into Saint Barflet’s. Apparently, they had other institutions to care for them (and Colin shuddered to imagine the state of them). Yet, here he was, in a pleasant wing of the building in his own private room. An unsettling question occurred to him.
“I wonder if I’ll have to take a faith test to qualify for treatment?”
“You asked me that ten minutes ago,” said Tyresa, checking her wrist computer once more. “My answer is still the same: I don’t know.”
“What if they make me take one?”
“You asked me that nine minutes ago,” she said, jumping to her feet. “I said, we’ll deal with that problem if and when it arises.” She sighed and walked over to the large window.
“Sorry,” said Colin. “I’m just nervous and confused. I must be being a bore.”
“Ah, forget it,” she said. “Not your fault. I’m not used to being cooped up in a room with other people, that’s all.”
Colin went silent, and his gaze fell upon his knees—they were both still there, one hairy and the other bald—when it suddenly occurred to him there might now be a cure for his asymmetrical hair growth. This was the future, after all. They could travel faster-than-light these days, colonize planets, and make floating cars.
Surely now they could equalise the hairiness of legs?
He looked up excited, intending to ask Tyresa her opinion, but he noticed her peering intently through the window. Something outside was absorbing her attention. From the look on her face, what she saw troubled her.
“What is it?” he asked.
“There’s more of them now,” she muttered.
“More of what?”
“It may be nothing, but there are people hanging around outside.”
“That’s not unusual for a hospital, surely? They’re busy places.”
“Sure. But there’s something about them…”
Colin joined her by the window. Its second-floor location gave him a nice view, allowing him to see the yellowy-green lawns and the thin, pointy pine-like trees that ringed the hospital grounds. Below, he saw people going about their business: doctors and nurses, as well as a few plainly-dressed people, presumably visitors. Nothing out of the ordinary.
“Where?” asked Colin.
Tyresa pointed towards a group of four men, dressed in normal Abraman clothing. They were standing on a pathway in heated conversation.
“I’m sure I saw two of those guys earlier in that same spot,” explained Tyresa. “It seems they’ve brought some friends along. They keep looking up at this window an
d pointing. I saw a different group doing something similar this morning.”
As she said that, one of the men reached up and pointed right at their window. As he did, he performed a double-take and fixed his gaze on Colin.
Colin froze.
The man outside held up his hand, as if in cautious greeting.
And then, so did the other three.
An icy cold feeling ran down Colin’s spine.
“Do you see that?” he whispered, as if he could be heard through triple-paned glass by people a hundred feet away.
Tyresa’s poker face remained fixed on the group outside. “I see it.”
“Should I… should I wave back?”
“No. Just step away. But slowly, like you didn’t see them.”
Colin sidled away from the window, trying to look nonchalant but moving as though he were wearing a suit of armour. He sat back on the bed, while Tyresa retook her seat.
Who on Earth would… or rather, who on Procya would be waving to Colin? Nobody on this planet knew him.
“Who do you think they are?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “They’re wearing native dress, so I assume they’re Abramans.”
“But why are they waving at me? How do they even know about me? For that matter, why do they care?”
Tyresa shrugged. “Anyone on the planet could have heard about you by now; don’t forget all those reporters that Hanson brought to the spaceport. Why do they care? Good question. I’ll try to find out. Maybe see if I can eavesdrop a little.” For the third time in as many minutes, she checked her wrist computer. “I’ve got to head out for a while anyway.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve just got a little job to do while I’m on Procya. Nothing for you to worry about.”
That wasn’t the first time Tyresa had referred to having some other business, but she was keeping her cards close to her chest.
“Will you be back soon?” asked Colin as she rose to her feet. He didn’t fancy being left alone.
“Yeah. Don’t worry, I just have to… uh… make a call, I won’t go far. I know where you are.”
She pointed to the homing beacon, a tight, plastic band on his wrist that Tyresa had made him wear. He had only been wearing it a few hours, but the thing already felt like it had been digging into his skin for days.
“And don’t forget,” she continued, “that guard is still outside, too.”
She was referring to the strange man who’d turned up earlier that day, a ‘security specialist’ who’d been sent by Brock T. Hanson and ordered to stand guard over Colin. The guard, a large chap with a scar over one eye, had taken up his post in the corridor outside Colin’s room and was usually to be found milling around, thumbing through magazines or chatting up passing young nurses. Throughout the day, Colin had heard the intermittent shrieks of older matrons angrily ordering “young trollops” back to work.
“Huh!” said Colin. “I don’t trust him.”
Tyresa headed over to the door. “Don’t worry. A busy hospital like this is hardly the place for any nastiness.”
She reached for the door release button, but the door whooshed open before she could push it. On the other side stood Doctor Gunga, who jumped out of his skin upon seeing Tyresa a foot in front of him.
“Oh, sorry Doctor,” smiled Tyresa sweetly. It was the kind of sarcastic smile one made, dripping with sweetness, in the hopes it gave the recipient diabetes.
Gunga held a hand to his breast and composed himself. “Think nothing of it, dear lady. Going somewhere?”
“I was just heading out for a while. The patient’s all yours.”
“Yes, um… before you go, Ms. Jak—”
“Doctor Jak.”
“Of course. Before you go, I must raise a sensitive matter. I’ve been consulted by several of my colleagues who have expressed their concern that you wander the hospital grounds without a male chaperone.”
“I thought we’d been over this. Colin is my escort.”
Gunga shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ve consulted the hospital rules and found that the chaperone of a woman who is… unmarried…” He shuddered slightly at the mention of the word. “… cannot also be a patient of the hospital.”
Tyresa rolled her eyes. “Oh, this is ridiculous!”
“It’s the rules, I’m afraid,” smiled Gunga. “So sorry, but I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay here, dear lady…”
“Not so fast,” she said. “I have another escort. My other shipmate, Ade. He’s a man. He can be here in half an hour, I’m sure.”
“Ah.” The smile dissolved from Gunga’s face. “Well… lucky you, then.”
“Lucky me.” She looked mischievously at Colin. “See you later, Colin.”
Gunga looked on sourly as Tyresa disappeared into the corridor. She was good at rubbing everyone up the wrong way, it seemed, not only Colin. After she’d gone, Gunga turned towards Colin, and a new smile sprung onto his face as though he’d taken it from his coat pocket and pinned it to his cheeks.
“Hello again,” he beamed. “How are you feeling today?”
“Not bad, Doctor, considering.”
“Can we get you anything further?”
Colin shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“Something to read?”
“No.” He pointed to the magazines on a nearby table. “I have enough.”
“More fruit, perhaps?”
Colin glanced at the bowl sitting on his bedside table, still untouched and filled to the brim with more fruit than he could eat in a week. “No, really, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Jolly good.”
Gunga proceeded to examine the screen at the foot of Colin’s bed. Like his hospital bed on Ceti, this one also monitored his vital signs and displayed them for all to see. “And how’s that mind of yours? Any more memories gone missing?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Colin. “I keep testing myself now and again, trying to recall stuff I ought never to forget: parents’ names, last address, and so on. I noticed this morning I can’t remember the name of my secondary school maths teacher. And she was my favourite teacher. The problem is, I don’t know if that’s something I would ordinarily forget or my disease has wiped the memory. I don’t recall the last time I could recall it.”
“I see. And, um…” The Doctor hesitated. “Have any memories… returned?”
“Returned?” Unusual question. He didn’t quite know how to answer. “No, not that I know of… unless I’ve forgotten forgetting something in the first place. Are you referring to anything specific?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it,” said the Doctor, “but I assumed you’d have had a… a flash of inspiration, so to speak.”
Colin shook his head. What was he getting at?
Gunga hummed to himself. “I wonder if your disease is causing a ‘blockage’ of some sort. Maybe we’ll see in a moment. We’re going to take you into the neuroimaging room in a short while.”
“For the operation?”
“No, no. Just to map out your brain in readiness for the procedure. Sort of get our bearings, you see?”
Colin swallowed. He was suddenly mindful of the faith test. “And then what?”
“We’ll bring you back here.”
“No, I mean…” He struggled for the right words. “I mean after that. When it comes to the treatment. I am… that is to say…” He sighed and braced himself for whatever the response would be. “Is it true that non-believers aren’t allowed treatment here?”
“Correct.”
“And to be classed as a believer, you have to pass a faith test?”
“That’s right.”
“Including me?”
The Doctor tittered. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I doubt it would pose a problem for you of all people.”
Colin’s heart sank. He had no idea why Gunga was so confident, but he saw no reason to be. “But Doctor, I can’t take that test.”
&n
bsp; “It’s nothing to worry about,” said Gunga. “The test is harmless. All that happens is you’re asked a series of questions about your faith while the scanner examines your brain patterns to ensure sincere belief.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’m not a religious man. I don’t have your faith.”
“Mister Douglass,” laughed Gunga, “my own faith is nothing as compared to yours.” Then he thought for a moment. “But then, you’ve been entombed for many hundreds of years. Your memory is in chaos. Your identity needs time to assert itself; your faith time to re-emerge. When it does, you could pass a faith test blindfolded. Well, not literally, because you couldn’t read the questions, but you know what I mean.”
Things were getting very fishy now. Colin could stand the innuendo no longer. “Doctor, what do you mean? You seem to be seeing something in me. In fact, you’re not the only one. Some of the other staff are treating me like some kind of…” He struggled for the right word. “… celebrity.”
“Of course,” said Gunga. “They are the truly faithful ones. The ones who recognise a prophet when they see one.”
Now, Colin felt totally nonplussed. Did Gunga just say ‘prophet’ or ‘profit’? Ordinarily, Colin would have assumed the latter, but he feared the former made more sense.
“A what?” said Colin.
“Prophet. A messenger from the Creator (Grant Unto Him Glory).” Gunga looked at him quizzically. “You really don’t know what I mean?”
“No.”
The Doctor stroked his beard in thought. He looked worried for a brief moment, but then a thought seemed to occur to him. It was a wondrous realisation judging from the look on his face.
“I understand,” he gasped. With one hand he covered his open mouth, and pressed the other to his breast, then looked up at the ceiling. “I understand!”
Colin looked up but saw nothing apart from a light fixture and a squashed fly stuck to the plaster.
The Doctor went on talking to the ceiling. “I’m being given a task, aren’t I? That’s it, isn’t it? It must be. It’s been arranged so that I am the catalyst for his revelation.” He clasped his hands to his forehead and a broken dam of reverence poured from of him. “Oh, thank you, my Progenitor (He Who Created All Thou Can See And Not See) for this glorious duty.”