by S. L. Viehl
“While you’re on medical leave for a week,” I told him, ignoring the subsequent bluster of outrage, “you’ll have plenty of time to study all the safety rig data I’m going to give you.”
Ecla changed places with me, and wrapped his torso with yards of support braces while I finished making the chart entries. Trytinorn curses were particularly expressive and colorful. In spite of that, I hummed cheerfully. The indignant dockworker was still swearing when the orderlies assisted him to his feet and he stomped out the way he came in.
As we walked back to Trauma, I noticed the Psyoran was giving me a lot of odd looks. Okay, my humming wasn’t going to win any prizes. I never said I was perfect.
“You’re in a good mood,” Ecla said back in the exam room while she sterilized the pad for the next case. The ruffled ridges on every visible part of her rainbow-pigmented body stirred at my grin.
“You’d rather I stomp around like that?” I nodded after the Trytinorn, whose footsteps were still echoing through the facility. My nurse made one of her species’ infamous nonverbal gestures. “I won’t ask what that means.”
“It means you should sing more often.” Ecla’s exquisite features were quite earnest, a sign she was joking.
“My only failing,” I said. It was funny that I did one thing so miserably, and still enjoyed doing it. “My maternal influencer claimed I had a tin ear.”
“You’re humming to yourself all the time these days.”
“I never let the lack of appreciation for my musical ability intimidate me.” I finished making the chart entry and gave her my undivided attention. “Okay, Ecla, stop dancing around and tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Word has it that you and a certain pilot have been seen together,” the Psyoran said. “At least three nights this week.”
Kao Torin and I were the latest sensation. His elusive reputation, combined with the fact I was being very closemouthed, stirred the facility’s staff to torrid speculation. One nurse had asked me if it was true Kao was pregnant with my child.
“I never knew my personal life was so riveting,” I said, purposely bland. “I won’t ruin the suspense by telling you all the details.”
“Thanks a lot!” Ecla’s sarcasm was softened by a delicate laugh. She signaled Assessment. “Next patient, please.”
Dr. Rogan chose that moment to enter the room, carrying an armful of assessment charts. He was ranting at top whine before either of us could say a word.
“Give me the medsysbank,” he demanded. “I’ve got three crisis cases”—he thrust the charts in my face—“so you can handle these. Where the suns is Dr. Mayer?”
I stepped back and indicated the portable unit wordlessly, while Ecla retrieved the stack of charts. From the quantity, Rogan’s contribution to my caseload would probably double the length of my shift. Since one of the medsysbanks was now permanently disabled (Rogan had kicked it once too often and fused the memory hardware a week ago), his emergencies were largely invented.
He wheeled the diagnostic unit out, no word of thanks offered. Not that I expected any.
Nurse Ecla sighed as she sorted out the charts by priority. “Dr. Rogan unloads half his patients on you,” she said. I shrugged. “This bunch will keep you here until moons’ rise.”
“Not a problem.”
I was lying. I did resent Rogan dumping his unwanted cases on me whenever we pulled the same shift. There was simply nothing I could do about it.
If I went to Dr. Mayer, I was convinced he would view any grievance as argumentative and uncooperative. If I refused to take the cases, Assessment backed up and the disgruntled patients were dumped on Dr. Dloh and mu Cheft. Since they had both treated me fairly, I was reluctant to pass the problem along to them. Not to mention that Rogan would relish the chance to tell Mayer if I did.
“He’ll be hiding in the lounge for the rest of the day,” Ecla said, her ruffles bristling. “When was the last time you sat down?”
“I’ll sit later,” I told her as the next patient came in.
The afternoon dwindled down to twilight. My last case was a comical sight: the patient’s densely furred pelt was saturated with some kind of viscous resin that acted as a glue for thousands of tiny purplish leaves. An acrid odor surrounded him, probably from the organic material.
Alun Karas, according to his chart, was a field botanist.
“Good evening, Mr. Karas,” I said as I circled around him to inspect the mess. No surface trauma that I could see. Not that there was a whole lot of surface showing. “Trying to bring work home with you?”
“I was taking root and bark samples,” the patient told me. “One of the resin tappers clogged at the intake, and the reservoir burst while I was working to clear it.” He pawed ineffectually at the sticky mess. “Then I tripped and fell into a pile of gnorra leaves.”
“You certainly did,” I said.
“I’ve got a fresh batch of depilatory spray ready,” Ecla said, and the botanist sneezed before moaning miserably.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said to Karas. “Start an immersion tank, Ecla, with diluted, hair-friendly solvents, please.” The Psyoran still snickered as she left to make the necessary preparations. “Here, climb up on the exam pad for a moment.”
I discovered the smelly, gummy coating of leaves and sap had permeated the outer fur layer. Just like the proverbial Terran tar and feathers, I thought. My smile faded as the scanner began to register. The sap was so dense that it was affecting both body temperature and fluid levels.
“Can you get this stuff off me?” Karas sounded weak. “I can’t breathe.”
Although suffocation was a possibility, due to his pores being sealed, my scanner was telling a different story. He was beginning to pant, and I heard the thickening rattle of congestion behind each breath.
“Did you have an infection before this happened?” I asked, and scanned his lungs.
“Infection?”
“A cough? Cold?”
“No.”
Something was rapidly attacking his pulmonary system, from my readings. No sign of a pathogen, however. “You’re sure? Not even a sniffle?”
The patient began to cough before he could work up a reply. “No.”
“Tell me the name of your species.”
“Chakaran,” was his strangled answer.
I was now reading a rapid buildup of sputum and pleural effusion. To make matters worse, body temperature was starting to spike. I put him on oxygen and cursed under my breath as I rescanned. Still no trace of contagion. All that registered was the organic matter plastered to the outer fur layer.
“The tank is ready, Doctor—” Ecla had returned and halted as she took in the change of situation.
“Seal the room. Now.”
“Quarantine protocols?” she asked.
“No.” I scanned a third time. A fourth. “There’s no bacterial or viral presence. Nothing.” I blew out my breath, then addressed the patient again. “Did you breath in any of this sap?”
“It w-was spraying everywhere—” the Chakaran said. “I might have . . .”
I adjusted the oxygen flow, then deep-scanned his lungs again.
“Aspiration pneumonia?” Ecla asked, echoing my thoughts.
“Possibly.” I bit my lip, unwilling to commit myself. No trace of anaerobic pathogens registered. “Let’s get him into the tank, then we’ll run a complete biodecon on the three of us. Did you come in contact with anyone out there?”
“Dr. Rogan brushed past me, coming out of the lounge. His odor . . .” She curled a brow ridge in disgust. “It made me sneeze. I didn’t touch him otherwise, but . . .” The nurse knew it didn’t matter.
I dashed to the display. Rogan’s treatment room was empty, the lounge was deserted. I signaled the front. Assessment took a moment to report back.
“Dr. Rogan has gone for the day,” the triage nurse said. “Shall I signal him for you, Dr. Grey Veil?”
“Yes. I need to talk to him, imm
ediately.” I turned back to Ecla. “Let’s get Mr. Karas into the tank.”
It took almost an hour to clean the organic matter from the Chakaran’s beautiful golden fur. By the time we were done, he was delirious from fever. Massive infection had set in so fast I was forced to treat his case as potentially life-threatening.
Rogan finally signaled after we had finished the last of our decontamination procedures.
“Doctor, we may have had contact with an unknown contagion here,” I told him, and briefly profiled Karas’s condition. “Ecla was exposed, by casual contact so were you. Where are you?”
“In my quarters, if you must know.” Rogan didn’t sound worried. “What came up on the scanner?”
“Nothing. But the patient developed severe pneumonic symptoms within minutes after reporting to the clinic.”
“If there’s nothing on your scanner, there’s no contagion!” Rogan said.
“I’m not so sure about that.” I resisted the temptation to shout. “Run a full biodecon scan on yourself. Contact anyone you’ve encountered since leaving the FreeClinic and tell them to do the same.”
“I haven’t come in contact with anyone. There’s no reason to run a full bio.”
“Dr. Rogan—”
“You can’t declare a quarantine, there’s no contagion.” Before I could respond, he went on with pompous superiority. “If you’re done playing games, I have better things to do.” The signal terminated, and I stared at the blank screen.
Much as I loathed to admit it, Rogan was right. I couldn’t justify quarantine protocols.
“Ecla,” I said, willing my frayed temper to a faraway place, “I need to make a full report to Dr. Mayer. Check with Assessment, make sure no one came within a hundred feet of Dr. Rogan when he left.” There was little more that I could do. I had the patient removed to an isolation room, and went to see my boss.
“Despite no evidence of bacterial or viral pathogens, you still performed the decontamination procedures? Then you admitted Karas to isolation?” Mayer asked once I’d finished making my verbal report in his office. “Doctor, your emergency appears to be nothing more than the product of an overactive imagination.”
“I’ve followed standard medical procedure,” I replied. “By informing you of this situation, I’ve satisfied proper protocol.” I rose to my feet, but he held up one of his hands. Clever hands, stupid man.
“Sit down, Dr. Grey Veil.” I thumped back into the chair. “Your eagerness to return to duty is commendable.” He made it sound like the exact opposite. “However, I suggest the strain of your duties is taking a serious toll.”
“Are you saying I can’t handle my job?”
“I’m suggesting that is indicated, yes.”
“Tell me something, Dr. Mayer.” It was high time to confront him, or tell him what I thought of him. I opted for the first choice. Less bad words involved. “Why are you doing this?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“No?” I sat forward, locking my gaze on his. “I’m not a complete idiot, you know. You’ve had it in for me from day one. Remember when you threatened me with dismissal for incompetence? Since then, you’ve done nothing but berate my abilities, criticize my work, and condemn my decisions. You told my father you think I’m teetering on the edge of a breakdown. Now you’re implying I’m crazy for taking steps to contain a potential contagion. What’s next? Are you going to have me arrested because you don’t like the way I make chart entries?”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?” His hands clenched, and his skin tone darkened, but I’d gone this far, I thought to myself. Might as well jump all the way into the hole I was digging. “Why would you approve my transfer application—” His eyebrows beetled, and I nodded. “Yes, I found out you had the final endorsement. Why approve it if you thought I was incompetent? What’s the real reason I’m here?”
Mayer sat back, pleased. “Now a persecution complex.” He smiled with a trace of gloating satisfaction. “If these tirades continue, I will recommend PQSGO instigate a complete reevaluation of your contract.”
I didn’t blink. Neither did the chief. “I’ve got the message.” If I hadn’t been sure where I stood with the man before, I was crystal clear now.
“Dr. Grey Veil?” His voice stopped me at the threshold of his office. “Report back to me on the Chakaran patient before your shift ends.”
He was only covering himself in the event I proved to be right, I told myself bitterly. Good boss tactics. “Yes, sir.”
Once the door closed behind me, I had the urge to kick in the plaspanel wall section before me. Mayer knew exactly what buttons to push, and I was reacting like a damned drone.
Duncan Reever chose that moment to show up.
“Do you have some kind of monitor set up out here?” I asked. He shook his head. “No, of course not. Your timing, as always, is perfect.”
“I take that to mean you don’t want me here.”
“Take it anyway you like, Chief Linguist.”
I stalked down the corridor, not surprised when he caught up and joined me. Terran pitt-shepherds were less tenacious. I thought of the stack of charts waiting for me in Trauma, the formal report I still had to compose and file. All to be completed before I could crawl back to my quarters and try to remember why I wanted this dumb job. Reever was just a top note on the whole sour situation.
“Another altercation with Dr. Mayer?” Reever inquired.
“You could call it that.” A thought occurred to me. “Were you listening at the door?”
“It wasn’t necessary. Both of your voices carry quite well.”
I considered this, and kicking him hard, for a moment. By now we had reached Trauma, and I stopped to check in with the charge nurse. Ecla had gone off duty, and T’Nliqinara was waiting for me. So were a dozen patients, two emergency cases, and the latest stack of lab data discs. Dr. mu Cheft had called in; he was going to be late for his shift. Reever hovered until I noticed him again.
“Okay, Chief Linguist, I can give you exactly one minute,” I said as I retrieved my charts. “What do you want?”
“We must confirm tomorrow’s agenda.”
I drew a complete blank. “Tomorrow’s agenda for what?”
“Your community service quota,” he replied. “You are scheduled to work in the Botanical Fields.”
“What has that got to do with you?” As I said this, the specifics of the service data came back to me. I closed my eyes briefly. Just my luck. “Let me guess. You’re scheduled to supervise me.”
“That is correct.”
All new colonists were assigned senior project managers during their first service. The veterans supervised the rookies and insured they didn’t make a mess. I knew I should have picked that construction project. I would have been scheduled with someone more affable, like that Trytinorn patient I’d seen earlier.
“Okay, Chief Linguist.” It was a day for the inevitable. “What do you need to confirm?”
“A time and place to meet in the morning.”
“I’m pulling an extra shift, and I need five hours of sleep to be human.” I doubted five years would do the same for Reever. “Meet me at my quarters, Main Housing Building, West Wing, at Alpha shift commencement.” I turned and headed for my exam room.
“I can request another supervisor for you,” Reever called after me.
“Don’t bother,” I called back. “Someone obviously thinks I deserve this.”
An hour later, I was notified by the inpatient nurse that Alun Karas had descended into a coma. I left Trauma for the ward at a flat run. Time blurred from there as I tried everything I could think of, but the progression of his pneumonic infection, as well as the coma, proved irreversible.
Six hours after my initial treatment, I found myself reporting Alun Karas’s death to Dr. Mayer. I recited the stark facts, and terminated the signal after the chief issued orders for a full autopsy. Once I’d notified Dr. Crhm in Pathology and
requested MedAdmin inform the next of kin, I left the FreeClinic and drove my glidecar home.
I sat behind the controls outside housing for some time before I summoned the energy to drag myself to my quarters. There, for the first time since I’d arrived on planet, I wept.
Unemotional, irritating Duncan Reever quickly added another item to my list of his shortcomings.
He was punctual.
The following morning, my door chime rang precisely at the time I’d specified.
“Wait a minute.”
Grumbling, I dragged myself out of bed and pulled on a faded tunic and trousers. On the way to the door panel, I dialed up my morning tea.
“Be charming,” I told Jenner as I opened the door. He yawned back at me. “Come in, Reever. I’m almost ready.”
The chief linguist walked in. He was similarly clothed in shabby, comfortable garb. As I drank my tea, he examined Jenner with remote interest.
“A domesticated animal?” he asked, but made no effort to touch my cat.
“Uh-huh.” I drained my server.
His Majesty, on the other hand, took an incongruous, instant liking to Reever. He padded over and curled around one of the chief linguist’s ankles. Plaintive yowls for attention began to increase in volume.
“What does it want?”
“His name is Jenner,” I said. “He wants you to pet him.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t you ever—” I recalled his unusual upbringing. “That’s why they’re called pets, Reever. You pet them.” I quickly wound a band around the end of my braid. “Most alien cultures have domesticated animals, don’t they?”
“No. However, there are several species who consume such small mammals as their primary dietary—”
I shuddered. “Never mind. Forget I asked.” I reached down and gave Jenner an affectionate stroking. My cat glared at me—I don’t want you—and continued to implore Reever for attention. The chief linguist just stood there, imitating a tree. I gave up and straightened with a sigh. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Reever’s glidecar waited outside my building. I noted it was a sleek, handsome model much newer than any other I’d seen on K-2.