Tethers

by Sara Reinke

  He needed Doc.

  And Doc was dead.

  The lubricants were leaking throughout the leg, getting into his bloodstream, making him sick. He imagined that eventually enough would leak out to kill him.

  Kat knew something was up, but he was afraid to tell her, of what she would say, what it would do to her. She’d gone through so much already. And she was counting on him now.

  He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what it would feel like to have Kat there in the dark bathroom with him, placing her impossibly cool hands on his face, holding him, comforting.

  “Eric?”

  Eric blinked, opened his eyes. He had imagined hearing Doc’s soft voice, his tone gentle.

  And now he imagined seeing Doc, somehow alive and standing in the bathroom doorway, a silhouette against the backdrop of light from his chamber.

  “Xian,” Eric whispered, holding out his hand, his fingers trembling as he reached for his friend. “Doc…help me…”

  “It’s your leg, isn’t it?” Doc walked toward him. He knelt beside Eric, draping his hands against Eric’s cyborganic leg. Imagined or not, Doc felt real enough to Eric. He looked real, too. He wore a Yankees baseball hat turned around backwards on his head, just like he had by fond habit. His parents were Vietnamese, but Xian had been born in New York—and was damn proud of it.

  “Yes.” Eric nodded. “Yes, please, Xian, it…it hurts…”

  “We’ll fix it.” Doc smiled at him kindly.

  “Please…” Eric said to him.

  “Shhh…” Doc whispered, soothingly, putting his finger over Eric’s lips. “Don’t be scared, Eric.”

  Doc held a syringe. Eric could see the warm light from the bedroom wink off the needle. He cowered, but Doc caught his shoulder.

  “It’s okay.” Doc leaned forward. Eric could see his face now, and the canvas brim of the cap. Doc was smiling at him. “This will make you feel better.”

  “No.” Eric tried to pull away.

  Doc unbuttoned the cuff of Eric’s sleeve and began to push the material back toward his elbow.

  “No,” Eric said again. “Xian, don’t—”

  Doc reached over and gripped Eric’s left knee, his fingers pinching down hard. The pain was immeasurable. Eric cried out. He tried to shove Doc’s hand away from his leg. His head rolled back, hitting the wall.

  His brain swam from the pain. It felt like a wave broke gently across his mind and began to pull him back in its undertow. Semiconscious, he slumped sideways. Doc seized him by his hair and held the needle up in front of his face. The sliver of metal seemed to blaze with reflected light.

  “Do you want it?” Doc’s fist twisted, pulling harder, forcing Eric’s head back. “Do you? Is this what you want?”

  “No!” Eric knew what was in the hypodermic, and he knew that he did want it. He wanted it desperately. His leg was on fire.

  The needle slipped out of his line of sight and suddenly Doc’s hand crushed against his biomechanical leg again. Eric screamed in pain.

  “You know you want it,” Doc told him. “Say it. Say it, Eric. It will make the pain go away.”

  Eric stared at the syringe full of morphine. It was lustrous, beautiful.

  “Do you want it?” Doc whispered in his ear, his breath hot against the side of Eric’s throat. “Tell me, Eric. Say it.”

  “Yes.” Eric nodded. “Yes, yes, I want it…”

  He watched as Doc jerked something from his pocket, a strip of rubber tubing. He tied this around Eric’s arm, and Eric watched, semi-lucid, as Doc tapped his fingertips against the inside of Eric’s elbow. It’s like he knows what he’s doing, Eric thought, dazed. How do you know about this, Xian?

  Doc slid the needle into his arm. It burned when he pulled it back. Eric felt the morphine rush through his body and slam into his brain. He moaned. His eyes rolled back and fluttered closed. He could feel Doc letting him go, easing him sideways, laying him against the floor.

  The morphine was warm and kind and good.

  “That’s it.” Doc chuckled quietly. “Take it, boy. Take your medicine.”

  You’re not Doc, Eric tried to say, but it had been so long since he’d had a morphine rush and it felt so good. His body had been starved for the needle, emaciated without the drug.

  ***

  When he finally came back around, he was lying in his bed again.

  Again? Eric thought. Or still?

  He groaned and rolled onto his side. His leg ached vaguely, like a pulled muscle, but he wasn’t in debilitating misery, like he had been when they’d gotten back to the compound. He straightened his leg out carefully, expecting pain, but again there was nothing serious.

  He was incredibly thirsty. His mouth was dry and tasted foul, like he’d eaten a shit sundae or something before going out for the count. He sat up, swinging his legs around until his boots hit the floor. His head swam momentarily.

  He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. He was still pretty sore from the crash landing in the shuttle, but felt pretty good other than that. He remembered he had felt wretched after they’d retrieved the Daedalus’ black box.

  Must have been the heat, he thought. Didn’t Jerica say it was close to ninety degrees out there?

  He glanced over at the bathroom door. It was open, a black hole looking out at him. The dream about Doc was still very much fresh in his mind. It was a dream…wasn’t it?

  Eric glanced down at his arms, but both of the sleeves of his jumpsuit were cuffed neatly at his wrists.

  He dreamed about shooting up a lot. He didn’t seem able to stop himself in his dreams. He had hated being a morphine junkie, but he had liked how it made him feel. It had helped him forget about the thing he had become because of his leg. Half a man. I am half a man.

  He walked over to the sink and looked in the mirror. Once upon a time, he had been the best pilot in the Stellar Corps. He’d flown Sovereign fighter craft. It had been the greatest thrill he’d ever known.

  Morphine wasn’t as good a high, but it had served its purpose.

  He turned on the cold water and cupped his hands under the stream, slurping greedily. It only seemed to make him more thirsty, so he abandoned his room for the kitchen. Here, he filled the largest cup he could find with water and stood over the sink, gulping it down. It dribbled down his chin and he wiped at it with the back of his hand.

  “Thirsty?”

  Startled, he looked over his shoulder just as Kat walked in, still looking at him in that cautious, concerned way.

  “Yeah.” He laughed. “I was parched.”

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “I feel fine,” he said. “Had to take a good, long nap. I think the heat got to me.”

  She smiled at him. Even when she looked exhausted, like she did now, he found her lovely.

  She came over and stood close to him. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If something was wrong, I mean.”

  “Yes,” he lied. He touched her hair, ran his fingers along the curve of her cheek. She was beautiful, but her face was cast in a shadow of sorrow that broke his heart. I can’t, Kat. You’ve already been through too much.

  She turned her face toward his palm, the corners of her mouth lifting into a fragile, nearly imperceptible smile. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Trying to act like…I don’t know,” she said. “I keep pushing it away. I keep thinking this is all some terrible dream, and any moment now, I’ll wake up.”

  She leaned forward, resting her cheek against his chest. He slipped his arm around her narrow waist. He liked feeling her body close to his, feeling her dim heat and the firm pressure of her breasts against his sternum.

  “I keep dreaming about Alex,” Kat murmured.

  “I know.” He could smell the faint, clean scent of her hair. “I wish I could take it back for you, Kat.”

  “I don’t even miss him yet,” she said softly. “I don’t think I really know he’
s dead. I’m afraid to see the tracks from the Daedalus. I think it will hit me then, that this is real. He’s really gone, and I…”

  Her voice broke off. She had her head down, and he couldn’t see her face, but he felt her shoulders tremble against him and knew she was crying.

  “Kat,” he said, holding her close. He touched her soft, blonde hair.

  “I can’t do this.” It was the first time in a long time he’d seen her near anything resembling a breaking point, when she let her cool, controlling façade crumble. This sudden and uncharacteristic frailty, the child-like fear and anguish in her voice pained him. “I can’t…!”

  “Yes, you can.” She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and tear-filled. He watched as one fat tear rolled slowly down her cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb. “We all can.”

  She leaned forward, rising on the tips of her toes. She kissed him, her full, closed lips pressed against his briefly, like a dream, and her hand came up and caressed the side of his face.

  And then she was gone, pulling away from him, leaving him startled and dumbfounded.

  She wiped her eyes daintily with her fingers, the way a woman will when she is trying to save her mascara from smearing. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if something’d happened to you, too, Eric.” She sniffled and laughed, a quick, shrill sound. “You’re always taking care of me, aren’t you?”

  “Well, you’re always running around doing stupid shit,” he said, making her laugh. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t mind doing whatever he could for her. More than a member of the crew, and more than just a friend, over the years, Kat had made Eric feel like he mattered again somehow, like he was part of her family.

  After he’d lost his leg…after the media circus surrounding him had died down, he’d been left with nothing. The people he’d called friends before the crash had seemed different to him, distant somehow, and even his family had handled him with kid gloves. Everything had changed and he had felt so alone, a part of nothing. The morphine had been an escape from that isolation. He probably never would have stayed clean for as long as he had if it hadn’t been for Kat and Jerica, their faith in him. Their love, he thought. You’ve taken care of me more than you’ll ever know, Kat. And that’s why I can’t tell you about my leg.

  “Hey, Kat.” Frank’s voice, sounding hollow and alien, came over the compound’s intercom system, startling them. “I think Jerica’s got this drive hooked up to the main computer here. We should be able to access the Daedalus’ records now.”

  “I’m coming, Frank.” Kat looked at Eric. “Why don’t you tag along, too? Jerica’ll want to show off how she fixed the computers.”

  “She and Frank are friends, now?” he asked, mildly surprised. Jerica had told him once aboard the Daedalus that she hadn’t liked Frank.

  “He tries too hard to make people like him,” she’d said, her beautiful little face dour and almost stern.

  “I guess so.” Kat shrugged. “It was only a matter of time, I guess, no matter what. They’ve been talking shop, like she and Doc used to. Something about string theories.”

  “String theories?”

  “I have no idea, either,” Kat assured him. “I didn’t realize Frank was so smart.”

  Eric watched her lips, trying to remember exactly what it had felt like when she’d kissed him.

  “You see something green?” Kat smirked, slapping playfully at him. “Come on. What else have you got going on? A hot date?”

  He started to follow her and suddenly he felt dizzy and disoriented. He stumbled, bringing his hand up to his forehead, groaning.

  “Eric, what’s wrong?” Kathryn asked. She looked frightened.

  “Just got a little dizzy for a second.” The vertigo had passed, but he still felt a light-headed. Like after a morphine trip, he thought, remembering his strange dream.

  “It’s this proximity to you,” he told Kat, winking. He managed a smile, not wanting to worry her any further. “You just have that effect on me.”

  “Jesus, you’re full of shit.” Kat smiled, buying his act. “Come on.”

  Chapter Nine

  On their way to the control room, Eric made a detour by the infirmary. “I’ll be right there,” he said to Kat. “I just need to get some more aspirin.”

  He opened the small metal cabinet where Jerica had found aspirin earlier for him and abruptly drew his hand away as if the door had bitten him. The aspirin was gone, and the cabinet had been rearranged. The shelves were now lined with rows of little glass vials. Eric didn’t have to read the labels to know what was in each.

  Morphine.

  Jesus there must be over a hundred bottles here, he thought.

  Over a hundred hits.

  He took a step away from the cabinet, but stared, transfixed, at the small vials. He could feel his body craving it, a strange, insistent pang. His mouth felt dry again.

  His hand inadvertently traveled to his right elbow. He was a southpaw; he’d always shot up on his right side. The flesh at the delta of his elbow joint felt sensitive and sore to the touch.

  If I took just a couple, no one would ever notice, a part of his mind whispered. No one would know and if—when—the pain in my leg gets too bad, I can just hit a little…just enough to make the pain stop…

  “No.” He slammed the cabinet door shut and shoved the heels of his hands over his eyes. “No, goddammit, no.”

  He had worked so hard to get clean. He had been weaned off morphine; his doctors had administered slowly diminishing doses to him for nearly eight months, and in many ways, he still believed that was even worse than had he just gone cold turkey. His body hadn’t been fooled, not for one minute. He had gone to a private rehabilitation clinic and sat through countless feel-good, bullshit group therapy sessions. Nothing helped. The shit the doctors gave him had only teased him, and made him crave the drug even more.

  And you know the pain is going to get bad, that little voice in his mind whispered. You know what’s happening to you…those greases and oils are going to rot your leg from the inside out. You know it’s going to be hell.

  Eric ran his hands through his hair. He looked at the cabinet, uncertain. The pain from his leg would only get worse, he was sure about that. Eventually it would get as agonizing as it had been when he’d first woken up from his almost twelve-month coma. He remembered clearly, as if it had just happened yesterday.

  There had been no one in the room with him. The first thing he remembered seeing was all of the tubes draping down around him; intravenous feeding tubes, catheter tubes, dialysis tubes, tubes for the mask that breathed cool, distilled, oxygenated air directly against his mouth and nose.

  He couldn’t remember anything. He didn’t know what had happened to him. The sight of all of those tubes, and the whistling, clicking, clattering, wheezing sounds of all of his life-support equipment had terrified him, panicked him.

  He’d begun to struggle. An IV running into his hand ripped free, hurting, and some kind of thick, clear liquid began splashing around. It spurted onto his face, and Eric hadn’t been able to move his arms to wipe it off.

  And then he felt the indescribable, unbelievably excruciating pain in his left leg. It felt like someone had driven a metal stake from his heel clear up to his hip—which, he supposed, they had.

  Eric had screamed.

  People rushed in, doctors and nurses, all in starched white and baby blue costumes. They held his body still, forcing his wrists and ankles into tight restraining straps. They stuck him with needles and poked at him, prodded. They shouted and yelled at him.

  “Eric, can you hear me?”

  “Eric, can you feel this?”

  “Eric, does this hurt?”

  And then they touched him, moved his leg, and it hurt. He screamed and nearly blacked out from the pain.

  There had been one doctor, a man with glasses and large, compassionate eyes who leaned over and comforted him.

  Get away, Mike, can’t you see he’s fright
ened? Get away from him all of you…Eric…? Eric, I’m Mitch Taylor. I’m a doctor, Eric. You don’t need to be frightened. It’s okay. You’re safe now…

  His hands had been warm and kind against Eric’s face, soothing.

  “…my leg…hurts…” Eric had groaned, not realizing that these would be the first words he’d spoken in almost a year, and that they would be smeared across the front of every newspaper, magazine and web engine in the country by the time the sun rose that morning.

  I know, I know it hurts, Eric, I’m sorry. I want to help you. You don’t need to be afraid. Do you know what’s happened to you?

  From the background, behind Dr. Taylor: For Christ’s sake, I don’t care if it’s three in the morning, go call his goddamn family…!

  Eric touched his leg absently, staring at the metal cabinet in the compound, remembering Dr. Taylor. He had been a decent man, a good doctor. He had honestly thought he was doing the right thing when he had given Eric his cyborg leg. And, considering the alternatives, maybe he had. But the pain had been very, very bad.

  Eric, you crashed your fighter…do you remember? That was almost a year ago…you’ve been in a coma, asleep, for a year…

  He had heard Dr. Taylor trying to explain what had happened to him, but it hadn’t sunk in, and wouldn’t for a long time. He would have no clear, precise concept of what had happened to him for another three months.

  All he had been aware of was the searing agony in his leg. He had struggled against the wrist restraints, pulling with all of his strength, fighting to free his hands. All he could think to do was claw his leg off, to make the pain go away.

  And that is what it’s going to be like again, only this time there’ll be no good doctor to help you…this time you have to help yourself.

  Eric opened the cabinet and stared at the morphine.

  He’d always been told that the brain forgot pain. It would remember where there had been pain, but not the actual, physical sensation of it pain. Eric remembered. Eric had not forgotten what it had felt like when he woke up in the hospital.