By now, Derek had taken Dr. Ives's earlier advice. He was sitting down. Brenna braced herself against the com terminal desk, staring at her cousin's figure on the screen.
Well, we asked for it. And Helen is letting us have it. All the bad news we dreaded. And worse.
"Three: His appearance will be greatly altered, even after reconstructive surgery is complete—as you can already tell. Syntha skin is saving his life. But it's only a fair substitute at best. His freedom of movement will always be severely restricted from now on. His coloring won't vary much with his mood or internal temperature, even though syntha skin accepts some capillary channels. It's a comparatively poor temperature regulator, unlike real skin. We'll have to protect him against hypo- and hyperthermia. The slightest infection could, frankly, cook him."
Brenna was hypnotized by the image on the screen and by Helen's brutal recital of facts.
"Four: His musculature is wrecked. The new energies produced a different kind of fire—and burn trauma—than any we've previously dealt with. Morgan will have to wear lattice casts on his arms and legs. The balance is delicate. Too much exertion, as in rehab conditioning, could exhaust him critically, even kill him. So will inactivity; he'll simply wither away. For those reasons, we want to move him Mars-side as soon as possible, even if it's risky. Zero gravity is easier on him—too easy. The longer Morgan stays in free fall, the harder it'll be for him to adjust to planetary gravity, and the greater the chances of crippling atrophy. We're going to move him in about a week, if he's up to it. That's rushing it. But we can't wait. His movement and cardiovascular functions are already deteriorating. With luck, eventually we'll be able to move him to a specially equipped mini-hospital out at his estate on Valles Marineris, where he'll feel more at home."
Helen hesitated before going on. "Five: He's been more or less neutered by the burns." Derek flinched, and Dr. Ives eyed him compassionately for a moment, then continued. "Reproductively, that doesn't much matter. He's in the cryogenic pool, like everyone else is. If Morgan wants to father children sometime in the future, he can, since his sperm are on file. As far as urogenital function goes, we're reconstructing. There's an outside possibility he'll regain some erective power, but very doubtful that he'll ever have the strength to engage in a sexual act. Nor, probably, the inclination."
Another long hesitation. Instinct warned Brenna to give up her perch on the desk. She lowered herself to the floor and sat looking up at the doctor. Helen Ives's hand was closed into a fist. She didn't bother adding a finger on the other hand or counting anymore. "He's blind." Brenna opened her mouth. Nothing came out. "I assure you, he won't look hideous, and he will see," Dr. Ives said very gently. "When the surgeons are done, Morgan's eyes will appear pretty much as before. They'll be computerized prostheses directly linked to the visual centers of his brain. This won't give him the kind of vision he's known, but it's a useful form of sight. A great many people have been fitted with these opti-scan eyes. They're a marvel. In some ways, more versatile. Morgan will be able to detect thermal changes at considerable distances, for example."
The doctor tried to make that sound like an advantage. But her phenomenal calm was faltering. She bowed her head, clenching her fists until her knuckles whitened. She had been on this case since it began, in shattering failure. Brenna doubted the woman had enjoyed more than a few hours' sleep in each twenty-four-hour period since then.
Time ran backward. Colony Days. The gala. Morgan running down the ramp from the rotunda to greet Brenna and Derek. He would pick her up in his powerful arms and swing her around playfully, the way he had since they were kids and he started to get his full growth. Morgan and Derek would tease each other, Derek ribbing Morgan about the latest in his long string of romances. Morgan grinning and throwing back a ribald crack in return. Confident. Laughing. A sandy-haired bear. Sexy. Top pilot. Getting ready to ride Prototype II on her historic trip out to the edge of a real space and beyond...
Never again.
There were handicapped pilots. Brenna had close friends among that admirable club, men and women who kept on flying spacecraft, and flying well, after losing an arm or a leg or even an eye. None of them, however, had ever fought back from the terrible injuries Dr. Ives had just described. Sterility and impotence were cruel sentences for a man as vital as Morgan McKelvey; but for a pilot, the other changes were insurmountable. Skin that wouldn't bend or stretch or cope well with cold or heat. Severe muscle atrophy. Impaired voice function. Artificial hands and fingers. Blindness...
Too many check marks against him. Morgan McKelvey would never handle a ship's controls again. He wouldn't speak in his former voice, wouldn't see people as they actually were. He would walk with difficulty, if at all. No more dancing or those awesome low-gravity leaps. No more enjoying his strong body and the sheer delight of being alive, young, and healthy. Instead, there would be stera-gel and watchdog medical attendants, physical therapy to make his ruined muscles and bones retain a small fraction of their former abilities. As for Morgan's much-envied reputation as a lover, that was a sweet memory. Even if he could touch Jutta or Pauline or any of the dozens of other women who had shared joy with him, sensation would be missing, blocked out by syntha skin and destroyed nerve endings. Pain and pleasure—forever gone.
A violent sound tore Brenna out of her trance. Derek lunged at the bulkhead and slammed his fists into the wall. Instantly, both women grappled with him. Derek was strong enough to throw them off, but his wild rage evaporated as quickly as it had seized him. He didn't resist when they led him a few steps away. He gulped, fighting horror. "Oh, God! He'd rather be dead than this!"
"That's not so!" Brenna heard her own denial with astonishment. With odd detachment, she turned the words over in her mind, examining them. "No, Morgan would not rather be dead, Derek. Think about it."
Derek's fingers bit hard into her flesh as he cried, "Didn't you hear? He's been wrecked. He's not fully human anymore.
He'll be a cyborg of the worst kind, an artificial shell, a thing, trapped inside a useless body..."
"So you're going to give up on him. Is that it?" Brenna ignored the hurt he was inflicting. She hurt him, in return, with that accusation. Derek's eyes widened. Brenna eased away from his punishing grip, massaging her bruised upper arms. "Who the hell gave you the right to pass judgment and write Morgan off like this? He'd never do that to you, or to me, and you damned well know it! His body may be hurt, but what about his brain? That's the real Morgan. Helen?"
"No, his EEG and cerebral scans are tops. He'll do fine, even after the opti-scan prostheses are implanted."
Derek swayed a trifle, visibly struggling with himself. Brenna was furious with his lack of faith in Morgan. But she also understood part of his reaction. Slowly, he reached out to her. Brenna didn't move away. Derek caressed her shoulder and face. His eyes were as gentle as his touch. "I... I'm sorry. So sorry. I didn't mean to ... didn't ... it was just hearing it all at once..."
Helen Ives could have told him he had asked for it. She didn't. "It is a shock. But don't forget that Morgan's a hell of a fighter. He's proved it time and again, double-crossing every prediction in the medical tapes. He deserves support, if only for his courage."
"Of course," Derek murmured. His expression showed his misery. "I'm sorry," he repeated, blushing. "I guess I just went crazy for a moment. It was as if it had been me who'd been hurt. I started imagining how I'd feel when I found out..."
Brenna and the doctor nodded, letting him know they accepted his point of view. Hiber-Ship crew members were all prime physical and mental specimens. No weaklings need apply. Derek himself had always been disgustingly healthy. All of his co-workers—fellow colonist volunteers—were, too. He took it for granted, emotionally, that his contemporaries would always be in that league—fit, intelligent, highly trained, and self-sufficient. Quite suddenly, his best friend didn't qualify anymore. The intelligence was unaltered. Everything else was affected by the gruesome aftereffects of the burns. Derek
wasn't coping well with the change. A bias, one that made him squirm, but one he couldn't shake off.
Brenna's anger was gone. She hugged Derek. "I know. It's okay. We'll be okay. You'll see."
"Let me have a look at your hands," Dr. Ives ordered. Subdued, Derek obeyed. Helen probed, tapping his fingertips. "Nothing seems broken. But you'll have some impressive bruises. Blonds show off broken capillaries so well." She went into the cabin's refresher and fetched an aid kit, then deftly applied spray bandage to the scraped knuckles. "I'll take a bone and tendon scan tomorrow. But I can practically guarantee there's no real damage."
Derek's outburst had distracted Brenna from other problems. Now that he had quieted down, she remembered one of them. Worriedly, she asked, "Have you told my father yet—about Morgan?"
"I'll have to. As soon as I leave here." Helen wasn't looking forward to breaking that news. "I'll soften it as much as possible. As for you two, what you need is sleep, and a lot of it. You've been running yourselves down to the bare circuitry, and it's costing you. Do you cooperate? Or do I send for sedatives? Remember, this is a hospital, and a medic's word is law up here."
Chastened, Derek nodded. "That ... that won't be necessary. I don't know what took over my skull earlier."
"Human decency and caring. Don't blame yourself for it." Dr. Ives tossed the kit back into the refresher, then punched cancel on the monitor, nodding in satisfaction when the screen blacked out. "And don't watch that anymore. Morgan's the med department's responsibility for the present. Let us do the worrying. He doesn't need you to flog yourselves for his sake."
"What does he need from us?" Brenna asked.
"Love, when he's awake enough to know you're there. That will be sooner than you expect. His hearing's only slightly affected, thank God. He'll need your help recuperating from emotional trauma. There's plenty. Your support will be crucial. We'll let you know when."
After Helen had left, Brenna tried to recall what she had been doing before the doctor handed them that dismaying update. Derek. He'd just arrived at W.L.F. Space Hospital. A long, non-stop, throttles-wide-open journey. She hadn't even asked him if he'd eaten or had a room at the visitors' quarters. She did so now. Derek stared numbly. "I ought to go to ICU..."
"Uh-uh. You heard the doctor. She's right." Brenna interrupted herself with a huge yawn. "We are running down to the bare wires. Let's recoup. It's only sensible. Grab a shower and come to bed." Derek shuffled toward the refresher, moving like a robot. That was the clincher, proving Dr. Ives's case.
Brenna posted the Disturb Only for Emergencies panel on the ident screen outside and sealed the door. When Derek emerged from the shower, she pushed him into the narrow bunk and crawled in beside him. Ordinarily, that cozy arrangement would have led to a happy tussle and some sex. Not this time. Their passion was burned out by exhaustion, spent in grief, not sexuality. They cuddled like children afraid of monsters in the dark.
Yet Derek fought sleep. He tensed, then relaxed many times, resisting possible nightmares. Brenna held him tight and murmured. The meaningless sounds were designed to soothe her as well as Derek. Gradually, his breathing became deep and regular, broken only occasionally by a whimper. In the night screen's pale glow, Brenna studied his face, now completely open and vulnerable. He looks like a boy, despite his beard. So does Morgan, when he's asleep. Correction: So did Morgan. We don't know what Morgan will look like after the surgeons get through with him. At least he'll have a future. He's going to live. Finally, she gave up all thought, sinking into emptiness.
There must have been dreams. But she had no memory of them when she awoke. Brenna squinted at the timekeeper on the night screen. Nine hours! Nine hours of precious nothingness. It felt so good. Dr. Ives had been right. The grinding depression of yesterday had disappeared. Mind and body felt wonderfully restored after that enforced shutdown. Maybe she could cope with the mountains of problems that would lie ahead in the next weeks and months.
Brenna catnapped for another hour or so until Derek began to stir. He always woke up bright-eyed and alert, an ability Brenna sometimes resented. This time she enjoyed watching the process from the beginning. The awful fatigue had been wiped off his face. He smiled, and Brenna returned it along with a sly invitation. She was vaguely aware of a lingering soreness in her upper arms where Derek had bruised her. But that wasn't important. Much more intense sensations overrode anything so minor.
She could recall no previous time when sex had occurred so easily and quickly for them. After years of intimacy, they knew each other's moods and desires well. One moment they were gazing seductively at one another. In the next they were drowning in sexual delight, a marathon in which both of them won.
The minutes were idyllic, and too short. Brenna wanted to prolong the pleasure. Delicious aftershocks were still making her shiver as she lay beside Derek. His smile had turned into a smug, contented grin. Reluctantly, then, Brenna noticed a light winking on the screen. Messages. More discreet than a human knocking on the door, but just as persistent.
The outside world was waiting. It never went away.
What had she told Yuri and the others? Pick up the pieces. Time to do that, and so much else.
With a heartfelt sigh, Brenna rolled away from Derek and stood up. He caught her hand, holding on. Brenna wanted very much to yield to that temptation. But the chance was lost. The outside world was intruding on his consciousness, too, clouding his bright eyes. Duty called Captain Derek Whitcomb.
. . I'm in trouble with my employers. I don't yet know how much..."
The lovely respite was over.
They rushed through getting ready. Saunder Enterprises Security brought Derek's spare clothes kit up from his ship. Brenna showered. They gobbled breakfast and were off and running—again.
Derek finally had to break his communications silence and check in with Hiber-Ship Corporation. They knew where he was, of course. They'd been tracking him all the way, via their Space Fleet connections. Nevertheless, when he came on the com and reported, the execs screamed, long and loud. After they quit yelling, they decided to call Derek's rebellion a "compassionate leave." Many of those execs, such as Yan Bolotin, were former space pilots themselves. They understood Derek's motivations and forgave the breach of corporate discipline.
Todd Saunder welcomed Derek's presence in their circle. Brenna guessed that was in part because he had known Derek since he was a boy. It gave the illusion that another member of the family had joined their vigil. Derek provided an emotional boost that paid off in actions. Bit by bit, Todd Saunder took up his normal routine where he had dropped it so abruptly when he first heard the news.
When Morgan was conscious, Dr. Ives, true to her promise, let his loved ones into the monitoring room. The medics had been explaining the situation to Morgan for some time, strangers, taking the worst brunt of a patient's understandable anger and helpless fear. Brenna, Derek, and Todd Saunder bobbed at the safety railing outside the ICU, watching through the window. Dr. Ives had been breaking some of the news to Morgan as other doctors checked on Morgan's bio-cerebral interface readings, alert to any indications this horrible revelation would send the patient into deep shock. The readings dipped and wavered but never dropped precipitously. The doctors seemed amazed Morgan was adjusting so well.
It was time for Morgan's family and friends to try communicating with him, if they could. Todd's voice broke. "Morgan? It's Uncle Todd. Everybody's here but Dian, and she'll be here very soon. It's going to get better. You've got the best doctors in the Solar System, son. The very best..."
Hastily, Derek took over the mike, sparing the old man further painful effort. "Tumaini's right next door to you, Morgan. Griping like hell, half of it in Mwera. The docs are going to give him a ride planetside tomorrow. Maybe that will shut him up! He'll save you a cushy room down there. We'll all be heading to Mars before you know it..."
Brenna noticed Derek wasn't looking through the window. He spoke cheerily but avoided the sight within ICU. His h
ang-up. He cared so much it hurt him, yet looking at Morgan —Morgan grossly different from what he had been—was more than Derek could take.
The doctors reported that Morgan's hearing was a little distorted. His outer ears weren't rebuilt completely. Hearing, though, was his only contact with the world. His destroyed eyes were covered with medication. Breathing apparatus protruded from a hole in his throat. The lattice casts Dr. Ives had referred to kept his arms and legs straight, and Morgan immobile. Trapped—inside his brain.
Brenna took the mike from Derek. "You heard all that? Straight stuff, partner. Helen's going to pull you out of that glorified bathtub as soon as she can. When she does, the gold-bricking's over. For right now, you concentrate on getting well. I'll take care of everything until you're back on your feet."
Brenna wasn't sure Morgan had heard them. Then, with painstaking effort, he rolled his head along the stera-gel, turning slightly toward the audio monitor within his tank. He nodded, a barely detectable motion, but as plain as a shout to Brenna. He had heard! That feeble movement was Morgan's equivalent of a defiant yell and a thumbs-up. From where was he getting the strength? From where he always got it. A McKelvey was hard to kill! Morgan had lost consciousness while he was in excruciating pain but still a whole man. He was waking up to living hell—blind, mute, crippled, struggling for every breath of air. But he was struggling, not rolling over and giving up. Believing in what the doctors told him, what Brenna had promised him.
"... you concentrate on getting well..."
But would Morgan ever get well? Very doubtful. He would probably depend on Brenna and the medics for the rest of his life.
"... I'll take care of everything..."
She had promised. Somehow, she would deliver. She glanced sidelong at her father, remembering Todd Saunder's pet slogan: "There are no simple answers. But there are answers. The trick is to find them." She had heard that for years. Maybe it had soaked in until she really believed it. She would find the answers for Morgan, just as her father had found the Vahnaj messenger vehicle more than thirty years ago.
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