Mindline

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  "That's how it usually goes," she said. "Patients failing to follow instructions. It only helps a little to realize how often we do it when we're on the other side of the table..." She shook her head. "Anyway, go ahead and change for the session. We'll keep it mild today, or you'll burn up all the calories she's going to make you eat."

  "I cannot imagine eating more," he murmured. Mostly because he couldn't imagine eating, with the schedule he was keeping.

  "You'd better," was all Aralyn said, and Paga agreed.

  Now hobbled with a bracelet Gillespie had sworn would force him to eat at the right intervals, Jahir reported to work and found it hectic.

  "You're starting on triage today, if that's all right," Radimir said as the Eldritch washed his hands. "And we got another unresponsive overnight, we'll want to keep an eye on her. Asanii, though, not human."

  "Same presentation?"

  The Harat-Shar snorted. "Once they're comatose, alet, they all present alike." He shook himself. "But yes, same results on the tests. Damned strange, if you ask me. Two within a week? Kajentaral knows what that bodes."

  "Perhaps the cases are related," Jahir mused.

  "Maybe, but you know what they say about Texas."

  "Ah?" Jahir looked up, perplexed. "About... what?"

  "Texas," the pardine said. "As in 'if you hear hoofbeats, it's probably horses, not zebras.' Something we tell interns when they're eager to diagnose patients with exotic diseases because they've had their noses in textbooks for four years." He paused, then added, "No idea about the Texas part. Except that I think it's on Earth, and it must have a lot of horses."

  Jahir hid a smile. "I imagine. I go, alet."

  "Yes, you do."

  From the moment Jahir stepped into the triage room, he was swamped. By law he wasn't allowed to make any triage decisions, lacking the training, but he knew from the harried looks on the faces of everyone involved that they sorely wished they could put him to work doing in-take in a separate room. He did what he could to spare Maya, filling out the forms for incoming as she worked up the patient currently in the room. The pace was far more hectic than he liked, but he put himself forth on behalf of the patients, trying to soothe them before handing them off.

  He was comforting a distraught Seersa who couldn't draw in a full breath without coughing up blood when his bracelet started vibrating and emitted a high-pitched chirp. The patient flattened her ears, staring at it. "What was that?"

  "My keeper," he said, rueful. Since the Seersa seemed interested—and anything that kept her attention off her condition was to be encouraged—he said, "The gravity here is too strong for me. I am supposed to eat more often."

  "Oh!" she said. "I've had some experience with that. My kids when they had growth spurts—"

  He listened, attentive, until he could pass her on to Maya, then said, "I have to pause for a few minutes."

  "Go on."

  The genie gave him some sort of blended fruit and yogurt drink that he obediently sat on a chair and drank. It was hard to relax, knowing how much work he had left to do, and harder still to choke down the entirety of the cup, given how dense it was. It was one thing to need the calories; another to have a stomach prepared to deal with them after a lifetime of lighter meals. He did his best, left the rest behind, and returned to the chaos.

  Four hours later, he relinquished triage to Paige and went to do rounds on the admitted patients. The usual collection of accidents, sudden acute crises and victims of violence. He'd always thought of the Alliance as a polity at peace, and for the most part it was; from his reading, there were no civil wars, no major conflicts. The borders were subject to pirate activity, but the Core was far from the border, and Selnor itself was one of the best protected systems in the entire Alliance. But that there was a sufficiency of petty violence had surprised him, even knowing that it was unavoidable in a city the size of Heliocentrus. Even his own people had such problems, and they were far, far fewer in number.

  The unresponsive Asanii was in the last bed on the row. He stopped beside her and ran a hand over the air near her face; as with the human, he couldn't sense her aura without bringing his fingers close enough to brush one of her ears, had he been inclined. In all ways he could discern, she had the exact same mental profile as the male who'd preceded her a few days ago. Were all unresponsive patients so? Or was this a quality specific to these two, one that might suggest the cause of their unfortunate state?

  He wondered.

  His bracelet dragged him to the genie one more time during his shift, and he did his best with the second concoction. Paige found him in the break room with it and lifted her brows. "Yum, yum, appetizing?"

  "I suppose it might be, if I was accustomed to consuming half a day's calories in one meal," Jahir said. "As it is, I find it rather overwhelming."

  She poured a cup of coffee into a mug emblazoned with Mercy's emblem—a dove beneath the sickle moon and stars of the Alliance's flag, reversed to symbolize the winter capital—and said, "Here. Cut the fat a bit with a stimulant."

  He eyed the mug. "I have to imagine that would only make my metabolism more voracious."

  "Probably," she said. "But are you going to get through that shake without it?"

  Jahir took a draught of the coffee and was glad of it, if only because it was liquid and hot and thin.

  Paige sat across from him with her cup. "Radimir's got my back right now," she said. "What a mess it is today." She shook her head. "Must be something in the air."

  "Storms come," Jahir murmured. "They pass again."

  "Things have a rhythm," she said. She studied him. "So, how are you liking it so far?"

  "Working the section?"

  "Working at Mercy."

  He paused, then said, "I think one week is too short to tell."

  "Particularly while fighting the planet?" She smiled. "Fair enough. But tell us if things get hard. New people usually hit a bump in the first two weeks. If they can get past it, they're fine. So let us help, all right?"

  The constant offers of aid were beginning to concern him. Was turnover so high that the community felt compelled to prevent it so aggressively? "I shall let you know."

  "Good," Paige said. "It doesn't have to be me. It can be anyone, as long as you have somewhere to turn."

  The rest of his shift blew by so quickly he barely remembered anything that happened, and yet when it was over he was as mentally exhausted as he was physically. He made the trip to Mercy's roof despite his fatigue because he needed it more than he needed food or sleep: the chance to be isolate, to let the warm wind blow his thoughts clean. Once there, the city receded from a hectic mélange of noises, faces and fears to a distant net of lights, spangling the city's many towers as they rose, black silhouettes against a sky a deep cobalt blue. It gave him the opportunity to step back and breathe—carefully, but deeply—and find the remove he needed to work without involvement.

  It was not the same as having somewhere to turn, though. As he put his back to the city lights, he felt the lack of balance painfully. The exhaustion that closed in on him as he made his way to his apartment preyed on him precisely because he had no life outside his work. And yet, until he was healthier, he couldn't imagine how he might access anything else.

  He let himself into his room and sat on the couch, knowing full well that if he didn't rise he would fall asleep on it again. He was contemplating the wisdom of forcing himself to retire to the bed when the door chime sounded. A delivery? Someone from the hospital perhaps. God and Lady knew; he didn't remember telling anyone where he lived, but the way the hospital community worked someone might have followed him home one day just to have the information to communicate to everyone else.

  Weary, he pushed himself upright. The Alliance's doors could open themselves on voice command, but he had never broken the habit of going himself. "Open," he said, propping himself up with a hand on the jamb.

  The door opened, allowing a swirl of warm air into the room, and there across fr
om him was Vasiht'h. For a heartbeat—very close to the longest heartbeat Jahir could recall—he stared blankly at his friend, who was supposed to be half a sector away. A cloud of mindtouches surged toward him, pierced the fog of his fatigue with golden spangles, and he tasted cinnamon and smelled the metal-and-scrubbed-clean scent of shuttles. As the moment stretched impossibly long, he found no words, until Vasiht'h found them for them both.

  "I was wrong to tell you to go. Or at least, wrong to let you go alone. But I'm here now... and I won't ever leave again, until one of us dies... or unless you tell me right now to go."

  "No," Jahir managed, startled by the baldness of it, by the truth of it. Hoarse, he said. "No, I would never think to tell you such a thing. And I would never want it."

  His heart unpaused, and on its beat the mindline erupted, fusing between them with a strength that staggered him. He didn't remember falling to a knee, and he knew when Vasiht'h caught him that the Glaseah didn't remember doing it either. All that existed for them in that moment was the impossible power of a bond between two minds, made permanent by vow and intent. He felt a kindred soul in proximity to his, and it burned brighter than the sun off water, the sun held at arm's length. It came packaged with the pain of knowing their disparate lifespans, the poignancy of his having chosen the Alliance, and all the glory that decision freed him to embrace… and he did. He did.

  Chapter 7

  Vasiht'h rested his cheek against his friend's shoulder, eyes tightly closed, and welcomed the mindline as it fused, bringing with it the storm of sensory impressions he had no context for—yet—the smell of antiseptic and coffee, the feel of water on skin, the smear of city lights seen through watering eyes. When he'd accepted it all and let it fade into the background, all that was left was the real, solid presence of the friend he'd never thought to make… because such friends only came once in a lifetime, and only if you were lucky. And feeling it, truly feeling it in his heart, he knew he'd been right to come.

  And then he said, startled and indignant, "Why can I feel your shoulder-blade through your shirt?"

  "What?" Jahir asked, voice bleary. He lifted his head and said, "Perhaps because the uniform is thinner than the clothes I have preferred to wear."

  "Oh no," Vasiht'h said, tasting something through the mindline that felt sour, like rue… and chalky, like something medical on the tongue. "No, you've lost weight." He leaned back to look at his friend's face and saw the shadows beneath the cheekbones. "You have! What's wrong? You've only been gone three weeks!"

  "It is the gravity, I fear," Jahir said. He squinted. "You do not feel it?"

  Vasiht'h flexed his toes. "Yes, I guess. But it's not quite as heavy as Anseahla? Reminds me a little of home."

  Jahir stared at him, wide-eyed. And then cleared his throat and said, "I find it difficult. Enough that each day is an effort. I know you will ask me how I find the work.... honestly I will have to tell you that I can't say, because merely moving through this environment is so taxing that it colors everything else I feel."

  "So why stay?" Vasiht'h asked.

  Jahir paused, and though his expression remained composed Vasiht'h could feel his consternation like something bitter and cold through the mindline. "You are not here to bring me back to Seersana with you. Are you?"

  "No, no," Vasiht'h said. He shifted his paws and made a face. "You don't have to loom like that…! I meant it when I said I was here to stay. I have remote courses lined up for the semester, so for the next few months I can go anywhere there's access. What I meant was—and don't answer this immediately, just think about it—why run the trial here, where you can't even tell if your response is to the environment or the work? Your goal is to find out if you love the medical track. How can you tell if you can't separate it from the physical endurance test of just living here?"

  "One cannot part something from its context," the Eldritch said, but he was thoughtful, not defensive. "No matter where I go, arii, I will be contending with environmental factors."

  "But they don't have to be so extreme they overwhelm the rest of it," Vasiht'h said. "Goddess, Jahir. You're so tired you're still leaning on me."

  Surprise, tart like a lemon. "So I am."

  Vasiht'h licked his teeth. "That shouldn't have tasted so good."

  A laugh, then, one that startled the Eldritch on its way out. "Ah, should I ask the flavor...."

  "Lemon, and go sit on the couch. I'm guessing you haven't eaten yet."

  Jahir rose with an awkwardness Vasiht'h found painful to watch. "I was in fact considering sleeping."

  Vasiht'h eyed him.

  "I work the evening shift," Jahir said. "From mark fifteen to twenty-three." He tilted his head. "In fact, I would not have expected you to come so late."

  "I just got on-world and I had no other place to stay," Vasiht'h said. "Besides, I had a feeling I shouldn't wait. Now sit, and I'll make you dinner."

  "If you—"

  "Yes, I insist. Before you fall down."

  Vasiht'h felt the relief before he heard the Eldritch reach the cushions; the mindline gave it to him, a visceral weight in every joint that made the fur on the back of his spine fluff. He shook himself, set his bags down and went to investigate the small kitchen. While he wasn't surprised to find it pristine, he found the evidence of Jahir's complete depletion disturbing.

  "I am sorry," Jahir murmured, the words embroidered with falling arpeggios, dim light, chagrin and weariness. "I have not kept with our habits. I have not so much as baked a cookie since I arrived."

  "That's what you have me for," Vasiht'h said firmly. He found no pots, no pans... not even a plate in the cupboard. "Though it looks like a real meal is going to have to wait until tomorrow. Have you really been using the genie for everything?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "I'm surprised you have two fin to rub together if all your meals have been coming out of your energy budget." Vasiht'h shook his head. "It won't hurt anything if I add another to the total?"

  "Oh... no, it's no worry."

  Vasiht'h glanced past the kitchen island at his friend, saw only a spill of hair over the arm of the couch. The mindline floated him Jahir's lack of concern on the subject of money. He decided not to push and flipped through the available options. They were locked to a specialized menu—high calorie, nutritionally dense. He snorted. "Now I know you're tired."

  "Ah?" Drowsy, threaded through with something soft and clean and white. Eyelet lace? A memory of it, anyway.

  "Because there's ice cream on this menu and you haven't ordered it yet."

  The mindline spiked with an interest so intense that Vasiht'h glanced over and found Jahir peering past the arm of the couch.

  He laughed. "Right. But you have to eat this soup first."

  "Soup... does not sound like the sort of food they've been forcing me to eat."

  "This one will do it," Vasiht'h promised. He brought a tray to the couch and set it on the coffee table, then settled alongside it, paws tucked close and neat.

  "What is that?" Jahir asked, bleary.

  "Cream of quail and mushroom," Vasiht'h said. "It's on your menu."

  "It sounds..."

  "Heavy," Vasiht'h said. "Eat. Please?"

  Jahir sighed and sat up, reaching for the bowl. The mindline rested between them, shimmering and pregnant, and yet it didn't communicate anything beyond a faint static. Vasiht'h remembered their cautious experiments with the mindtouches back on Seersana, so much more vivid than this, and tried to keep his dismay to himself at the state his friend had been reduced to.

  "It's not quite as bad as it looks," Jahir said, quiet.

  "I'm completely sure it's worse than it looks." Vasiht'h flexed his toes and then pressed them together to keep from chafing them. "So I'm going to suggest you do a little more than think about whether you want to do this somewhere else. I'm going to suggest that you set yourself a deadline."

  "Go on."

  That the Eldritch wasn't protesting more was all Vasiht'h needed to
know. "Set a date by which point you'll make a decision whether to stay or go. And not in two years."

  Jahir looked up at him over the bowl, his honey-yellow eyes rimmed in red. "What do you suggest?"

  "Two months."

  Jahir looked away, but the mindline carried his internal flinch so clearly Vasiht'h's flanks twitched in sympathy.

  "Look," Vasiht'h said, quieter. "I know you don't want to renege on your word. I know you feel you have a duty to fulfill your entire residency term. But these things have options for early termination for a reason, and "medical disability" is definitely enough of one to back out. You're here for a reason, arii: to evaluate this career option. You can't do that fairly under these circumstances. It might get better, so give yourself some time. But promise me you won't stick it out just to be stubborn about doing what you think is the right thing, but is actually the wrong thing—for yourself, and for the patients who could be served better by someone who isn't fighting the world just to stay on his feet for them."

  The mindline carried a hush in it, like a still morning just before dawn. Jahir was looking at him, without speaking... but did he have to? Wasn't that impression enough?

  But at last, the Eldritch did speak. To say, "I have missed you, Vasiht'h."

  He blushed brightly beneath his fur, and was devoutly glad it wasn't as obvious as it felt, until he realized that it was obvious—through the mindline. He wondered what his embarrassment felt like.

  "Spines," Jahir offered. "But... not prickly ones. More like... spongy ones." He narrowed his eyes. "That is not my memory. What on the world is it, then?"

  Vasiht'h laughed. "I had a toy. A ball with little spikes. Most of the time when you grabbed it, it was fun, but once in a while you put your hand on it wrong and it poked you. Usually in the fold of skin where your joints make your fingers bend?"

  "Ah!" Jahir said. "Show me a picture?"

  Vasiht'h obliged him, grinning, and was pleased to hear the Eldritch laugh... until he shuddered and pressed his hand to his side. "What?" A shaft of pain like a constricting band around his waist. "Is that just—"