“Just lead the way, Joel.”
Hogan pulled open one of the heavy swinging doors, then turned back. “What are you going to do if she is in changeover?”
Digen stopped. He hadn’t really thought about that. He shrugged. “One thing at a time, right?”
When they entered the room the patient was dozing fitfully. She woke at Hogan’s step, beaming. “You remembered! I cried all morning when you didn’t come! Oh, give me….”
Hogan handed over the present while Digen hung back, studying the eleven-year-old girl. She was small for her age, very thin—naturally thin, Digen thought—and there was a faint hint of jaundice to her skin, which looked the worse for her platinum-blond hair and pale blue eyes. She wasn’t beautiful, she was cute.
Digen closed his eyes to concentrate on her nager through the retainers. In just the few seconds it took her to tear open the box and pull out the frilly bed jacket, Digen saw the characteristic dip in her selyn field. As she reacted to the present, he watched the emotional nager interact with the selyn nager, and he was certain.
He approached the bed, saying, “Why don’t you put it on? That shade of blue becomes you.”
She saw him for the first time. “Do you really think so?” And then her eyes riveted on his retainers. She froze.
Digen sat down on the side of the bed and slipped the little cape over her shoulders, fastening it at the neck for her, letting her get a good close look at the retainers. He stopped with his fingers just brushing her chin, holding her eyes with his own. “Yes, it does.”
By that point he had almost tied down the pathology, and he wanted to cry. It’s not hopeless, he told himself. She has a chance. He had to get a lateral contact to be certain, and there really wasn’t a lot of time left.
He picked up one of her hands as if to kiss it gallantly, but instead he ran one finger along her arm. She winced, finally coming to herself enough to shrink away from Digen. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying to be helpful,” said Digen. “How long has that spot been tender like that?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I must have bruised it this morning.”
That long? Digen studied her nager again.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Trying to pick up the timing,” said Digen. “As you have noticed, I am Sime. Even through the retainers I can sense your nager—a little. My name is Digen—Hajene Digen Farris. What’s yours?”
“Didi,” she answered guardedly.
“You aren’t frightened of me, are you, Didi?”
“You’re the doctor who’s a channel. We studied about you in school.”
Digen nodded. “Some of the doctors here thought you might be in changeover, so I came to have a look. Did they tell you about that?”
She nodded, eyes wide. She was afraid now, afraid of what he was going to say next.
“Do you know what it’s like to live in-Territory as a Sime? Do they teach you that in school?”
She shook her head.
Shen! swore Digen silently. “People in-Territory go to school, and have jobs and families, and generally do mostly the same things people do here. When someone from here goes through changeover, they’re sent to a boarding school for a year, to adjust to being Sime, and then they’re adopted by a family where Simes and Gens live together. When they finish school, they get jobs and go out on their own—just like you would here. Did you know that Simes make friends a lot faster than Gens do?”
“Why—are—you—t-t-telling me…?”
Digen took her hand again and placed his other hand over the swelling tentacle sheaths. “You know. You can feel it.”
“No! They’re going to stop it!”
Digen shook his head. “That’s not possible, Didi.”
“Dr. Farris!” said Dr. Lankh, coming into the room on those last words. “Dr. Hogan! Who gave you two permission to interfere…?”
Hogan was braced at attention, but Digen didn’t even turn to look at Lankh. When the Gen had entered the room, Didi had stiffened, reacting to the discordant screech that was Lankh’s nager. Digen held her eyes while his hands sought her arms and he attempted to shield her from the worst of Lankh’s nager. His whole concentration was on the girl. He knew Lankh only as a vague zone of Gen outrage somewhere at his back.
“I know, Didi, he hurts me too. That’s better, no?” Digen felt clumsy, trying to work through the retainers.
“Dr. Farris! Get away from that girl!”
In just the few minutes Digen had been in the room, the newly formed tentacle sheaths had begun to fill with fluid. He had the timing now, and the pathology. He turned, at last hearing Lankh’s demands, but brushing them aside. He was a channel serving changeover, and the situation was critical.
He looked up at the two Gens, forcing his eyes to focus, his brain to think in English. “There isn’t time to move her to the Sime Center. If you’ll go out and lock the door from outside, and post a guard, I can give First Transfer here….”
“You didn’t hear me, Doctor,” said Lankh. “Get away from my patient.”
For the first time Digen noticed the treatment cart behind Lankh and the two nurses behind it, a man and a woman, both Gen. He realized that Lankh knew very well what was going on with Didi. He had come to “arrest changeover” with his experimental treatments.
Slowly Digen stood up, keeping between Lankh and Didi to handle the fields for her. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t mean to interfere with your patient’s protocol. But it’s too late, sir. Her laterals have matured to the point where she is sensing fields. I expect breakout within half an hour.”
“Get away from that girl! I’ll have you sued from here to….”
“Your pardon, sir. Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough. There’s nothing you can do for her now.” If there ever was. Digen told himself he was humoring a madman and had to be forbearing.
“Dr. Farris, Didi Rill is a key patient in my program,” said Lankh, assuming the same tone as Digen, but the twisted hatred for Digen showed through clearly. “If you don’t leave immediately, you’ll set my work back years. She’s going to be my first real success, the first to survive the treatment. Now stand aside so we can get the restraints on her.”
“Success?” said Digen, eyeing the pair of retainerlike gauntlets attached to the treatment cart by insulated cables, pulled out now by the male nurse. He had to stall for time. There was no way he could allow those things to be put on a changeover victim. “You’ve had some extraordinary success with this patient?”
“Well, you saw! We’ve had her changeover stopped for the last three days.”
“Seventy-odd hours, in stage five, and no change in her condition?”
“The biggest triumph on this protocol. If you interfere now, I’m going to have you blacklisted in every hospital—and Sime Center too!—in this country!”
Digen, however, wasn’t listening. He went back to the bed, where Didi had laid her head back against the pillows. Pale and drawn, eyes closed, she tossed fitfully. Digen nodded, wishing he could get a full lateral contact. He had learned to diagnose blindly in the hospital, but he hated to depend on deduction alone in something as tricky as changeover.
“It fits, yes. Renal shutdown, an arrested stage five followed by a sudden onset of breakout, the whole texture of her nager… Dr. Lankh, this is a classic case of Noreen’s Syndrome.” He turned to Lankh. “You didn’t think you caused her to stop in stage five?”
Lankh, hands on hips, gazed at Digen in wonderment. He could not believe that any intern, but especially one whose appointment was as precarious as Digen’s, could ignore a threat of blacklisting. Yet, at the same time, he was caught up in what Digen was saying. There weren’t many men in his field who could or would talk about his work. And Digen did have an advantage Lankh didn’t have—actually perceiving the nager. Lankh said smugly, “Of course we stopped her. She’s the fourth we’ve been able to stop, and the longest to date. We’re going to save her, i
f you’ll get out of the way!”
“Four!” Noreen’s Syndrome was rather rare, and Digen knew enough about the total number Lankh had treated to be shocked. “That machine is inducing Noreen’s Syndrome!”
“So! You concede we know what we’re doing, Dr. Farris? Now, if the intern will move aside and allow the senior attending to treat the patient….”
The sarcasm was lost on Digen. “How did the others die, the ones you stopped?”
“They just died. Autopsy didn’t turn up a thing, except a few minor lesions that couldn’t possibly have been fatal.”
“Nerve-sheath lesions are characteristic of Noreen’s Syndrome,” said Digen, just to keep talking while he absorbed the shock. “Your patients died of attrition—before breakout?”
“Attrition? No such,” said Lankh authoritatively. “Only Simes die of attrition. My patients were all Gens.”
“Your patients,” said Digen coldly, “died of lack of selyn before their bodies were mature enough to receive transfer. The most ghastly death known to mankind. I don’t intend to permit you to do that to Didi.”
At that point, Didi yelled, the open-throated, inarticulate grunt of air being forced from her lungs by the first breakout contraction. Digen gave her his hands to grip. “Good girl. Hard as you can.”
As the spasm abated, Digen said to Lankh, “That’s it. You’ve lost this one to me, Doctor.” Even a madman should be able to concede that at this point, Digen thought.
Before the first full spasm had completely dissolved, the second hit the girl, and then on its crest a third, and again a fourth. As often happened in Noreen’s Syndrome, the breakout contractions were premature, the tentacle sheaths not filled completely with fluid, so the pressure would rupture the membranes.
Digen counted six waves of contractions, wishing mightily that he could shed retainers and get a solid field reading he could trust. But, by the terms of Sime~Gen law, he couldn’t do that unless the Gens would seal the room and give him their permission. He had to make a decision that could cripple the girl, and he couldn’t get the data.
As the next wave of contractions began, Digen said, “Joel, is there a sterile scalpel on that cart? Bring it here.”
Hogan, who had been following everything silently, jumped to comply as if he’d been waiting for an order. “What are you going to do?” he asked as he slapped the instrument into Digen’s palm.
Digen rolled the narrow haft in his fingers, watching the girl. “An act of total desperation,” said Digen absently. Then to Hogan, but also to Lankh, who had come a few steps closer and was watching indecisively, Digen said, “Watch closely, you may have to do this someday. It’s the only surgical procedure you’ll ever see a Sime use.”
Digen had never done it with a sharp instrument before, but, wearing retainers, he couldn’t use his tentacles. “I’m going to rupture her membranes for her. Will you help me, Joel?”
“What do I do?”
A trained Donor would probably have argued. To steal the moment of breakout from a changeover victim was, morally, a crime. But Hogan didn’t know anything about that. And if he had known, it probably wouldn’t have bothered him. He was a doctor, used to unpleasant alternatives.
“Put one palm on her forehead and one here on the breastbone,” said Digen, placing the Gen’s hands. “Think reassuring thoughts,” said Digen, capturing one arm.
The breakout spasms seized her again, still futile. Her nager was plummeting. Digen ran his hand down toward her wrist, hoping to squeeze the fluids against the membranes and rupture them in a more or less natural way. But, as often occurred in Noreen’s Syndrome, the membranes themselves were too thick, even if the fluid pressure had been right. She was dying.
“All right,” said Digen, “with the next contraction, hold her still.”
As the contractions rippled through her again, Digen pushed the fluids against the membranes so that they belled out visibly, and then he nicked each orifice in turn around the arm, as quickly as he could. Then he shifted to the other arm. But as soon as the first lateral was freed, the spasms ceased. Now Digen had to deal with lax muscles, a flaccid sheath.
“She’d dead!” said Hogan.
“No, unconscious,” said Digen, working his hand down her other arm until he could nick the membranes there. He pressed the fluids out of the now opened sheaths and felt for the ronaplin glands. He could feel them swelling under his fingertips. “You can let go now. She’s going to be all right.”
Digen had figured that the sight of the completed changeover would bring Lankh to his senses. There was nothing more he could do but allow transfer or have a berserker on his hands. “When she comes to,” said Digen, “she’ll be ready for transfer. It may only be a few moments. Will you clear the room now?”
Lankh, who had watched the entire procedure with clinical absorption, backed away from the scalpel Digen still held casually. “If you think you can get away with this, you’re crazy. That’s my patient you’ve—wasted, Dr. Farris.”
Digen looked to the two nurses. “I suggest you leave now. I don’t think you want to face a berserker.”
They started for the door, Hogan crowding after them. But Lankh somehow didn’t get the message. “You can’t order my staff around like that.”
Feeling Didi begin to stir to consciousness, Digen wanted to lift the Gen up and put him out bodily. But that would surely create a border incident that would go down in history beside the proverbial Battle of Leander Field. Lankh might be insane, but his type of insanity was considered the healthy norm by most out-Territory Gens. By their standards, it was Digen who was dangerously insane until proved otherwise.
The girl came awake all at once. She drew herself up to her knees, scuttling around Digen to launch herself at Lankh with all the speed of a hunting Sime. Digen, caught off guard, didn’t intercept her until her frail body was in mid-flight.
The two of them went down in a tumble, and Digen contrived to come to rest with his body between her and Lankh. His back to Lankh, he held her by the shoulders, augmenting to match her struggle. “Didi, don’t fight me, you’re only killing yourself! Doctor, will you please get the hell out of here!”
Digen had dropped the scalpel. Behind him, Lankh picked it up. “Maybe it’s not too late,” said Lankh. “We can still get some good data. Help me get the restraints on her.”
Digen swung around to face Lankh, putting the girl between them. He still held her by the shoulders securely, but he knew his grip didn’t look secure to Gen eyes. He was hoping the sight of raw Need would finally get through to Lankh.
But as he saw Lankh coming at the girl with those two retainerlike gauntlets, Digen realized that the man had no fear of the kill. And his attitude toward death by attrition was clinical curiosity.
I’ll give him a good show, thought Digen. I’ll strip off my retainers and serve her right before his eyes.
Digen was on the verge of doing just that. But it was against the law. A Sime out-Territory without retainers could be killed on sight.
Suddenly Digen realized that Didi was a Sime out-Territory without retainers, and thus if Lankh chose to kill her like this, he was within the law.
Digen’s systems were primed and ready to serve First Transfer. He had fully expected to do so. But Lankh would not yield. Something held Digen in the instant of irrevocable decision, held him to loyalty to Tecton law, and held him and held him as he struggled to make the decision, to offer transfer because—in spite of everything—it was the right thing to do.
And then, suddenly, he was holding a corpse.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DEATHSHOCK
Too late.
Heavy Gen feet pounding into the room.
Too late.
Branoff’s voice. Digen forced himself to focus on the hospital director.
“All right, Digen, we’re sealing this room off so you can—can—”
Hogan came skidding to a halt behind Branoff, half into the act of grabbing Lankh to
remove him bodily from the room. He froze there, then said, “Too late. What happened, Digen?”
Digen raised haunted eyes to Hogan, making no effort to conceal what he felt.
Branoff turned on Lankh. “Well, that’s it, Doctor. Twenty-five deaths out of twenty-five attempts. I’m closing down your lab, no matter how many friends you have on the hospital board and in the city government. We won’t have human experimentation in my hospital.”
Lankh somehow shook off the emotions of moments before and confronted Branoff. “The board won’t permit your meddling in my…”
“You may have had a majority on the board,” said Branoff, “but after this, Whitring and Shyr will vote with me, and you’re finished.”
“We’ll see about that!” said Lankh, and stalked regally from the room.
All this barely registered on Digen, who was still locked to Hogan’s eyes. The Gen, absorbing the fact of Didi’s death, was resonating with Digen, emotionally, in a way Digen had never felt before.
Hogan knelt before Digen and gently took the small frail body from Digen’s arms. He held her head cradled against his bulging Gen biceps and shared Digen’s stinging grief as if he were the girl’s own father.
Branoff let them have their moment, understanding without sharing. As Hogan at last stood and laid the body on the bed, Branoff went to Digen. “Should we call help for you, Hajene Farris?”
The title got through to Digen as nothing else could have. He got to his feet, wiping the palms of his hands on the seat of his pants. “No, I’m all right. The retainers shielded me from a lot of it.”
“I can see you’re pretty badly shaken, you and Joel both. I’m not going to ask a lot of nosy questions right now. You can write me a full report tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hogan.
“Uh,” said Digen. “Will I have to face the death committee?”
“I doubt it. You didn’t do anything wrong. But she was Lankh’s patient, and it’s time he was called to account for all this. You may have to testify. We should have it all down on paper while it’s fresh.”
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