“You can’t usually get into other people’s records,” Tatian answered, but examined the control pad. He laid his hand and wrist port experimentally in the access cradle, felt the confirmation pulse stab into his skin, but his sight stayed clear, free of the normal overlay. “It’s either on a personal password or a palmprint scan. I can’t get in.”
“Damn.” Warreven turned away, trailing cables, and Tatian caught the bundle before it snagged on the corner of the diagnostic table.
“Careful.”
Ȝe ignored him, lifting a hand to tug at the iridescent collar. “Ȝe should have an off-world doctor, someone we can trust. Not these people.”
“Don’t touch it,” Tatian said, automatically—he recognized the system, one of the deep-muscle repair techniques, knew it shouldn’t be removed until the doctors agreed—and then, “Trust them to what?”
Warreven turned to face him, leaned 3er weight against the end of the table. The cables dragged across 3er body, pulling the tunic open again. Tatian caught another glimpse of gold-brown skin and the long line of the bandage before Warreven dragged the torn edges back together. The fabric was filthy, as though 3e’d rolled in the gutters—which 3e probably has, Tatian added, silently. God, 3e doesn’t sound good— He glanced again at the bank of monitors and found the bright red button that would summon help, reassuringly prominent among the array of smaller
screens and touchpads.
“Trust them not to alter 3im,” Warreven said. “If 3e’s really hurt, if there’s serious damage, they’re more likely just to cut him—3im—than try to save him.”
Tatian blinked. It was one thing not to know how to treat herms’ complex bodies, entirely another to surgically alter them to conform to Haran prejudice—but then, on a world that didn’t admit herms existed, there would always be the temptation to “correct” the “defect” rather than go to the effort to restore Haliday to 3er natural condition. He suppressed a shudder, and said, “I’ve already spoken to Jaans Oddyny. She’s with our contract clinic. She’s willing to step in the minute she gets a request.”
“I want 3im moved to the off-world hospital,” Warreven said. “The one out at the port.”
Tatian eyed 3im warily. “That’s going to depend on how 3e is, right? Whether or not 3e can be moved.”
Warreven took a deep breath. “Yeah, I suppose—I know. I’m just worried, that’s all. They haven’t told me anything about how 3e is yet, just that 3e’s stable.”
Tatian looked back at the displays. “Want me to call a tech? They might be able to tell you something now.”
Warreven started to shake 3er head, stopped. “No—I don’t know. They’re supposed to be getting rid of this thing soon, I thought.” Ȝe touched the collar.
Before Tatian could say anything, a technician—not the man who had been watching the monitors—tapped on the door frame. Tatian moved aside, and the woman stepped past him with a murmured apology to lay her arm in the access cradle below the monitors. The multiple screens lit instantly, filled with data from the cuff and collar. Tatian thought he recognized a skull shape among the numbers and unfamiliar shapes, but the image rotated away before he could be sure. The technician nodded to herself and ran her free hand over the nearest shadowscreen before she detached herself from the cradle. The screens stayed lit, numbers shifting as Warreven breathed.
“Your neck’s looking much better, mir, you can take the collar off now.”
Warreven lifted both hands tentatively to the catch, and Tatian said, “Let me.” He worked the release mechanism, felt the machine go loose and flaccid in his hands, and unwound it and the cable from Warreven’s neck. Ȝe lifted 3er head, and 3er hair spilled down for an instant over his hands, as coarse and fluid as the land-spiders’ raw silk. Now that the collar was gone, the bandage covering Warreven’s left eye looked worse than before, blue-black synthiskin bulging over swollen skin and presumably a medipack.
The technician ran her hands over the shadowscreen again, studying the numbers in her multiple screens, then turned to Warreven. “Your neck will still be sore, but there’s no serious damage—nothing broken, and no muscles torn.”
“Wonderful,” Warreven said, without enthusiasm.
“What we’re worried about,” the technician went on, and laid a probe gently against the conductive bandage, “is the eye. The system would prefer to keep you here through tomorrow—”
“No,” Warreven said.
“—but we think you’ll rest better in familiar surroundings. And that’s the main thing: you need to rest your eyes as completely as possible, give that one a chance to heal on its own.” She removed the probe, looked back at the screen. “It should recover fully, but the bruising is severe, and another shock could do permanent harm. That’s why we have it packed so thoroughly, and we’ll want to check it again in twenty-six hours. We can prescribe painkillers, something to help you sleep, which is the best thing for you, or you can just take deepdream.”
“I’ll do that,” Warreven said. “How’s Haliday?”
The technician touched her screen again, and the displays went abruptly blank. She frowned to herself, laid her arm back in the cradle, the fingers of her free hand working on invisible controls, and a voice from the doorway said, “Raven? God and the spirits, you look awful.”
“Thanks,” Warreven said sourly.
“How’s Haliday?” The newcomer held out a bundle of clothes, and Warreven took it gratefully.
“She’s finding out.”
“Ah.” The newcomer looked at Tatian, tilted his head to one side. “I’m Malemayn, I don’t know if you remember.”
“I remember.” Tatian held out his hand, deliberately foreign, and Malemayn took it warily. He was a tall man, perhaps a finger’s width taller than Tatian himself, and his face was bonier than Tatian had remembered from their earlier brief meeting. Or maybe it was just the hour and the circumstances, he admitted. There weren’t many people who looked their best in a hospital setting.
“Tatian’s talked to his doctor,” Warreven said. “If Hal needs it.”
“Thank you,” Malemayn said.
“I’ve got the records now,” the technician said. “Sorry about the delay, I was waiting for the update.”
“How is 3e?” Warreven asked.
“She’s stable,” the technician said, “and still unconscious. The doctors have decided to keep her under until they can get the first repairs completed. There were a number of broken bones— femur, both bones in the right forearm, three ribs—but her skull is intact. The internal injuries are controlled and under treatment.” She freed herself from the contact. “I’d say she’s out of danger—she’ll have to spend a few weeks in Recovery, but she should be fine.”
Tatian heard Malemayn give a sigh of relief. Warreven said, “3e.”
“Æ?” The technician looked confused for a moment, then blushed. “I’m sorry.”
“Which is why,” Warreven said, looking at Malemayn, “we need an off-world doctor.”
The technician bridled, and Malemayn said quickly, “We’ll see—I’ll see to it, Raven, you’re in no shape to deal with this.”
“I mean it,” Warreven said, and reached for the bundle of clothes. Ȝe fumbled it open, dropping the shirt, and stooped to pick them up, wincing, before Tatian could do it for 3im. “Can you get me out of this thing?”