A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [49]
“Sickbay?” echoed Marcroft. “But-I mean, is it really that bad?”
Even as his friend asked the question, Vanderventer was figuring out the answer. He could feel his back muscles becoming soft, spongy. It hurt now just to sit up.
These were Fredi’s symptoms, weren’t they? The very same things Fredi felt before he collapsed down there in that science corridor.
But the disease wasn’t supposed to be contagious. Their tests had shown them that.
So why was he feeling what he was feeling? Why were his legs starting to tremble as he tried to hold himself steady in his chair?
Did it have anything to do with Fredi’s relapse?
It was getting more difficult to breathe. He forced his lungs to work harder, but it hurt like the devil. And he knew that he could keep it up for only so long.
“Sickbay,” he insisted. “Now.”
And to underline the urgency of his request, he lurched out of his seat-tried to get himself moving toward the door. But his legs refused to support his weight, and he had to throw his upper body onto the table to keep from falling down.
“Damn!” cried Marcroft, coming around the table as quickly as he could. Just as Vanderventer was about to slide off, his hands unable to find purchase on the smooth dining surface, his friend caught him around the waist.
“Mick…”
“It’s okay, Hans. I’ve got you.”
Slowly, Marcroft let the bigger man down, until he was kneeling on the floor. Then he looked up at the intercom grid and called for a link to sickbay.
Vanderventer tried to relax, to ignore the fact that his muscles were betraying him. But when he stopped pumping air in and out, everything started to get gray and fuzzy-so he gritted his teeth and started making like a bellows again.
“They’re coming, Hans. Hang in there, buddy.”
The Dutchman nodded.
Chapter Eleven
THE TALL, SLENDER FIGURE had come into the med enclosure without her noticing it. She had been too busy attending to one of her patients-Toc’tu, the big one with all the scales. And too foggy as well, perhaps, from fatigue and lack of sleep.
Then the newcomer began giving orders, and Pulaski whirled at the sound of them. There was something about the tone of that voice she didn’t like-even before she saw whose it was. It had an air of disdain, of imperiousness. As if it were used to being obeyed.
Also, a very definite ring of violence. Like the clashing of weapons in a confined space.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw the intruder-dressed in a uniform as proud as he was, festooned with military-looking insignia-point a gloved finger at one of her charges. The being, whose wounded arm was only half-healed, swiveled himself off his cot and stood.
“Wait a minute,” she said, striding across the enclosure. “What’s going on here?”
The lordly one only glanced at her as she approached.
“Mistress-no!” called Toc’tu, his voice just strong enough to carry. But she ignored the warning. The newcomer was continuing to point, and others of her patients were starting to get up.
Deftly skirting an operating table, Pulaski placed herself in the intruder’s path. He fixed her with his golden eyes, paused to consider her. Intrigued, a little, by her behavior? Or just amused?
“I asked you a question,” she said, ignoring his impudence. “What are you doing with my patients?”
“Restoring them to the battlefield,” he told her. “What business is it of yours?”
“They’re my patients,” said Pulaski. “That makes it my business. And since they haven’t recovered from their wounds yet, you’ve got no right putting them back on a battlefield.” An addendum occurred to her: “Even assuming you had any right to put them there in the first place.”
The intruder’s mouth pulled up at the corners. He looked about at the other meds.
“Is she insane?” he asked.
No one answered. No one even met his gaze.
He looked back at her. “I suggest,” he said, “that you get out of my way. I have a job to do here.” The smile with which he’d been flirting vanished suddenly.
But Pulaski didn’t flinch. “I have a job too.