Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [72]
The physician made a noncommittal gesture with his reader. “Better to ask him that. It certainly wasn’t a sound and satisfying diet. He’s suffering from an impressive catalogue of nutritional deficiencies.” He nodded in the direction of the recovery chamber. “Not vitamins, though. Pills can help, but they’re no substitute for solid food.”
Lahtehoja turned toward the silent, shuttered chamber where their mysterious visitant lay. “You’re feeding him now?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Holomusa chuckled softly. “He’s receiving a steady flow of osmotic fluids.”
Vaan Leuderwolk nodded knowingly. “When will he be able to sit up and take solid food?”
“Yes, and how soon can we talk to him?” Lahtehoja had to restrain herself from carrying the conversation into the recovery room. Commander of the visiting force she might be, but within the confines of the infirmary it was Holomusa who was in charge.
“I don’t know,” the chief medical officer replied candidly.
The commander ground her teeth—a bad habit she had never quite been able to break. “That’s not the kind of answer I expect from my staff. I don’t deal in incertitude.”
“You think I like to?” Among the complement of the Ronin, the chief physician was one of the few the commander could not intimidate. “Nonspecific as it is, that’s my prognosis. The man’s comatose. I’m not going to try and force him out of it. Push his condition and we could lose him permanently.”
As always, Lahtehoja was ready with a sharp retort. Instead of delivering it to the unblinking physician, she sighed again and raised her gaze ceilingward. “All right, Ben. It’s your call. What happened when you went aboard the Unathian ship?”
“They took us to the room where they were holding him.” Holomusa’s tone was even, professional, but vaan Leuderwolk could tell that the physician had been shaken by the incident. “He was curled up in a corner, not quite fully fetal, but on the way. As soon as I saw the state he was in I ordered everyone else to remain in the corridor and out of his line of sight. I’m not a big man, but the Unop-Patha are a lot smaller, and I had to bend low to fit through the doorway.”
“What did he do when you entered his ‘space’?” Lahtehoja’s voice was flat, unemotional, analyzing.
“Started whimpering,” the physician told her without missing a beat. “I’ve seen disturbed men and women, people who have suffered a severe mental shock, try to dig their way into the floor or climb through the walls. This is the first time I’ve seen one try to crawl into himself.” Behind the three officers, the commander’s orderly stood mesmerized by the doctor’s tale.
“As soon as I saw that there was a very real chance of him hurting himself, I stopped where I was. Trying to make eye contact, I just started talking to him. Anything I could think of, whatever came to mind, so he would hear a familiar, nonthreatening, hopefully soothing human voice. My object was to get him to relax, to slow his heart rate, which I supposed might be dangerously high, and to get him to trust me.”
“And did you?” With one ear Lahtehoja was straining to hear sounds from the recovery chamber, but the only audible noise besides that of their own voices were the soft beeps and hums of efficient, indifferent instruments.
“Long enough to stick him with an osmotic hypo that pumped him full of tranquilizer. I was ready to jump him, to call for help, or to flee back out the doorway depending on his reaction. Funny—all he did was slip quietly into unconsciousness. Never uttered a sound. We squeezed him back through the door, off that claustrophobic Unathian ship and onto one of ours. He’s been sleeping soundly until about an hour ago, when he woke up.”
“Woke up?” Vaan Leuderwolk blinked. “I thought you said he was comatose.”
“All right, maybe ‘woke up’ is an overstatement. He opened his eyes and he’s breathing on his own. Other than that, there’s nothing there. Severe trauma.” He spread his hands helplessly. “Not much I can do here. Sure, we’re trained and equipped to deal with a