Up Against It - M. J. Locke [122]
He sat down and interwove his fingers. “Jane, what’s this about?”
A long silence fell. He looked at her expectantly. No motes in here, no mites. Just say it, Navio. “I heard a Voice.”
His gaze grew more intense. “A voice? As in, a voice in your head?”
She nodded.
“I can see why you’d be concerned.” He walked around her diagnostics, frowning. “Well, I suppose there are hints of anomalies in certain neuron firing patterns in the cortex, but honestly, it’s all within normal parameters.” She continued to look at him. He shrugged. “Yes, it’s possible that you had a stress-induced psychotic break. But there’s no remaining evidence of it. And everything seems OK now. When was the last time you heard the voice? What was it telling you to do?”
She paused again. “I’ve heard it twice. Once the evening before last, commuting home. I was looking at the Earth.”
“Space sickness.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” she said, “but I heard it a second time yesterday morning, after the memorial service.” She paused. “It just said my name. Both times. But there is something … something it wants me to do.”
“Any idea what?”
She shook her head. “I just, I sense that something very bad is happening, or is about to happen, and it wants me to intervene somehow…” She fell silent, feeling the press of his gaze.
“Well, some very bad things have been happening, and you have been intervening.”
She shook her head. “It’s something else. I don’t know what.”
“Hmm. Well.” He scribbled inwave. “I’m prescribing an antipsychotic, as a prophylactic.” At the dispenser in the wall, tiny tubes came down, and within their mesh a bottle grew. When it had fully formed, he handed it to her. “I’d like you to take two of these a day: one in the morning and one at night. I’m going to recommend you go to the Emerson Clinic on Ceres for further testing. They have better facilities.”
She eyed the amber bottle in her hand. The fresh smell of newly assembled cellophane clung to it; spots were still soft. Inside, behind the label, were clear ovoid lozenges in a neat, closest-possible-packing arrangement. “Can you recommend anyplace on the moon?”
He looked surprised. “Of course! They have excellent facilities. One moment.” He moved his hands, accessing a file. “There’s Anderson Memorial in Robeston. Dr. Fabio Torricelli. You have a trip planned?”
“To Earthspace.”
He lifted eyebrows.
“Retirement package,” she said.
“I bet there’s a story in that.”
“A long and boring one.”
He did not ask. “Those need to be taken with food,” he said. “I’ll get you a glass of water and some crackers.”
She eyed them. “No need to put yourself out. I’m headed to a lunch meeting. I’ll take my first dose then.”
He peered at her. “Don’t delay getting this checked out, Jane.”
She had this maudlin impulse to hug him, to offer to take him out for a beer and reminisce about the days when she and Xuan had emigrated here. Zekeston had still been a double barbell, and Pete had been the only doctor within many million kilometers. Instead she wordlessly brushed his palm.
“Good luck,” he said. “Be sure to take your meds.”
She eyed the medication dubiously. He knew her too well.
“’Bye, Pete. Thanks.”
She wondered if she would ever see him again.
* * *
Sarah’s office was at the boundary of Heavitown—a quasi-bohemian district that had never been able to make up its mind whether it was seedy or trendy—and the upscale Path of Seven Stones district. Both were located in the northeast sector, near the Promenade: a meandering thread-mesh of shops, parks, homes, and businesses that girded the city’s outermost level.
The Promenade was packed. All the treeway refugees seemed to be here. People were straightening and putting things away, now that the spin generators had restored Zekeston’s acceleration. She spotted a couple on a bench. One of the men was perhaps eight months pregnant. He pulled his partner’s hand onto his belly and said, “Feel that?” The two shared a private smile.
Jane moved on through the crowd. Seeing everyone working