UNDERWORLD
UNDERWORLD
Kit looked grey again.
Doc’s living space and his treatment facility were one and the same, and going to him for help was much like going into the home of a gnome in a medieval story.
It started at the low door, which was set into what looked like a hill side, and was in fact a very small hill taking up most of the plot he owned. It was covered in low-growing herbs, clover among other things. And the door was almost perfectly round, inset in the side of the hill, made of oak or a good facsimile. A huge iron ring knocker was the only way to call those inside. Not needed this time, as the door opened ahead of us, presumably reacting to some signal from the doctor. Then we were inside, and going past the doctor’s long living room, with the walls covered in bookcases, and past the fireplace with large chairs one on each side of it.
And then past the kitchen which despite its modern cooker looked like an ancient kitchen, from the water pump—which poured warm or cold water at a signal—to the cooker which was hidden behind a holo of a cooking fire with a tripod pot over it.
After that opened an area that looked like—and probably was—a private relaxing area. A sofa had a book on top of one of the arms, as though the doctor had been interrupted by our call while reading, though that wasn’t possible because he’d never have got to the complex in time. And there was a low table, with a dirty cup on it.
They set Kit on the sofa, looking even paler amid the garish floral pattern of the upholstery. He’d been treated on that sofa before and bled all over it, and I was sure so had other people, but it didn’t show. I suspected the sofa, like most other things in this place was an impostor, a biological construct that drank up the blood spilled and remained sterile. The idea of that made me shudder.
But that was just a way to avoid thinking of how ill Kit looked, lying there, pale, and drawn and still.
Kit? I said, mentally, but there was no answer. And it was like everyone else had forgotten I even existed, not that it mattered. I wanted them to give Kit all their attention. Bruno had come in the door supporting me and dropped me in one of the chairs next to the fireplace in the living room. Not that I’d stayed there. Now my legs were steady under me, and I could walk.
So I’d come into the back room and leaned against the wall, as close to Kit as I could get, because I couldn’t get close enough. Jean and Doc mostly were working on him. Or Doc was, and giving short orders to Jean to clamp this, and use that. I guessed that either Jean had some training, or he was really good at following half-barked orders. Or both. And the doctor’s house might look like a cozy cottage, but it was obviously a sophisticated medical intervention center, as well equipped as any Earth hospital.
Bruno and Zen stood a little farther away, handing things to the main combatants. And I—a stranger so new to Eden that I didn’t even know the limits of their biotechnology—could do nothing but hamper those who were trying to save Kit’s life. I stayed at the periphery, looking on, feeling superfluous and useless, and trying not to think.
Trying not to think I’d gone crawling off, with my burner, looking for trouble, instead of staying and trying to cover Kit, trying to protect him. Trying not to think that he’d been the main target; he’d always been the main target. Trying not to think of where Zen had gone, when she had disappeared all that time.
But most of all, I was trying not to think of why Kit wasn’t answering my mental touch. He should be able to. I should be able to feel him even if he were in a coma. I’d done so before.
The doctor took measurements and readings, swore softly, did something to the side of Kit’s head that involved two tiny needles attached to what looked like a crystal egg, and started putting stickers on Kit’s chest. I knew that type of sticker—it was a sensing device that sent info to a computer. Then Doc put something like a transparent helmet connected to other machines on Kit’s head and swore some more, then looked up and saw my expression.
“He’s not going to die,” he told me, gruffly. “I know how awful it looks, but despite the blood loss, it’s not nearly as bad as it seems. It’s more…” He shrugged. “The brain damage is no more than he would have suffered if he’d had a small stroke. People survive those every day. Their brain reroutes and they go on. Some people don’t even notice them. Their speech slurs a little, for a short time, and that’s that.
“I’m going to guess it was not the shot your attackers wanted to make. He was probably moving too fast for them. Possibly he was trying to reach you. But the wound is enough to damage his coordination and his capacity to pilot…and judging from where it is, possibly his speech. Not life threatening, mind.” Doc bit his lower lip, as though in worry. “He’ll slur his words a bit, and his movements might not be as precise as they should be. But for a Cat…”
For a Cat, whose ability to pilot was all-important and built-in, whose speed and coordination were biological gifts he had had since birth, losing those would be like dying. I felt my legs go weak again. “You mean, Kit will never be able to pilot again?”
Doctor Bartolomeu looked at me for a moment as though he’d forgotten who I was, or perhaps as though he didn’t understand a word I’d said. “No, no. Of course that’s not what I mean. There are ways of recovering, including some very specialized neurosurgery combined with intensive therapy. Our problem is time. None of those methods will allow him to leave with us tomorrow and I can’t take everything required for that level of surgery aboard the Hopper.”
“We can’t leave him behind,” I said, louder than I intended, as I stared at the still-unconscious Kit and felt my throat closing in panic. “I think they were after him all along.”
“Yes. That much is obvious,” the doctor said. “No. We can’t.” Doc looked completely lost and, for a moment, like a little boy on the verge of tears, which was quite a feat when one considered that at the same time he looked hundreds of years old. And was. “Perhaps that’s what they wanted. To have us leave without Christopher, which would leave him at their mercy, and would mean we didn’t have with us the person they think can interpret Jarl’s writings.” He frowned. “But even if we just delay we’ll be giving them an opportunity to make good on the attempt to kill him. Any time we remain on Eden gives them another chance to kill Christopher or sabotage the ship. We can’t do that. It’s obvious Castaneda wants him out of the way, though I can’t even start to imagine why…unless…” He shook his head as he looked at Kit. “No.”
Suddenly, his face seemed to crumple further, his wrinkles multiplying. It was horrifying, like something out of a scary legend, like watching a hundred years fall on a man in minutes. “Oh, damn it, Christopher,” he said, under his breath. “Of all the things I didn’t want to have to do.”
“What?” I asked, because this sounded bad. It sounded very bad.
He paused, looking like he was trying to talk himself into something. “Yes. I’m very much afraid we will have to take drastic measures. And I don’t like to do it.” He looked up at me, his eyes bleak amid their nest of wrinkles.