Beyond Varallan (29 page)

“Your friend Rogan doesn’t like me, either,” he said.

I sucked in a quick breath. The curved wounds suddenly made sense—they were the same size and shape as a spray nozzle. His eyes were a mess. Tiny ulcers were already forming on the damaged corneal plates. Blood in the aqueous humor obstructed most of the retina. I doubted he could see an inch past his gildrells.

“How many times did he hit you with the topical applicator?”

“I lost count.” Squilyp winced as I tilted his head for a different angle on the injuries.

“What was he doing with the instrument in the first place?”

“He grabbed it out of my hand,” the Omorr said. “One minute I had initiated his cleansing, the next he had an arm around my neck and started hammering on me. He’s stronger than he looks.”

“What is that
thing
doing here?” I heard Rogan shriek.

“Excuse me for a moment. Nurse!” I flapped my hand at the nurse restraining Rogan and got her attention. “Sedate that man.”

“You cannot prescribe for me!” Rogan screamed. “I refuse treatment! You are not a sentient!” The nurse jammed a syrinpress against his thick neck. “No! No! She’s trying… to kill… meee…”

“Thank you, nurse.” I went back to examining my resident. “What did he think you were scrubbing him down with? Acid?” I put the scanner aside and tilted the Omorr’s head up. I peered at the blistered flesh intently. Contact burns made his derma look bloated and raw. “Tell me someone flushed your eyes out immediately.”

“They did.” One of his membranes brushed my arm. “I will recover. That is not the problem.”

“Resident, Senior Healer.” A nurse appeared on the other side of the table. “The Furinac’s condition has begun to deteriorate.”

I looked from Squilyp to the nurse. “Which Furinac? The old one?” She nodded. Great. Just great. Rogan had just blinded the only competent surgeon on the ship. “Get me the chart.” I turned back to the Omorr. “This the problem you were talking about?”

“Yes. The Furinac’s monitor went off the same time Rogan did.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough. You may have to operate.”

The elderly Furinac displayed signs of moderate abdominal pain. I couldn’t interview him; the linguistic database had not been completely updated. Reever needed to put in some overtime.

“Get the Ship’s Linguist down here,” I said. “Tell him to run. And notify Security. I want Rogan moved to detainment.”

I rescanned the patient. His abdominal wall had gone into spasm. Palpitating it was impossible—his exoskeleton was hard as plasteel. I read no evidence of peristalsis, which meant his intestinal muscles had stopped working. That
was
bad. The Furinac’s thick peritoneum was badly inflamed. I calibrated the scanner and ran an organs sequence. When I saw the results displayed, I nearly dropped the scanner.

“Nurse!”

Two of his stomachs and part of his intestinal tract were perforated. Digestive acid, bacteria, and unprocessed food had been slowly seeping into his abdominal cavity for hours. I stripped off my gloves once Adaola appeared. She took the scanner from me and gasped at the display.

“Prep him,” I said. “Fast.” I turned and raised my voice to a near-bellow. “Surgical team! Two minutes!”

I checked on Squilyp once more before I scrubbed. The dermal neutralizer was working, but it would take the regenerators a few days to heal the damage to his eyes.

“The Furinac?” he asked me.

“Peritonitis,” I replied. “He needs a double gastrectomy and a partial colectomy, minimum. I’ve got to get into his belly and take a look.” At his frown, I added, “He's got four stomachs. Don't worry. He'll make it.”

“I’m not concerned about the number of stomachs, Doctor,” the Omorr said. “Your hands.”

Well, there was that, too.

“I won’t drop the lascalpel, I promise.” I finished my scan and leaned closer. My voice dropped to a whisper. “If I do, you can have the big desk.”

“I don’t want it.”

“That’s a first,” I said. It was still so easy to get his gildrells bristling. “Okay, okay. Rest now. I'll have a nurse bring you regular updates.”

“Patch my berth terminal into surgery, if you would,” he asked. “I can’t observe, but I can listen in.”

Reever appeared as I was sterilizing for the procedure.

“Did you receive my relay?”

“Not now.” I didn’t have time to have a conversation. I thrust his hands under the sterilizer. “Stop squirming. When you're clean, gear up.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Put one of those on”—I nodded to the racks of surgical gowns—“and a mask and gloves.” One of his eyebrows arched. “You’re going into surgery with me.”

“For what reason?”

I nudged the sterilizer with my knee and shook off my hands. “Furinac physiology is a bit unusual. We can’t put this species under sedation.” I gloved and masked. “I need you to translate for me while I operate.”

Reever reluctantly donned the surgical gear. I directed my team to their positions while a nurse wheeled the patient in.

Furinacs were long-limbed, thick-torsoed humanoids with dark, plated exoskeletons. I suspected if one crossed a horse with a giant beetle, something like a Furinac would result. The patient, whose proboscis was quivering with pain, looked at me with large, multifaceted eyes.

“How are you feeling?” I asked. Reever translated, his voice taking on a distinct insectile buzz.

Furinac language reminded me of Dr. Dloh, an arachnid colleague I’d worked with on K-2. The patient hummed something in a weak reply.

“The Patriarch is experiencing considerable pain and some anxiety,” Reever said. “He would appreciate an explanation as to why you want to access his thorax.”

“Tell him we have to operate.” I explained the threat of peritonitis and what I planned to do to circumvent it. Reever relayed the information. The Furinac nodded his fuzzy, silvered head. “I know I can’t sedate you completely, nor can I access your gastric compartments without your help. We'll be doing this together, Patriarch.”

Once this was translated, the elderly being relaxed and made an affirmative gesture with one of his limbs.

“Sterile field,” I said. A bioelectric curtain surrounded us. “Administer the neuroparalyzer.” I couldn’t sedate him, but I could make sure he didn't feel any more pain. “Keep his spiracles oxygenated.” I pulled down the lascalpel and glanced at Reever. “Ask the Patriarch to release his abdominal hinge-plates.”

The Furinac extended the twin sides of his exoskeleton, which I draped and secured out of the way. The soft, vulnerable underbelly gleamed white in the stark light. I gripped the lascalpel, my fingers feeling like sticks.

I can do this, I thought.

“Suction.”

I made the first incision. The Furinacs have almost no abdominal muscle sheathing, so I penetrated the fat layer quickly.

“Clamp.”

Beneath it, the inflamed peritoneum stretched, bulging and purple. A sickly odor rose from the exposed tissue.

“Tell the Patriarch I am beginning the gastropic inspection.”

After I breached the peritoneal layer, the Furinac contracted an internal plate of cartilage, allowing me to inspect what served as his digestive system. Two of the quartet of greyish organs were ruptured in a dozen places. A small portion of the large intestine was also punctured. I described what I saw as I suctioned out the dangerous fluids and matter that had accumulated in the compartmental cavity.

There was a profusion of buzzed humming from the Furinac once Reever was through interpreting.

“The Patriarch would like to know if the organs can be saved,” Reever asked me. “Proper consumption of his native diet requires the preservation of all four stomachs. He says he is old and has few pleasures left.”

I surveyed the organs, then shook my head. “Can’t do it. I'll try to clone the damaged organs, and replace them at a later time. Best I can do.”

The elderly Furinac sighed just like a human once he heard this translated.

“A change in diet beats dying,” I said.

The Patriarch indicated through Reever that I should proceed. My right hand slipped on the lascalpel as I lifted it. I couldn’t feel it anymore.

“Damn.” I flexed my left fingers, they weren’t much better. I had been trained to operate ambidextrously, but that wasn't going to help. I looked at Reever. “We have a bit of a problem, Duncan.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t have enough sensation in my hands to perform this procedure.”

Everyone within the sterile field stopped what they were doing for a full five seconds.

“Calm down,” I said to the room at large, “We’ll find a way.”

Reever looked at the team. “What about one of them? Can they take your place?”

Tonetka, Squilyp, and I constituted the full staff of surgeons for the
Sunlace
. A few of the more experienced residents were doing some simple procedures, but none had graduated to the level of cutting required for this kind of work.

On the other hand, if we didn’t do this now, the Furinac would die. I turned my face toward the display panel just beyond the sterile field.

“Squilyp, can you hear me?”

His reply was low but audible beyond the field static.

“Yes, Doctor.”

“If you have any bright ideas, now’s the time.” I thought for a moment. “If I guide you with my voice, could you do the procedure by touch?”

“An interesting proposition,” the Omorr said. “I have a better one.”

“Don’t be shy.”

“You made a comment about borrowing someone’s hands. Could Linguist Reever lend you his while you share a cortical coupling?”

A radical idea. A great one, too. I looked at Reever. “Can we do that? Operate on the Patriarch using my mind and your hands?”

Reever’s eyes went from me to the open thorax and exposed organs, then to his own hands. He swallowed hard before he said, “Yes.”

Why, he’s
squeamish
, I thought. How cute.

“Just think of it as helping the handicapped.” I turned my head toward the console. “Squilyp, I’m giving you a raise in compensation. Major credits. You can have the desk, too.”

I explained what we were doing to my team members while Reever translated my proposed solution to the Patriarch. I had no idea how he explained that the Furinac’s surgeon couldn't use her own hands, but somehow he got the message through. The Patriarch agreed. Reever turned to me. His eyes were dull green above the edge of his mask.

“Whenever you’re ready, Doctor.”

“Remember to let me do my job while we’re linked. I need full control of your hands.” I crinkled my eyes in a surgical-room smile. “Relax, Duncan. I know what I'm—you're—doing.”

We linked. I raced into Reever’s thoughts impatiently. He was feeling nauseous, which made me nauseous.

Cut it out. Now is not the time to decide you don’t like touching squishy things
. I reached out with my mental hands, and felt him guide me to his. Through my eyes, I watched as I lifted Duncan’s hand to the lascalpel. His fingers shook a little.
Get a grip. Can’t do that when you're in someone's abdomen, you'll cut out something important. Just relax and enjoy yourself
.

You enjoy doing this
? Reever seemed crabby.

We grasped the lascalpel and angled it over the Furinac.

It’s the great love of my life. Now, we're going to make the first incision. I have to give instructions to the team, so just let me use your hands and stay out of the way.

Once the surgical team adjusted to the idea, they were only too happy to slap instruments into Reever’s gloves. He jumped at the feel of metal striking his palm the first time.

Steady, Duncan
. I leaned closer to the first stomach, clamped off and ready for removal.
Here we go. Whatever you do, don’t jerk the lascalpel
.

The operation went on for three more hours. I had to work slowly. Reever’s untrained hands were capable but unaccustomed to the fine manipulation required. I felt his muscles cramping as we completed the last of the excisions.

Tell the Patriarch to release his internal plate
. I pushed the lascalpel away with Duncan’s hand, and asked one of the team to close for us.
That’s it. You can end the link
—

The world tilted, disappeared. I was in a dark, silent place. The sounds of a child crying made me whirl around.

Reever?

I saw an image of a little boy, dressed in nothing more than a filthy rag twisted around his hips. His pathetically thin body rocked back and forth. A mass of scabbed, infected gashes covered the back of the child’s hands.

Duncan?

The image dissolved, reshaped itself. A taller, older version of the boy got to his feet. He was wearing a surgical gown. Furinac blood stained his gloves.

No. 1 didn’t mean to remind you of this. Duncan, I'm sorry.

Cherijo, I’m glad I was useful to you. I didn't want the Patriarch to die. But don't do this to me again.

We were back in the surgical suite, staring at each other. Reever excused himself as soon as I deactivated the sterile field.

“Doctor?” It was the Omorr, sounding anxious. I gave him a summary of the operation as I cleaned up. When I came out in main Medical, Adaola was waiting for me.

“Security cannot move Dr. Rogan to detainment for the moment, Senior Healer,” she said. “Captain Pnor wishes Xonea to remain in isolation.”

With all the uproar over Rogan, the Furinac and Squilyp, I’d forgotten about Xonea. “What for?” The nurse made an I-don't-know gesture. “All right. But I want him kept in restraints at all times.”

Adaola nodded. “May I ask what happened to Linguist Reever?”

“It’s complicated,” I said. I looked around, but didn't see Reever anywhere. “Where is he?”

“He departed. I offered an antiemetic to him, but he refused.”

“An antiemetic?”

“Why, yes, Senior Healer. I thought it would be helpful, considering the way he vomited when he came out of surgery.”

I monitored the Furinac for a few hours, then left him in the capable hands of Adaola so I could catch a sleep interval. There would be very few of them for me from now on. I’d be the only physician on duty until Squilyp recovered from Rogan's attack.