VAI

"Look straight ahead. Good." He switched to my other eye. "Good."

The light blinked off. His volo clicked and rose away from my face. The patch on the shoulder of the Starwatcher's G.E.F. uniform identified him as Commander Ragear, chief medical officer of the G.E.V. Shadow, and a doctor. He patted my hand as he consulted the readouts on his okulus.

"Elevated heart rate, elevated adrenaline, cortisol through the roof. How are you feeling?"

Terrible, I tried to say. It just came out as a cough. He and I were alone on the shuttle, only now it was parked in the Shadow's ancillary vehicle bay. My shirt and cape, sticky with blood, were draped over the back of the seat I was sitting in.

"More water," he said, placing the water bottle back into my hand and tipping it toward my lips.

I drank half of it down in three scorchingly painful gulps. His volo swept around and hovered near my throat, and as I swallowed it clicked and popped, speaking its own language, the way they did. I tried to clear my throat, and racked into a terrible coughing fit.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I almost forgot about the laryngeal damage. Hold still, please."

He brought up his little handheld celluplasor, and I heard a very faint sound, like something sizzling beneath my skin. He stopped and set the medical device aside.

"Have a little more water," he said. I closed my eyes and drank the rest of the bottle. I could feel a tenderness in my throat, now, a kind of softness in the tissues, but it wasn't exactly pain. I cleared my throat, testing how it felt . . . yes. Almost normal again. The doctor worked quickly.

That same sensation of tenderness thrummed in the skin of my face, in my eye, in the joint between my neck and my chest where the Commander had healed my broken clavicle. And in my shoulder blade—my right scapula—which had been broken as well. My right wrist, along with several knuckles and fingers in my right hand, had also been broken.

I opened my mouth and closed it, stretching my jaw. I flexed my hand.

"Now," Ragear said congenially, "let's try this again. How are you feeling?

It occurred to me that the word wizard—one who is wise—had likely been coined for people like him. He had a caring manner about him, exuding the background radiation of kindness and compassion, and I didn't think a person could be wise unless they were also kind; those qualities seemed symbiotic.

"Weak," I answered. "Like I've been hollowed out and filled with salt."

"Salt?" One of his ears twitched curiously. "Why salt?"

I shook my head. "I don't know, I just—just weak."

"Well, if it's any consolation to you, Mr. Ma'amaloa, I think you're going to be just fine," he told me, "though clearly you have been through a terrible trauma. Can you tell me what happened to you?"

It disturbed me that I couldn't remember how several of my injuries had happened, but mostly I felt relieved to be conscious again. I felt like I had been trapped inside a very bad nightmare, and was just starting to come out of it.

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Dr. Ragear placed a fuzzy paw on my back. He had pale fur the color of coffee with heavy cream, lodalite eyes, and big oval ears. "Take your time," he said.

"Do you believe in courage, Dr. Rags?"

Dr. Rags was what he had told me to call him when he had first come bounding aboard the shuttle. Vai Ma'amaloa? I'm Dr. Ragear. Some would call me Commander Ragear, but you're a civilian, so let's not bother with all that. My friends call me Dr. Rags, and my guess is we're going to be friends, so why don't we start there?

"Courage," he said. "Yes, I believe in courage. I've seen it kill too many people to think it a myth." Warpaint stood guard at the bottom of the ramp with both of his left arms draped over his right, which was armor-plated and massively thick. I heard voices murmuring somewhere nearby. The Commander caught that. "The other passengers." He waved a paw in a little circle to indicate the shuttle we were sitting in. "Some of them are quite concerned about you. They'll be glad to see you on your feet. Now—you were saying something about courage?"

I decided to change the subject. "Hey, uh, how long was I screaming?"

"You were in transit from Mars for, let's see." He checked the records from his okulus. "43 minutes, 12 seconds. Is that—"

"I was screaming the entire time?"

"Yes, your fellow passengers did report screaming of a continuous nature, though by the end there was little left of your voice. Which may have come as some relief to them."

"And then I just came out of it?" I asked.

"So it would seem."

"For no reason?"

"That is for you tell me. Based on what the mechatronic told them," he said, gesturing vaguely, "you were exposed to some kind of drug, but I don't see anything in the toxicology to indicate that. What can you tell me about it?"

"Zek," I told him, shaking my head slowly. Zek. I couldn't believe it. It was supposed to have been wiped from the damned universe. I rubbed my throat. The skin felt smooth and hot.

"Zek," he said, "I'm not familiar—"

"Commander!" My father's voice boomed.

"Hello, sir," Warpaint said, as the old man marched right past him, up the ramp, and onto the shuttle.

"Commander, thank you, that's enough." My father grabbed me by the jaw and twisted my head left, right, inspecting my face.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant Commander," said Dr. Ragear, drawing himself to his full height of about 1.2m, and tilting his head to look up at my father, who towered over him. "I'm not yet finished with my patient."

"And I need to speak to my son."

The two men, Starwatcher and Human, glared at each other for what seemed like a long time. Finally Ragear gathered up his medical equipment and folded it into a black leatherstyle satchel. "Very well. I do understand. Young man," he said to me, "I want you to drink at least 45cl of water before you go to sleep tonight." He reached out and squeezed my bare shoulder. "You'll experience a feeling of dehydration for the next several days. That's normal after what you've been through. Drink, drink, drink, that will be the name of the game. And go easy on those big bones of yours. Doctor's orders." He turned and frowned at my father. "And you, Lieutenant Commander Ma'amaloa, I will see tomorrow. Good night."

My father gave him a curt nod, and Ragear padded down the ramp. When he got about halfway to the bottom, he stopped and spoke over his shoulder. "Young man. One more thing? I will ask you to remember this. Another word for courage is stupidity. Courage is the murderer that prudence protects us from. It wants to kill you. Prudence, caution, and careful planning keep us safe from the likes of courage."

I heard his words and rejected them. Prudence and caution kept the individual safe when the community suffered. Courage caused the community to rise up and make the suffering stop. But I didn't say that. Sensing that my father would not be the right audience for the nickname Dr. Rags, I said, "Thank you, Commander."

He straightened his uniform, looked up at Warpaint.

The mechatronic looked back down at him and said, "Greetings."

"Yes," Ragear said, then he went out of sight.

I heard voices trailing away, following the doctor toward, I assumed, the transport lift. ("How's he doing, doc? Is he going to be okay"

"The patient is doing well. He will need several days of recovery, but the young have a way of springing back . . .")

"Warpaint, get in here," my father said.

Warpaint came up the ramp. "How can I be of help, sir?"

The old man hit a button, and the ramp began to close.

"I'm oka—" I began to say.

My father held up a finger. "Not. One. Word."