[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
cleared for their exclusive use. She was relieved to discover Vorkosigan had
been ensconced just across the hall. Dressed already in green military-issue
pajamas, he came promptly over to see her tucked into bed. She managed a small
smile for him, but did not attempt to sit up. The force of gravity was pulling
her down into the center of the world. Only the rigidity of the bed, the
building, the planets crust, held her up against it, not her will at all.
He was trailed by an anxious corpsman, saying, "Remember, sir, try not to
talk so much, till after the doctor's had a chance to give your throat the
irrigation treatment."
The grey light of dawn was making the windows pale. He sat on the edge of
the bed and took her hand, rubbing it. "You're cold, dear Captain," he
whispered hoarsely. She nodded. Her chest ached, her throat was raw, and her
sinuses burned.
"I should never have let them talk me into taking the job," he went on.
"So sorry . . ."
"I talked you into it, too. You tried to warn me. Not your fault. It
seemed right for you. Is right."
He shook his head. "Don't talk. Makes scar tissue on the vocal cords."
She gave vent to a joyless "Ha!" and laid a finger across his lips as he
started to speak again. He nodded, resigned, and they remained looking at each
other for a time. He pushed her tangled hair back gently from her face, and
she captured the broad hand to hold against her cheek for comfort, until he
was hunted out by a posse of doctors and technicians and driven off for a
treatment. "We'll be in to see you shortly, Milady," their chieftain promised
ominously.
They returned after a while, to make her gargle a nasty pink fluid, and
breathe into a machine, then rumbled out again. A female nurse brought her
breakfast, which she did not touch.
Then a committee of grim-faced doctors entered her room. The one who had
come from the Imperial Residence in the night was now smartly groomed and
neatly dressed in civilian clothes. Her own personal physician was flanked by
a younger, black-browed man in Service greens with captain's tabs on his
collar. She gazed at their three faces and thought of Cerberus.
Her man introduced the stranger. "This is Captain Vaagen, of the Imperial
Military Hospital's research facility. He's our resident expert on military
poisons."
"Inventing them, or cleaning up after them, Captain?" Cordelia asked.
"Both, Milady." He stood at a sort of aggressive parade rest.
Her own man had the look about his eyes of someone who had drawn the short
straw, although his lips smiled. "My Lord Regent has asked me to inform you of
the schedule of treatments, and so on. I'm afraid," he cleared his throat,
"that it would be best if we scheduled the abortion promptly. It is already
unusually late in your pregnancy for it, and it would be as well for your
recovery to relieve you of the physiological strain as soon as possible."
"Is there nothing that can be done?" she asked hopelessly, already knowing
the answer from their faces.
"I'm afraid not," said her man sadly. The man from the Imperial Residence
Page 188
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
nodded confirmation.
"I ran a literature search," said the captain unexpectedly, staring out
the window, "and there was that calcium experiment. True, the results they got
weren't particularly heartening-"
"I thought we'd agreed not to bring that up," glared the Residence man.
"Vaagen, that's cruel," said her own man. "You're just raising false
hopes. You can't make the Regent's wife into one of your hapless experimental
animals for a lot of untried shots in the dark. You have your permission from
the Regent for the autopsy-leave it at that."
Her world turned right-side-up again in a second, as she looked at the
face of the man with ideas. She knew the type; half-right, half-cocked,
half-successful, flitting from one monomania to another like a bee pollinating
flowers, gathering little fruit but leaving seeds behind. She was nothing to
him, personally, but the raw material for a monograph. The risks she took did
not appall his imagination, she was not a person but a disease state. She
smiled upon him, slowly, wildly, knowing him then for her ally in the enemy
camp.
"How do you do, Dr. Vaagen? How would you like to write the paper of a
lifetime?"
The Residence man barked a laugh. "She's got your number, Vaagen."
He smiled back, astonished to be so instantly understood. "You realize, I
can't guarantee any results. . . ."
"Results!" interrupted her man. "My God, you'd better let her know what
your idea of results is. Or show her the pictures-no, don't do that. Milady,"
he turned to her, "the treatment he's discussing was last tried twenty years
ago. It did irreparable damage to the mothers. And the results-the very best
results you could hope for would be a twisted cripple. Perhaps much worse.
Indescribably worse."
"Jellyfish describes it pretty well," said Vaagen.
"You're inhuman, Vaagen!" snapped her man, with a glance her way to check
the distress quotient.
"A viable jellyfish, Dr. Vaagen?" asked Cordelia, intent.
"Mm. Maybe," he replied, inhibited by his colleagues' angry glares. "But
there is the difficulty of what happens to the mothers when the treatment is
applied in vivo."
"So, can't you do it in vitro?" Cordelia asked the obvious question.
Vaagen shot a glance of triumph at her man. "It would certainly open up a
number of possible lines of experiment, if it could be arranged," he murmured
to the ceiling.
"In vitro?" said the Residence man, puzzled. "How?"
"What, how?" said Cordelia. "You've got seventeen Escobaran-manufactured
uterine replicators stored in a closet around here somewhere, carried home
from the war." She turned excitedly to Vaagen. "Do you happen to know a Dr.
Henri?"
Vaagen nodded. "We've worked together."
"Then you know all about them!" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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cleared for their exclusive use. She was relieved to discover Vorkosigan had
been ensconced just across the hall. Dressed already in green military-issue
pajamas, he came promptly over to see her tucked into bed. She managed a small
smile for him, but did not attempt to sit up. The force of gravity was pulling
her down into the center of the world. Only the rigidity of the bed, the
building, the planets crust, held her up against it, not her will at all.
He was trailed by an anxious corpsman, saying, "Remember, sir, try not to
talk so much, till after the doctor's had a chance to give your throat the
irrigation treatment."
The grey light of dawn was making the windows pale. He sat on the edge of
the bed and took her hand, rubbing it. "You're cold, dear Captain," he
whispered hoarsely. She nodded. Her chest ached, her throat was raw, and her
sinuses burned.
"I should never have let them talk me into taking the job," he went on.
"So sorry . . ."
"I talked you into it, too. You tried to warn me. Not your fault. It
seemed right for you. Is right."
He shook his head. "Don't talk. Makes scar tissue on the vocal cords."
She gave vent to a joyless "Ha!" and laid a finger across his lips as he
started to speak again. He nodded, resigned, and they remained looking at each
other for a time. He pushed her tangled hair back gently from her face, and
she captured the broad hand to hold against her cheek for comfort, until he
was hunted out by a posse of doctors and technicians and driven off for a
treatment. "We'll be in to see you shortly, Milady," their chieftain promised
ominously.
They returned after a while, to make her gargle a nasty pink fluid, and
breathe into a machine, then rumbled out again. A female nurse brought her
breakfast, which she did not touch.
Then a committee of grim-faced doctors entered her room. The one who had
come from the Imperial Residence in the night was now smartly groomed and
neatly dressed in civilian clothes. Her own personal physician was flanked by
a younger, black-browed man in Service greens with captain's tabs on his
collar. She gazed at their three faces and thought of Cerberus.
Her man introduced the stranger. "This is Captain Vaagen, of the Imperial
Military Hospital's research facility. He's our resident expert on military
poisons."
"Inventing them, or cleaning up after them, Captain?" Cordelia asked.
"Both, Milady." He stood at a sort of aggressive parade rest.
Her own man had the look about his eyes of someone who had drawn the short
straw, although his lips smiled. "My Lord Regent has asked me to inform you of
the schedule of treatments, and so on. I'm afraid," he cleared his throat,
"that it would be best if we scheduled the abortion promptly. It is already
unusually late in your pregnancy for it, and it would be as well for your
recovery to relieve you of the physiological strain as soon as possible."
"Is there nothing that can be done?" she asked hopelessly, already knowing
the answer from their faces.
"I'm afraid not," said her man sadly. The man from the Imperial Residence
Page 188
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
nodded confirmation.
"I ran a literature search," said the captain unexpectedly, staring out
the window, "and there was that calcium experiment. True, the results they got
weren't particularly heartening-"
"I thought we'd agreed not to bring that up," glared the Residence man.
"Vaagen, that's cruel," said her own man. "You're just raising false
hopes. You can't make the Regent's wife into one of your hapless experimental
animals for a lot of untried shots in the dark. You have your permission from
the Regent for the autopsy-leave it at that."
Her world turned right-side-up again in a second, as she looked at the
face of the man with ideas. She knew the type; half-right, half-cocked,
half-successful, flitting from one monomania to another like a bee pollinating
flowers, gathering little fruit but leaving seeds behind. She was nothing to
him, personally, but the raw material for a monograph. The risks she took did
not appall his imagination, she was not a person but a disease state. She
smiled upon him, slowly, wildly, knowing him then for her ally in the enemy
camp.
"How do you do, Dr. Vaagen? How would you like to write the paper of a
lifetime?"
The Residence man barked a laugh. "She's got your number, Vaagen."
He smiled back, astonished to be so instantly understood. "You realize, I
can't guarantee any results. . . ."
"Results!" interrupted her man. "My God, you'd better let her know what
your idea of results is. Or show her the pictures-no, don't do that. Milady,"
he turned to her, "the treatment he's discussing was last tried twenty years
ago. It did irreparable damage to the mothers. And the results-the very best
results you could hope for would be a twisted cripple. Perhaps much worse.
Indescribably worse."
"Jellyfish describes it pretty well," said Vaagen.
"You're inhuman, Vaagen!" snapped her man, with a glance her way to check
the distress quotient.
"A viable jellyfish, Dr. Vaagen?" asked Cordelia, intent.
"Mm. Maybe," he replied, inhibited by his colleagues' angry glares. "But
there is the difficulty of what happens to the mothers when the treatment is
applied in vivo."
"So, can't you do it in vitro?" Cordelia asked the obvious question.
Vaagen shot a glance of triumph at her man. "It would certainly open up a
number of possible lines of experiment, if it could be arranged," he murmured
to the ceiling.
"In vitro?" said the Residence man, puzzled. "How?"
"What, how?" said Cordelia. "You've got seventeen Escobaran-manufactured
uterine replicators stored in a closet around here somewhere, carried home
from the war." She turned excitedly to Vaagen. "Do you happen to know a Dr.
Henri?"
Vaagen nodded. "We've worked together."
"Then you know all about them!" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]