Beyond Asimios: Book One Page 7
—Get the doctor, Miranda said.
Oreg paused, scratched himself on his chin, and looked confused.
—Pick up that man, Miranda repeated, this time in Oreg’s tongue. Pick him up and carry him to your ship.
Oreg went over to Graf and he leaned down and lifted the doctor up, but not as you might think. The alien squatted down and wrapped a long arm around the doctor and raised him up like a sack of flour, a little carelessly and with a degree of indifference. He balanced the glazed-eyed Graf on his hip and looked back at Miranda.
—Come on, he called to her.
And Miranda followed Oreg to the ship where they ascended the ramp and entered through a hatch that opened under the alien’s command. Oreg turned down a hallway with Graf supported on his side and then he entered a small room where he set the doctor down on a long couch.
—Wait, Miranda said.
She went over and touched fingers against the doctor’s neck and paused. His pulse is weak.
—Will he live?
—I am not sure, Oreg hissed. The poison effects everyone differently. I do have serums, he said to Miranda, for just this kind of accident.
As Oreg was about to leave the room, Miranda stood up and told him to stop.
—You are going to find medicine for the doctor, correct? she asked.
Oreg looked down at her and hissed. He shifted his weight from one hip to the other and leaned against the frame of the door.
—Yes, that is all I will do, he said. Do not worry, we’ll do what we can after
Then Oreg swung around. The coat of quills on his back fell in with his motion, like the shake of a horse’s mane, as his long legs carried him through the door.
When she was alone with the doctor, Miranda once again set her fingers on his neck to measure his pulse. She then moved to brush his tangled hair over his ears.
—I wonder where our bot is? Miranda asked herself as she kneeled down to look into the doctor’s hazy eyes.
When Oreg returned he carried with him a small black case that he set on a corner table made of an unidentifiable metal. He unlatched a pair of clasps and opened the case and inside was an array of colored vials set in two neat rows. Beside the vials was a small injection device. Miranda noticed that some of the vials were missing, presumably discarded after use, and Oreg, without hesitation, removed one of the blue-colored doses and loaded it into the syringe. He turned to the motionless doctor and positioned the device behind his ear.
—Excuse me, Miranda said as she took hold of Oreg’s arm. Are you certain this will work?
Oreg chirruped a little and showed his dark tongue from under his now visible large black nose. He had removed his atmosphere mask.
—What? he said. Do you think I’ve never seen a
Miranda stared at Oreg for a moment before releasing his arm. Oreg turned to Graf and positioned the syringe behind the doctor’s ear. Then Oreg paused. He closed his large brown eyes and he took the long fingers of his opposite hand and cracked his knuckles as he had done previously. He then pulled the injection devise away from Graf’s skin and turned back to the case where he peered at a schematic that was etched on the inside of the open lid; a drawing of strange symbols and vectors. He grunted a few times and removed the vial from the syringe and returned it to the case. He then counted two vials to the left of the old one—a vial containing a light green serum—and removed it. He brought the vial close to his eye (Miranda saw the reflection of the vial in his black iris), and satisfied, he loaded it into the syringe and turned to the doctor and aimed the device behind his ear.
—Wait, Miranda said.
Oreg raised an eyebrow.
—This will work, he hissed.
—That isn’t my concern, Miranda said. My concern is on a philosophical level.
—Philosophical? hissed Oreg. What do you mean?
—It is Graf that I am concerned about. You see, the doctor was trying to kill himself earlier this morning. He was in the process of committing self-murder when he saw your ship. Your appearance interrupted his effort.
—Is he ill? Oreg asked, the fur gathering above his eyes as he turned to study the doctor.
—He is not ill.
—Has he committed some offense?
—No.
—Perhaps he was he an outcast? Or was it grief, perhaps?
—I think he was suffering from hopelessness, Miranda said. Sadness, and yes, grief.
—Mm…said Oreg as he shook his head.
Oreg studied the doctor for a moment and Graf looked peaceful where he was stretched out. His beard was smudged with silver dust and his normally stormy visage was placid while his chest rose and fell in shallow motions. Oreg lowered the injector and looked back at Miranda.
—Do you want him to die?
—I do not want him to die, Miranda said. But I know that he wanted to end his life. Should we let the paralysis run its course?
—We could see if he survives without the serum, chirruped Oreg, but the results can sometimes be worse than death. Some who have been exposed to the poison and went untreated have suffered greatly. Some have survived but have become the living dead…like, perhaps, one who has consumed the uncooked
—They eat themselves from within?
—Unfortunate, but true.
—I see, Miranda said as she turned back to look at the doctor. Perhaps these are outcomes the doctor would rather avoid. Please, sir Oreg, allow me a moment to consider my decision. And Miranda clamped her azure eyes shut and was silent.
While Miranda paused in deliberation, Dr. Graf was alive and aware and following their discussion with interest. He was nearly hysterical with the thought of eating himself from within, and while he could only understand Miranda’s English side of the conversation, he felt fairly confident that without Oreg’s serum things might not be in his favor. Yes, he thought with a rage that evaporated on the thin opening of his dry and pale lips, even though he had intended to kill himself, circumstances were a bit different now, and the prospect of living a few more days was actually rather appealing. So with this in mind, doctor Graf began the process of digging down…summoning up all of his courage and strength to express his desire to live, to walk again in full consciousness and to feel the wind on his cheek. He groped downward, deep down into that dark kernel of existence where the soul has nothing else but itself to appraise, and he lit a match, and with it a will that grew hot with life. He focused on the very thing that would secure his continued existence: relaying a message to the world without, to Miranda and this strange spine-covered alien, that he did want to live. He focused on uttering the one word that would rescue him, the sacred word that had could shatter the shackles of his physical paresis; the divine incantation that would release the soul from bondage. With this word, all would be set right. The word: phhhhhth.
Miranda wiped away the spittle that formed at the corner of Graf’s mouth and both she and Oreg looked down on him with pity.
—I have decided, Miranda said as she stared at the doctor. It should be Dr. Graf’s decision as to whether he lives or does not, and at present he does not have the ability to make that decision. Therefore, he should receive your treatment, Mr. Oreg. Please continue with your ministrations.
Miranda looked at Oreg and Oreg’s small ears flattened against his head. He raised the injector to Graf’s ear and depressed a button and the colorful contents evacuated the vial. When he was finished, Oreg removed the vial and returned it to the case. The he returned the injector to it’s bed, and then he closed the lid. In a swift motion, Oreg grabbed the toxic spine that had been embedded in Graf’s led, and he yanked it free. He raised and eyebrow at Miranda as she pressed her fingers gently against the doctor’s neck to measure of his health.
—If he makes it through, said Oreg, he’ll carry an immunity to the toxin. If he survives, that is.
Miranda nodded and turned back to Graf. She straightened in her chair while Oreg collected the case and started for the door.
—Thank you, Oreg, she said.
Oreg then stood and huffed and left the room.
There is no greater sense of gratification than that of having eluded death (and especially brain death, for that matter), and as the serum coursed through the doctor’s veins he wept imperceptibly while praising the human spirit and celebrating the android’s good sense. Almost immediately he could feel the serum taking effect, and the paralysis that had seized him from head to foot began to relax its grip. His fingers began to tingle, his toes and feet flushed with heat. His eyelid began to twitch and he was assaulted by the powerful odor of peanut butter. Or was it something else? Then he was reminded of being borne upon Oreg’s hip and carried into the ship and he remember the smell of this creature, a smell like nothing he had ever experienced: a stark smell of musk, an odor of fur and peat and sage and yeast. Fascinating. Was Oreg dangerous? Graf mused. Was it Oreg the one who had tampered with Julie’s cairn? Why did Oreg help him?
As Graf thought about these things, Miranda covered him in a blanket and he drifted off into a well-earned sleep. When he awoke a short time later, it was to the rumbling of an empty stomach.
—Miranda! he called out. Miranda!
Oreg appeared in the doorway. He stared at Graf for a moment. Neither of them knew exactly what to do. The doctor forced himself to smile, but it was a fraudulent smile. He was alone with an alien who had recently assaulted him. The same alien had since saved his life and the situation struck the doctor as rather awkward. Oreg scratched the nape of his neck, under his spines, with his long fingers, and then muttered a few huffs and hisses and grunts. Graf’s instinct was to jog through his VI for a translator, but the thought of waving through his VI selector made him hesitate. It might strike the alien as either rude or threatening and that wouldn’t be neighborly.
—Miranda! Graf howled in panic.
Miranda appeared next to Oreg where she calmly told the doctor that she had something he might want to see.
—I’ve found the sentinel, she said. Can you stand? You must come and take a look this instant.
Miranda helped Graf to his feet, and to the doctor’s surprise, he succeeded in the task. Walking was a bit more of a challenge, but as he moved he felt his strength gradually return to his legs. After shuffling down the corridor, Miranda directed him into a small alcove where the ESCOM sentinel bot was deactivated and resting on the floor, a saucer-sized dent on its dull convex surface.
Oreg huffed and chirruped a few words before turning to leave, and Graf looked to Miranda for translation.
—He says that when the bot approached the ship he dropped the cargo ramp on it. The sentinel shows signs of hibernation power, she went on, but I have not been successful at reviving it.
Graf leaned down and ran his fingers over the damaged bot. He looked into its formerly opalescent sensor eye, but found it colorless and dead. He ran his hand over its smooth surface and he tugged and pushed at various panels and sensors, but nothing seemed to rouse it. It was also exceedingly heavy and it didn’t budge when Graf hefted his weight against it.
—You carried him in? Graf asked Miranda.
She told him that she had.
—Well, I’m no robotics engineer, Graf said. I don’t know the first thing about resuscitating sentinel bots, but this fellow might be scrap metal at this point.
—The sentinel’s quantum balancer, Miranda said—the mechanism that allows it to fly—is highly sophisticated. It should not be discarded.
—Well, hell, Graf said as he looked up at Miranda, I don’t care what we do with it. Maybe our friend can find some use for it?
Graf felt a bit dizzy as he stood up, and he leaned on the android for support.
—I’ve been discussing with Oreg about our situation, and it’s his intention to leave the planet at first opportunity. But I made it clear that our conversation should include you. In the meantime, please activate your translator and upload a small file that I created specifically for the Goerathian language. You will then be able to understand Oreg. He has his own earpiece that seems to serve the same function.
—How are you? Graf whispered over the comlink to Miranda. Is everything ok? Has he threatened you?
—There is no immediate danger here, Miranda replied. I don’t have sufficient biological knowledge of Oreg’s species to complete a metric assessment, but that is my conclusion. Oreg is reserved, but he is intelligent and has been generous with his assistance. But his moral integrity is something I cannot determine.
Graf grunted at this and closed his eyes.
A moment later Oreg came back and asked if the two of them would join him for a drink on the flight deck. They agreed and then followed the tall alien through the ship to the bridge. When they entered the bridge, Oreg whistled out loud and the navigation windows turned translucent. Orpheus’s rift rose up around them like the walls of a great silver caldera.
—Take a seat, grunted Oreg as he pointed to a bench and table set with three glasses and a tall dark pitcher. Dr. Graf, this drink is for you. It will help restore your strength.
—Are you sure? Graf said as he lowered himself on the bench.
—That is certain, Oreg said with a flash of his upper teeth, which Graf interpreted to be an expression of humor. This is a Goerathian main drink. I cannot travel without it. It’s said to cure all ailments, but that’s nonsense of course. It is simply a hot drink.
Oreg raised his glass and tilted back his cup and waited for his guests to do the same.
Graf stuck his nose in his glass and took a whiff. When he took a swallow he was surprised to find that the beverage tasted like dirty laundry water—bitter and pungent and with a soapy finish. He grudgingly raised his glass in salute, took another drink, cringed, and then let his eyes wander around the room.
The aesthetic detail of the ship was extraordinary and he was impressed by how strange and unique everything seemed when compared to conventional human design. Apart from a pair of forward-facing command chairs, nothing in the room resonated with what Graf would term “the familiar.” The layout was curious, with no elements of a central control, which led Graf to believe that the operator, Oreg, must have either some sort of thought connection (like Graf’s VI) interfacing with the ship, or that there were embedded sensors that were kept out of sight. Whatever the case, Graf was sure that getting this thing off the ground would be no easy feat for someone lacking training. The other thing that struck Graf was how visually arresting the room was. From floor to ceiling was etched bulbous dark green and crimson fractals—flowers and circuitous vines and regressive shell patterns—the same motifs that he had seen on the exterior of the ship. These designs wound up and around the chairs, following the armrests, and turned up against the walls, spreading symmetrically before entangling into a larger mandala that stretched the width of the ceiling. It was artistic mastery and Graf wondered at the time it must have taken to make. There was almost a religious intensity to it, something spiritual and symbolic and something, due to his ignorance, that ultimately eluded him.
As he wrapped his fingers around the cup of acrid beverage, Graf paused to reflect on just how amazing it was, and how incredibly privileged he felt, to witness something this extraordinary. Oreg, this ship, this drink…it was dizzying. Staying behind on Asimios had been a pretty good idea after all.
But even though he was in a state of astonishment, he didn’t hesitate to calculate what needed to be done to obtain what he determined to be a hand weapon tucked carelessly on a shelf near to their table. Graf picked up his glass and hurled it across the room, and as Oreg followed the trajectory of the glass with curiosity (perhaps at the same time, questioning human table etiquette) the glass shattered against a wall; while this went on, G
raf lunged, his body travelling with considerable inertia, at the weapon tucked in the cubby. At the zenith of his arc, Graf seized the gun and held it skyward as his body glanced off the floor and came to a stop. In the seconds it took to collect himself, he leveled the weapon at Oreg and winced in pain as he attempted to convey the urgency of his action. Miranda spoke first:
—Doctor Graf, what are you doing?
—Shut up, Miranda! he snapped.
He clenched his teeth and took aim at Oreg. He slowly got up from the floor. He was shaking.
—Maybe now we’ll get some answers out of our friend, he said through a painful cough. Maybe now he can tell us why he’s really here on Asimios?
Oreg’s large eyes narrowed and his ears pinned back against his head. With composure, he planted his elbow on the table and then began to scrutinize his fingernails.
—Doctor Graf, he hissed—(the words were clear on Graf’s translator.) You are a guest on my ship. Your behavior is not befitting a commander.
—Did you dismantle the cairn? Graf said as he took a step closer and wagged the gun in Oreg’s direction. Did you take Julie’s body? Tell me!
Oreg’s head tilted. His eyes widened and grew dark.
—By the Seven Planes of Truth, he said, I would never disturb a grave. Let the dead dream and the living suffer.
—Doctor, Miranda put in.
—Then what the hell are you doing on Asimios? Graf said as he felt the hair rise on his back. Answer me! he said as he increased the pressure on the trigger.
Oreg looked up at the doctor. He cracked the knuckles in his left hand and then ran the fingers of his right hand through the soft fur of his throat.
—Doctor Graf, he chirruped, put the weapon down. Oreg closed his eyes.
—Do as you are told, Dr. Graf. Put the weapon down.
Graf began to tremble. The gun in his hand was suddenly hot. To his surprise he let the weapon slip from his fingers and it landed on the floor with a thud.
—Sit down, Dr. Graf, Oreg said. You are angry and confused, but don’t try my patience.
Defeated, Graf looked sideways at Oreg as he sat back down in his chair. Miranda held out her hand and Graf took it. His breathing was heavy. His cheeks were flushed.