Page 18 of Ascendent
Run, his mind whispered.Save him. Get as far away as possible. The chill crept through him, rising along his veins. He felt his lungs freeze, ice crystals springing up in the base of his chest.
His feet thundered down an inner stairwell, echoingboomscascading through the concrete tube. Fluorescent lights hummed. Thick blast doors barred the way on every level, kept the private substructure of the Kremlin from the glitz and glamour. Centuries ago, servants had scampered through the walls, had hidden from sight like rats. That’s what he was now. Hiding out of sight. A rat.
He gripped the doorframe as he tried to breathe. His throat was clenching, and he couldn’t drag in enough air, couldn’t fill his lungs. The walls were closing in, dreary concrete growing smaller, the drone and buzz of the light getting louder until it was scratching at the back of his brain, burrowing beneath his skin, excavating every fear, every nightmare, and throwing them up like movies behind his eyes.
He rested his forehead on the cool metal of the door. He exhaled. His breath fogged before him. His fingers scraped at the frame, the handle. He couldn’t move his hands. They were so cold.
He tried to think of the happiest memory he could, draw up a time he’d been content, at peace. It was a trick he’d learned, something he’d done long ago when he’d had to mentally check out, take his mind elsewhere as—
Waking up in Sergey’s arms. Sleeping in his hold, cratering into unconsciousness, some part of his mind recognizing the circumference of Sergey’s arms as safety, security. Waking up with his face pressed into Sergey’s neck, his chest. Buoyed by his scent, cocooned in his warmth.
No wonder planets stayed in their sun’s orbit. Who would ever run from that, from the perfection—the capture—of serenity?
Frisson curled down his belly, coiled in his gut. Serenity, and more. Could Sergey melt the ice that had invaded his soul? Could the sun warm his blood?
Would he smile as he disintegrated?
He was flying toward Sergey face-first, basking in his glow, in the oblivion.
He breathed in again, filling his lungs. His hands unclenched. They didn’t shake. He took another breath, then pushed out of the stairwell, into the far wing of the Kremlin Palace.
Sasha knew this wing well. He’d spent a month there recuperating under the tender ministrations of Dr. Voronov. He’d walked, then jogged, the hallways, slowly fighting to get his body back into shape. He’d befriended Sergey within those walls, had first been drawn into his orbit from the tiny hospital room Dr. Voronov kept, ahead and to the left.
He padded down the thick carpet. This wing was practically his home, and there was no need to hide. Everyone who knew him knew he had to visit Dr. Voronov and the medical suite every few days. The door was open as he came near. Maybe Dr. Voronov was seeing someone already? Was Sergey in there? His belly button clenched. Maybe he should come back later.
He stood in the doorway and fidgeted.
“Sasha.” Dr. Voronov rose from behind his desk and held out his arms for a brusque hug. “I’ve been expecting you.” He guided Sasha into the exam room. An IV was prepped, ready to go.
He smiled wanly. “Always, another IV.”
“It’s good you came down to Moscow when you did. The penicillin you were taking had lost its effectiveness. You were in danger of a severe infection.” Dr. Voronov had met him in his hotel room before the Heroes Ball with another IV of antibiotics, and a stern lecture. “But, you won’t need these in the future.” Dr. Voronov swabbed his arm, tapped at his vein. Peered into the crook of his elbow, and then slid the IV needle in.
“You heard about NASA?”
“Seryozhaasked me to prepare your medical file for them. I spoke to the flight medical officer over the telephone, in consult. You were given a preliminary medical acceptance based on the file, and on their plans to regenerate a spleen for you.”
“You talked to them about me?”
“I did. Sergey wanted to make sure you could still pass the medical tests before he told you. A small deception, but it was for a good cause.”
Sasha snorted.
“Seryozhahas set up an appointment for you at the University hospital next week. Soon, you will have a spleen again, and you will need to come up with different reasons for coming down here to see me.” Dr. Voronov winked.
“The University?” Sasha scowled. “Why not you? Why can’t you do the surgery? You took it out. Can’t you put it back in?”
“I’m not a vascular surgeon. Hacking something out is easier than reattaching. I’m afraid this is outside my expertise. The University doctors are young. They will treat you well, take care of you.”
His scowl deepened. “I don’t want a new doctor. I want you.” He didn’t want to fumble through a fake story to a new doctor, lie his way around what had happened. He’d been at rock bottom when he met Dr. Voronov, and he’d confessed everything, the truth about himself, what his flight mates had done to him. He’d been sure he was going to be arrested, sent to jail, or worse.
He’d never take that risk again.
“I cannot perform the surgery—”
“What about everything else? I don’t have to see another doctor for my physical, do I? For any other treatment?”
“You do not,” Dr. Voronov said carefully. “But I’m certain the University doctors will want to take care of all of your medical needs.”
