Page 80 of Invasive Species
Survival. “Research on rare diseases. You?”
He grunts, eyebrows rising, when the Magirustock hands over his order, a singed ratta served on a plasteek napkin. The cook places his palms together and E27AH inclines his head, taking a bite with the cook looking on.
His eyes practically rolling to the back of his head, E27AH lets out a low moan of delight as he nibbles and chews.
“Are you sure you don't want one?” he asks me between greasy mouthfuls.
“I… I've already eaten.” And I’m about to lose that dinner if I'm not careful. I focus on the taste of the nutristim to keep me grounded, the acidic aftertaste making my eyes water.
Once he’s done, he smacks his lips. “Ah. That’s better.” He rubs his hands clean in the plasteek napkin and hands it back to the cook, who waves another ratta at him.
To my utter relief, he shakes his head, turning to me with a serious look on his face. “I’ve got a tricky case I could use a second opinion on.”
“I’ll do my best.” Of course we always would, because clones who don’t are disposed of.
He starts reeling off numbers linked to Olorian health markers that I know as well as my own by now. These are Arra-bellah’s health stats. My fist tightens so hard around the nutristim the glass container creaks in protest.
This clone, out of the many literal thousands who live and work here, is the very one treating my mate.
“Well? What do you think?” he asks me once he’s done.
I wish I knew, but at least I can get some information. “Is the patient conscious?”
“Yes.”
“Ambulatory?”
“For short periods of time, yes.”
I gnaw my lip, then drag it through my teeth to ask another question. “How does she react to the nutrient bed?”
His eyes narrow slightly but he says, “Patient responds well to it, it keeps them conscious, but any removal from the bed results in unconsciousness soon after.”
The nutrient bed is helping as I’d hoped, but it won’t make her better on its own. “Is she eating well?”
“No, the patient will take nothing by mouth.”
Drok na. “Why not? Have you tried asking her preferences?”
“Of course, but she doesn't want anything to eat.”
“Is her reduced appetite because of her condition, or?—”
“I don’t know.” He leans back on his stool, studying me carefully.
But the full focus of my problem-solving ability is on Arra-bellah. “Try fresh plants rather than pastes, and cuts of meat in place of reconstituted substitutes.”
He blinks, surprised, then nods. “I’ll try that.”
“What analyses have you run?”
“Full works,” he says, draining his nutristim.
“And do the results show anything unusual?”
He glances away, cheeks flushing. “Well, yes, actually. But I probably shouldn’t discuss patient details out in the open like this.”
What had he found? Fear grips my hearts like a forceps. “One more question. Is it the new virus, the one which killed a female before a cure could be found?”
