Элизабет Мун - Into the Fire

Grace met Maillard’s gaze, every bit as determined as her own. “I don’t like it, but clear. If I’m in that bad shape, why do I feel better? I’m just tired.”

“It’s not just broken sleep. Typical of this class of poisons, MZT-43 continues to damage systems until you die, but its effects are not immediately lethal with the dose you received. Victims of a light dose typically feel upper-respiratory irritation at first, but that encourages them to drink and eat—which gives some components more time in the gut. You need to be monitored closely until it’s all gone, with appropriate treatment for the various complications as they emerge.”

“Not if they emerge?” Grace scowled. This might be as serious as Hermann looked.

“No. They will. You’ve already had IV and parenteral medication, the room’s getting extra oxygen, and if necessary we’ll intubate and put you on a respirator. At this point, if we are alert and don’t make mistakes, you’ll live and recover, but if you walked out of here and did not receive exemplary treatment somewhere else, you’d be dead by noon tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Grace had not imagined it being anywhere near that bad.

“So I expect your full cooperation with all procedures,” Maillard said. “And full disclosure of all symptoms. Anything, no matter how minor. We’re not talking about full functionality in a regrown arm; we’re talking about survival.”

“I’m in favor of survival,” Grace said. She could feel her heart pounding. That couldn’t mean the cramp in her foot, could it?

“Excellent,” Maillard said. “Then we understand each other. If all goes well, the next two days will be the worst. If not… well, let’s not go there. Depending on your latest lab results, you may be able to have communication with your office late this afternoon, but I strongly advise you to let your subordinates do the work. You’re not young, and this toxin has killed people much younger than yourself.”

“Thank you,” Grace said.

Maillard raised an eyebrow. Just one.

“For telling me,” Grace said. “One likes to be aware of the level of danger.”

“Good,” Maillard said. “I’ll see you again when the next lab results are in. Until then, take it as easy as you can.” She left.

“You ratted on me,” Grace said to Hermann. “She’s a formidable woman, but I doubt she’s like that with everyone.”

“I didn’t want to see two formidable women butting heads,” Hermann said. “Now she’s gone, I’m going to check your fine-motor control in both hands…”

The rest of the morning Grace endured more treatments and tests. Mac showed up around lunchtime with a report from her office and his own activities.

“And Ky?” Grace asked. “How’s she? Has she gotten in touch with Kvannis yet?”

“No. I suspect she and Rafe are…” His fingers intertwined. “Last person she’d want to talk to is someone official, I guess. You know Teague’s over there playing butler—keeping interruptions to a minimum, is my guess.”

“Anything else?”

“Something peculiar, actually. Military and civilian police are indeed looking for three fugitives from a military hospital here in Port Major. Thing is, as far as I can find out, they were never here, and this is the only military hospital in the city. There’s that psychiatric ward in the Joint Services base hospital, but my police contact told me the search isn’t for crazies, but for personnel possibly infected with a dangerous disease and under quarantine.”

“Quarantine. That’s one way to hide people.”

“Hide who?”

“Not sure we should discuss this here.”

“Sure thing. I hear your doctor coming. I left minutes ago.” Mac ducked into the room’s facility and out the far door seconds before Dr. Maillard came in.

“So you’ve had a visitor, but I don’t see piles of work on your bed. That’s good.” Maillard slapped a fat file down on the bed-table. “Ren says you like data, and don’t come apart if it’s not all positive, so here you are.” She opened the folder. “This is your basic chart. Red lines: level of toxin by organ system. Blue line: temperature. Green line: blood pressure. Yellow: heart rate on top, respirations below. Black dotted line: the average rate at which adults clear the toxin. Notice your clearance is well below that line: you’re not clearing it as fast as most, probably because you’re much older than the others we’ve seen.”

“Having it around longer isn’t good, I gather.”

“No. The longer it’s in an organ system, the more damage it does.” She stopped abruptly and looked closer at Grace’s face. “Did you know you have little marks on your face? Have you been poking it with anything?”

“No…”

“Let’s see.” Maillard pulled back the bedcovers and pushed up the gown. “Yes. Petechiae. Not a good sign at all. That confirms my concerns, and here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to knock you out, chill you—which, yes, slows your metabolism of the toxin, but also its action. Then we’re going to use specific chemicals, different for each organ system, to extract the toxin rather than waiting for your body to clear it, using procedures similar to dialysis for kidney failure.”

“How long will it take? When will I wake up?” Grace asked.

“If all goes well, we’ll be done with the clean-out in eight hours, and you’ll be awake, or at least in normal sleep, in another three. These procedures will save as much function as possible, but you’ll still have aftereffects and may need rehabilitation for several tendays after. You’ll need to have your implant out to avoid damage to it; the neuro treatment could scramble its wits. Since you’re a high-ranking government official, you’ll need to hand it over to a trusted subordinate with all the proper clearances for secure storage. Who would that be?”

“The visitor I just had, Master Sergeant MacRobert.”

Maillard touched the call button. “Maillard. Page a Master Sergeant MacRobert and see if he’s left the building. I need him here.

“I notice you have a guard on your door,” Maillard continued, turning to Grace. “That’s good. You should have a detail with you—outside your door, including during the treatment, with full recording capacity. Can MacRobert arrange that?”

“Yes,” Grace said. Her mouth felt dry; she reached for the glass on the bedside tray.

“No more than a sip. And only because you’ve already had food today, so a little water’s not the problem it might be.” Maillard leaned both arms on the bed table. “You need to know that there’s a chance that you’ll die during this procedure. It’s never been done on anyone your age, and though your baseline is good, much like someone fifteen years younger, we’re still dealing with an aging metabolism. If you were clearing the toxin at the normal rate, we’d take the slower route. But we don’t have time for that now. The petechiae indicate that serious damage is already occurring.”

“It’s done,” Grace said. “Mac knows where everything is.”

Maillard tipped her head to one side. “Are you two more than co-workers?”

“Friends,” Grace said. “Who sometimes—not all the time—comfort each other.”

“That’s good. Total solitaries die more often, in my experience.”

Mac poked his head in the door. “You called?”

“I did,” Maillard said. “The Rector needs a fairly radical procedure that will involve general anesthesia, hypothermia, and a series of drugs to yank the toxin out of various organ systems. She’ll be on machines similar to, but not the same as, the most advanced medbox technology. She needs her implant removed and properly stored, secure, until she can have it reinserted.”