C. Cherryh - Cyteen

He drew a careful breath. "Do you mind—if I go tell Grant myself? Half an hour. That's all."

"Perfectly reasonable. Go right ahead. Half an hour, forty-five minutes. They'll be expecting you."

Another damned wait. Justin lay full-length on the table and stared at the ceiling, trying to put his mind in null, observing the pattern in the ceiling tiles, working out the repetitions.

Full body scan and hematology work-up, tracer doses shot into his bloodstream, more blood drawn. Dental checks. Respiration. Cardiac stress . . . you have a little hypertension, Wojkowski had said, and he had retorted: God, I wonder why.

Which Wojkowski did not think was amusing.

More things shot into his veins, more scans, more probings at private places and more sitting about—lying down for long periods, while they tried to get him calm enough to get accurate readings.

I'm trying, he had said, the last time they had checked on him. I'm honestly trying. Do you think I like waiting around freezing to death?

Complaining got him a robe. That was all. They finally put him on biofeedback until he could get the heart rate down, and got the tests they wanted.

Why? had been Grant's first and only question—a worried frown, a shrug, and a: Well, at least we do get it, don't we?

Which, for an azi, could be a question. He had never thought that it was, never thought that Reseune could go so far as to deny him and Grant rejuv when it was time for them to have it or vengefully postpone it beyond the point when they should have it, to avoid diminished function.

Thinking of that, he could be calmer about it. But he had sent a call through to Base One: Ari, this is Justin.

Grant and I have been told to report to hospital. We've been told we re to go on rejuv, over our protests. I want you to know where we are and what's happened. ...

Which got them nothing. Base One took the message. No one was reading it. They could try for admission to Ari's floor, but open confrontation with Administration was more than Ari could handle. No one answering, he had said to Grant.

Its only one treatment, Grant had said.

Meaning that one could still change one's mind. It took about three to eight weeks of treatments for the body to adjust—and become dependent.

Nothing permanent, yet.

"You're going to be coming here for your treatments, Wojkowski had said.

"For what?" he had said. "To have you watch me take a damned pill? Or what are you giving me?" .

"Because this was not elective. You understand—going off the drug has severe consequences. Immune system collapse."

"I'm a certified paramedic," he had snapped back. "Clinical psych. I assure you I know the cautions. What I want to know, doctor, is what else they're putting into the doses."

"Nothing," Wojkowski had said, unflappable. "You can read the order, if you like. And see the prescriptions . . . whatever you like. Neantol. It's a new combination drug: Novachem is the manufacturer, I'll give you all the literature on it. Hottest thing going, just out on the market. Avoids a lot of the side-effects."

"Fine, I'm a test subject."

"It's safe. It's safer, in fact. Avoids the thin-skin problem, the excessive bleeding and bruising; the calcium depletion and the graying effect. You'll keep your hair color, you won't lose any major amount of muscle mass, or have brittle bones or premature fatigue. Sterility—unfortunately—is still a problem."

"I can live with that." He felt calmer. Damn, he wanted to believe what Wojkowski was saying. "What are its side-effects?"

"Dry mouth and a solitary complaint of hyperactivity. Possibly some deleterious effect on the kidneys. Mostly remember to drink plenty of water. Especially if you've been drinking. You'll tend to dehydrate and you'll get a hell of a hangover. We don't know what the effects would be of switching off the regular drug and onto this. Or vice versa. We suspect there could be some serious problems about that. It's also expensive, over ten thou a dose and it's not going to get cheaper anytime soon. But especially in the case of a younger patient—definitely worth it."

"Does Grant—get the same?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

He felt better, overall, with that reassurance. He trusted Wojkowski's ethics most of the way. But it did not help get his pulse rate down.

Ten thousand a dose. Reseune was spending a lot on them, on a drug Reseune could afford—and he could not.

Not something you could find on the black market.

Substitutions contraindicated.

A dependency Reseune provided, that Reseune could withhold—with devastating effect; that nothing like—say, the Paxers or the Abolitionists—could possibly provide.

An invisible chain. Damn their insecurities. As if they needed it. But it took something away, all the same: left him with a claustrophobic sense that hereafter—options were fewer; and a nagging dread that the drug might turn up with side-effects, no matter that lab rats thrived on it.

Damn, in one day, from a young man's self-concept and a trim, fit body he had taken pains to keep that way—to the surety of sterility, of some bodily changes; not as many as he had feared, if they were right; but still—a diminishing of functions. Preservation for—as long as the drug held. A list of cautions to live with.

A favor, in some regards, if it did what they claimed.

But a psychological jolt all the same—to take it at someone else's decision, because a damned committee decided—

What? To keep a string on him and Grant? In the case they tried to escape and join the Paxers and bomb subways and kill children?

God. They were all lunatics.

The door opened. The tech came in and asked him to undress again.

Tissue sample. Sperm sample. "What in hell for?" he snapped at the tech. "I'm a PR, for God's sake!"

The tech looked at his list. "It's here," the tech said. Azi. And doggedly following his instructions.

So the tech got both. And left him with a sore spot on his leg and one inside his mouth, where the tech had taken his tissue samples.

Likely his pulse rate was through the ceiling again. He tried to calm it down, figuring they would take it again before they let him out, and if they disliked the result they got, they could put him into hospital where he was subject to any damn thing anyone wanted to run, without Grant to witness it, where neither of them could look out for the other or lodge protests.

Damn it, get the pulse rate down.

Get out of here tonight. Get home. That's the important thing now.

The door opened. Wojkowski again.

"How are we doing?" she asked.

"We're madder than hell," he said with exaggerated pleasantness, and sat up on the table, smiled at Wojkowski, trying not to let the pulse run wild, doggedly thinking of flowers. Of river water. "I'm missing patches of skin and my dignity is, I'm sure, not a prime concern here. But that's all right."

"Mmmn," Wojkowski said, and set a hypogun down on the counter, looking at the record. "I'm going to give you a prescription I want you to take, and we'll check you over again when you come in for your second treatment. See if we can do something about that blood pressure."

"You want to know what you can do about the blood pressure?"

"Do yourself a favor. Take the prescription. Don't take kat more than twice a week—are you taking aspirin?"

"Occasionally."

"How regularly?"

"It's in the—"

"Please."

"Two, maybe four a week."

"That's all right. No more than that. If you get headaches, see me. If you have any light-headedness, see me immediately. If you get a racing pulse, same."