PERSONAL RECORD: DESIGNATION ZETA4542910-9545E
CTS THALASSA
478.2.6.03
Their uneven, almost incomprehensible conversation swirled around me. Imogene Clarkson ranted on, emphatic and frequently rude, while Archimedes Genet’s comments remained measured and thoughtful. My headache struck like a reprimand, constricting around my temples, stabbing through my right eye, obscuring the discussion of cats and potential links to viruses.
I asked, “Do you have proof of a connection?”
Dr. Clarkson glared at me. “It’s clear enough for anyone with half a brain. You really should have stayed on Pallas.” She pursed her lips. “Genet, I warned you about bringing carriers onboard, but no one listens to me. Autopsying Lytwin’s shell is one thing, but there was no need to bring her or that bite victim.”
The captain stood. “Shiro’s research says otherwise.”
“Shiro is overly optimistic.”
“We’ve had this discussion before, but I’ll state this one more time”—he slanted a glance at me and my drone—“for the record. The other researchers have shown that the virus is not communicable save by bodily fluids. We’re honoring your concerns by keeping all potentially infected people in quarantine and suits until cleared by the medicomputer.”
“She’s contaminated. A public threat.”
Archimedes Genet’s voice grew crisp. “Cowardice is not a virtue, Clarkson. We need the Recorder’s help, and we are here to research a virus, which can’t be done without a degree of risk.” An emotion I could not parse flickered in his eyes. “Millions of lives depend on getting this right. While you have the right to personal opinions, Consortium-based bigotry has no place here.”
For approximately eleven seconds, they locked eyes.
Her nostrils flared. “Whatever.”
Despite the pain in my right temple, or perhaps because of it, her insolent remark summoned my training. “Drone.”
It hummed.
“Record Dr. Clarkson’s disrespectful attitude.”
Silence wrapped the room while the drone rotated so they, too, could read the word flashing across its screen.
>>Documenting.
“I treat everyone with the respect they deserve.” Dr. Clarkson sucked air between her teeth. “Well, at least since you’re here I can get good samples. Keep that drone out of my way.”
The contrary desire to send it to record every single thing she did—from researching RNA to braiding her hair—hit me like a solar flare.
“What matters is that I was right,” she added, pointing again at the datapad in front of the captain. “As usual. Good thing for that medic, too. What’s her name?”
Archimedes Genet crossed his arms. “Yrsa Ramos.”
I should have remembered that.
“Right, right. She’s the one who was contaminated next, if reports are accurate, though no one verifies anything. I have to do all the work around here.” She stopped suddenly and scowled at the door.
“About Ramos?” the captain prompted.
“Oh,” she said with a vague wave of one orange-clad arm. “She’ll be fine.”
“But that man, the one I—” I bit my lip. “He injected her with the virus.”
Dr. Clarkson shrugged. “He could have been lying, but if he wasn’t, and if I’m right—I usually am—his little stunt won’t be a problem. It’s the cats, I tell you. Lytwin avoided them like the plague I thought they were. I was wrong about that one thing, mind you. You didn’t avoid them. Tristram didn’t. Patterson didn’t.”
“Patterson is here?” I asked while I searched my memory for any reference to holding the shuttle for him. “He is the bite victim you mentioned?”
Dr. Clarkson rolled her eyes. “Stars, for a Recorder, you don’t notice anything. Yes, they sent him up here on that shuttle, too. Ramos should be safe enough. She grew up on Ceres. On the southern continent’s central plains, on a farm.” She folded her arms and glared. “With cats.”
The image of fields of felines momentarily confused me. “A cat farm?”
“Don’t be—”
“Clarkson,” Archimedes warned.
She glanced at him and modified her statement. “Of course not. Her family grew winter wheat, barley, and beets, but they had cats to keep down Rodentia. And goats,” she added, momentarily confusing me. Surely she meant neither that cats suppressed a rampant goat population nor that the addition of ruminants would increase the credibility of her cat-theory. “My point is, she was exposed to them her whole childhood until she signed her life over to be a marine.”
Hope slivered through me.
“Have you shared this with Shiro?” Archimedes asked.
“Of course. But we need more help.” The woman tapped her fingers on the table. “Since they went and ruined the proper equipment, you might as well send Tristram up here. You’ll have to do without her retinas on Pallas, because she has to focus on nanoencapsulation.” She side-eyed me. “Even if I don’t like having carriers running loose.”
A frown crossed the captain’s usually neutral features. “We’ll send for Tristram in the morning. Anything else?”
Clarkson snatched up her datapad. “Blood, I suppose. Hers. Better have Edwards take care of that. He might be Consortium staff, but he understands the integrity of samples.”
Without another word, the woman stomped from the room, and I fought the desire to tap my thigh.
Archimedes Genet stared at the door through which Dr. Clarkson had left. At length, he said, “Recorder-who . . .” His gaze shifted to the drone, then back to me. “You look exhausted, though we probably all do.” His forehead creased. “I trust you understand why you’ll remain quarantined until we clear you.”
“Yes, but I must keep the drone with me.”
As if I had summoned it, the drone rose slightly and wrapped a tendril around my arm.
“The only place with a vestibule and a charging station is the Elder’s quarters.”
I managed a smile. “That will suffice. However, I have much to accomplish, so my first stop should be my computer laboratory, if it is available.”
“I’m afraid not. Your primary goal right now is rest.” He cocked his head, and previously unnoticed traces of silver in his dark hair caught the light. “You aren’t immortal, you know.” I opened my mouth to protest, and a smile touched his eyes. “Don’t make me summon Edwards to issue a medical order.”
Edwards must be overworked; I would not add to his burden. I braced myself on the table and stood. “Then I shall take my leave.”
He accompanied me to the door and ushered me out, nodding at the three men waiting in the corridor. “Rodriguez, Thompson, Timmons.”
Archimedes continued speaking, but his words washed over me incomprehensibly. All my attention centered on Nate, who pushed away from where he had been leaning against the wall. His face was paler than usual, and blond hair drooped over his forehead and over his jacket’s collar. All I wanted was to fall against him and hear his heartbeat.
“. . . escort the Recorder to the Elder’s quarters,” Archimedes finished.
“What?” Nate exclaimed, his green eyes flashing to the captain.
“It is well, Timmons,” I said quietly. “His room has a charging station for the drone, and I can be quarantined there.” I matched his frown with one of my own. “A better question would be why you are not under medical care.”
“Bit of a backlog at the infirmary.” Though Nate’s words were casual, his tone held an unfamiliar sharpness. “Thought I’d stop by, make sure you’re safely ensconced in a place you can rest. The Elder’s quarters doesn’t fit the description.”
I wanted to touch his arm, to make him listen and take care of himself, but did not allow myself that luxury. “Ignoring a fractured clavicle is unwise.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure you will, Timmons,” Archimedes Genet said, “but you’ll head straight to Edwards after you see her to the Elder’s quarters. Recorder, someone will be stationed outside. You are not to wander the ship, but when you do leave those quarters, you’ll have an escort.”
Nate’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Patterson is quarantined as well. Until we have confirmation from the medicomputer that neither of them are contagious, they will remain under watch.”
“We heard Clarkson ranting.” Eric glared down the hall. “Her tantrums about Zeta staying on the moon are ridiculous. The other researchers insist the virus isn’t airborne.”
“She can’t go down there again,” Nate all but growled.
Cam demanded to know why I could not return, but Nate did not explain. Neither did Archimedes Genet.
“Recorder?” the captain said as we turned to leave.
“Yes?”
“While the situation is less than ideal”—his expression softened—“welcome back.”