18
Once we’re on board,Illiviamona orders the others to wait in the command center while she ushers me, with Lament in my arms, into The Bargainer’s medical room. The chamber is shaped like an egg and features a thousand built-in inserts, each of which contains a different medical instrument. At Illiviamona’s signal, I lay Lament on the single patient table, then try to find a corner in which to wait. Unfortunately, egg-shaped rooms don’t have corners, so I’m left to sort of shuffle around as Illiviamona glides from one side of the table to the other, laying her hands on Lament’s neck, his shoulder. I can see where her touch turns him numb—or rather, I see Lament relax in the absence of pain. His fingers loosen, his forehead releases its lines. He lets out a slow breath.
“The ape’s bite hit your subclavian artery,” Illiviamona informs Lament, reaching up to press one of the wall’s hidden inserts. The compartment springs open to reveal a vial of dark liquid. “This isamoramim.” She hands the tube to Lament. Then, in gloomy tones: “It will prevent you from bleeding to death.”
Lament nods faintly, grimaces, and downs the serum. As soon as the liquid touches his tongue, his muscles go lax. The vial drops from his fingers. I step forward in alarm as he looks up at me, his eyes bewildered and a little scared. “Keller?”
I round on Illiviamona. “What’s happening? What did you do to him?”
“Theamoramimcontains a sedative,” Illiviamona explains in that bland, watery way of hers. “I need to mend Mr. Bringer’s wounds. The process will be painful, but the sedative will put him to sleep.”
“Were you going to tell him any of that?”
Illiviamona thinks about this for longer than seems necessary. “No.”
“What do you mean,no?”
Her freckles start to glow, her giant eyes faintly confused. “Mr. Bringer is not the one performing the operation. Why must he be told?”
“Because it’s his own fucking—” I cut myself off. Illiviamona is still looking at me with mild confusion, which is the same moment I realize it’s probably pointless to argue the merits of good bedside manner with a Lorian who routinely hopes for the worst. “Never mind.” I touch my hand to my forehead. It’s streaked with Lament’s blood. So, I realize, is the rest of me. “Please, just—help him.”
I come to kneel at the head of the table while Illiviamona procures a pair of scissors and begins cutting away Lament’s shirt. There are two wounds: the bite up by his collarbone and the claw marks down his arm. Some of the blood has dried around the marks, gluing the fabric to his flesh. As Illiviamona pulls, the cuts crack and begin to bleed anew.
“You’re going to get sleepy,” I tell Lament, taking his hand again. I don’t know if he can feel that, either, because the sedative seems to be taking hold. His eyes are hazy. “Illiviamona gave you a narcotic so she can close your wound. It’ll all be over soon, okay? Just try to relax.”
Lament looks at me. His expression is unguarded. He nods once, closes his eyes, and a moment later, he’s out cold.
With a final deft stroke, Illiviamona gets Lament’s shirt all the way off. I brace myself for the gore beneath, but it’s not the ape’s bite that draws my eye.
It’s the scars.
Lament’s arms and chest are a pattern of red and white, the skin a mess of angry red burns, a landscape of freshly healed wounds. I must makesome sort of noise, because Illiviamona’s head swings up. Her eyes narrow. “Be calm.”
I can’t be calm. I think of how Lament is always fully dressed. How he wears long sleeves even when working, his habit of tugging his cuffs over his wrists. The realization is like a key sliding into a lock, the click of the bolts coming undone. I understand, even though I don’t think I can ever understand. These scars, the burns…
The mist did something to Bast,says the memory of Vera’s voice,and Lament radioed for help. Then the signal went dark, and the next thing we knew, Bast was dead and Lament had crashed on some no-man’s-planet way off course…
There’s a feeling rising inside me, dark and razor-sharp. I thought Lament had come away from that crash unscathed. That Moon Dancer, being made of zurillium, acted like a cocoon to protect him. But Lament wasn’t protected. He was wounded in ways I’d never fathomed, and the truth of it—this visual map of that day—is such a shock to my system, for a moment I forget how to breathe.
He didn’t want me to see this. He’s always been so careful, not to let me see.
I should leave. Respect his privacy.
But I can’t.
Illiviamona is bustling around, preparing materials to clean and stitch the ape wounds. I grasp Lament’s hands in both of mine. Bring our joined fingers to my mouth. “It’s going to be okay,” I murmur as Illiviamona starts in on the gash. Lament is sedated—he can’t hear me—but I speak the words anyway. “Lament, you just—I can’t even—I know it’s not okaynow. It’s not okay now. No one should have to go through what you’ve been through, and I get that saying that doesn’t change anything, but a person can only handle so much. Everyone has a breaking point, you know? And what if—” I worry my lip between my teeth, squeeze his hand tighter. “What if this is yours? I don’t want it to be. I don’t want you to reach a place where you can’t—” I cut off again, and I know I’m rambling, but Lament’s face is relaxed and Illiviamona doesn’t seem to be paying attention, so I keep going. “I see thethings you do to protect yourself. And I know you feel like you have to be strong, that you have to carry this all on your own, but you don’t. Because you’re not alone. The Sixers are here for you, and so am I. Whatever you need to get through this, however long it takes. I’m here, and you’re going to be okay.”
It takes Illiviamona less than twenty minutes to close the puncture wounds on Lament’s shoulder and dress the scrapes on his back, using a mix of methods that are more or less beyond my comprehension. (There are herbs involved, and a bowl that hums when she runs her finger along its interior, which appears to coax Lament’s flesh to reknit.) If I had a clearer head, I’d probably marvel at Illiviamona’s ability, wonder if there wasn’t some magic involved, but I don’t have a clear head, so I don’t really care how she does it. All my focus is on Lament: his face, his shallow breathing. The golden sweep of his eyelashes. His white-blond hair matted with blood.
When she’s finished, Illiviamona packs everything away and says, “Now he must rest.”
I don’t trust my voice, so I just give a nod.
“And you,” she continues. “You must return to the others.”
I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”
“I know. I would sense if you were injured.”
