Chapter 10: Juan & Clint

JUAN

“Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

Juan lifted his head from the medical capsule. His cheek felt sore and flat from resting against the metal for so long.

“Juan,” he told the tired and disheveled-looking doctor.

“And I am Miktar.” The doctor briefly looked him over. “You are next on my list—your injuries,” he continued, noticing Juan’s confused look.

“Oh…right.” Juan had forgotten, his thoughts and concerns elsewhere. But he suddenly felt them now—the searing pain in his shoulder, the ache in the back of his head. He already knew he had a mild concussion, having vomited twice since he’d entered the little hospital.

Juan shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“No. You’re not.”

“Go treat Myeong first. She needs it more.”

The doctor looked over at her. “There’s nothing obviously physically wrong with her.” He turned his yellow eyes back to Juan.

“Like I said, I’m fine.”

The doctor nodded at Clint’s capsule. “You’re not going to be any help to him if you’re sick yourself.”

Juan shrugged. “What help am I anyway? You said it yourself.”

The doctor frowned. “You shouldn’t be listening in on our conversations.”

“How can I not?”

“How much do you know?”

“Enough. That the alien is consuming him from the inside out. That the medical capsule can only do so much to slow the process. That there is no cure.” Juan swallowed. “That he’s going to die.”

“There are things we can try…”

“Yeah…”

Silence followed.

“I’m surprised you were not attacked by the Wrilings yourself, being in the middle of battle,” Miktar continued, studying him sharply.

Juan gazed down into the capsule onto Clint’s peaceful face. “I wish I had been. Now, all I can hope for is a painful, lingering death.”

Again, more silence.

“Sit down over there and I’ll fix your injuries,” Miktar said.

Juan sighed. “Whatever.”

He sat down on the edge of a nearby bed. Blood stained the floor to his right. The sheets were rumpled. There were only two Zibon patients left. They had all been healed—as easily as that!—all except Clint and those in the other capsules.

Juan looked over his shoulder. “Myeong, come sit with me.” He patted the spot beside him. “Let the doctor check you over properly.”

She was sitting beside her alien’s capsule, looking small, her head bowed over, her hair shielding her tearful face. She hadn’t pulled her hand away from the metal since the moment she’d arrived so many hours before.

Myeong raised her face. She looked haggard, as haggard and worn as Juan felt. Empty, like the inside of a chocolate Easter egg. She didn’t move, bowing her head again.

So Juan joined her instead. He felt oddly numb, like his feet weren’t quite touching the floor. He sat on the seat beside her, close enough that their hips touched.

He took her other hand, smoothing her fingers between his before gripping her hand fiercely. They’d barely exchanged words. The hospital was too busy, the Zibons too frantic, fearful of getting in the way. But they had joined forces when they had been urged to leave.

“They can’t be here. They’ll get in the way. Remove them,” that forbidding Zibon had spoken. He was obviously a leader of some kind.

In the end, his command hadn’t mattered. Myeong and Juan had grabbed onto each other and resolutely refused to leave. Fortunately, the “leader” had left, and once he’d gone, nobody had cared enough to bother obeying his order.

“It’s my fault,” Myeong said in a small voice. She sniffed and wiped at her eyes as she bowed over her lap. “It’s my fault he’s…he’s…”

“No, it’s not. How could it be?”

“It is! We should have stayed on the shuttle, Juan.” She lifted her face, turning her accusing eyes to his. “If we had, he’d probably be all right.”

“Why do you think that?”

Before she could answer, the doctor, Miktar, came over with one of his medical “scanners.” He beamed it over Juan, turning his skin green. It took only moments.

“Your collarbone is broken. Your head injury is minor,” Miktar said.

“Fine,” Juan said.

“Come with me and I can knit the bone,” Miktar said.

Juan glanced at Myeong, but she was bowed over her lap again.

Miktar led Juan over to a bench. He passed another instrument with a blinking blue light over Juan’s shoulder. Juan hissed at the sting.

Over and over, the blinking blue light passed over his shoulder. The sting became less and less noticeable each time until he finally felt nothing.

“Done,” Miktar said.

Juan rolled his shoulder—there was no pain—then hopped down from the bench. He returned to Myeong.

He took up her hand again. “Why do you think that, Myeong?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters! It’s not your fault. And it’s—and it’s not ~mine~.”

That made her look at him. Juan raised his eyebrows, surprised by the fury in her dark eyes. The doctor returned with his scanner.

“Your turn,” the doctor told Myeong.

He finished with the scan quickly but looked confused.

“Something wrong?” Juan asked.

He raised the instrument again and scanned her face. His look of confusion deepened. “I’m picking up traces of Wriling membrane,” he said.

Juan frowned. “And…?”

Miktar shook his head uncertainly.

“One of them jumped on me,” Myeong said. “Onto my face.”

Juan tightened his hand around hers. He suddenly remembered the Zibon soldier rolling around screaming as he tried to rip the thing off. To think it had happened to Myeong was sickening.

Miktar stared at her.

“Until…until Roco came and it jumped onto him.” She lifted her face as the tears flowed down her cheeks. Releasing Juan’s hand, she turned and rested her forehead against the metal capsule. She clawed her fingers into it. “It’s all my fault.”

“Are you sure that’s what happened?” Miktar said.

“That’s what she said,” Juan said.

The doctor scanned her a second time. Again, he shook his head, this time muttering to himself.

“What’s ~wrong~?” Juan was starting to get annoyed. Why couldn’t these Zibons speak to them straight?

Miktar studied Myeong through narrowed eyes. “Wrilings never release their host until they are thoroughly consumed.

“Unless the Wriling’s life is in danger, from fire or the vibrations from our pulsars which rupture their membranes, but both always lead to the death of the host.” He paused. “Could I take some of your blood?” he asked her.

“Why?” Juan said.

Myeong’s eyes were bright. “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

“Yes!” she repeated more loudly, leaping to her feet. “Anything.”

And then it suddenly hit him: was there something about Myeong that could help the Zibons? That could help Clint?

A surge of hope made him stand. He hurried over to Clint, brushing his fingers against the glass window as he looked down upon his peaceful face.

The tightness in his chest eased a little. There was hope.

There was hope.

The doctor took her blood, then put the vial in a machine. After he’d done that, he went and scanned Roco before doing the same to Clint.

The doctor no longer seemed so tired. The lines had vanished from his face. No longer frowning, his face was filled with feverish concentration.

His eyes were bright yellow and shining, like liquid gold. His excitement intensified as he studied Clint’s results on his little screen.

Juan’s heart raced. “Did you find something?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

He went over and scanned the rest of the capsules one by one. Juan folded his arms, biting his lip as he waited.

His hands were trembling. His heart was knocking against his ribs. There were few workers left in the hospital, but those who remained were watching Miktar curiously.

Finally, he was done and returned to Clint’s capsule, which he scanned again. He then noted something down on his screen.

“What is it?!” Juan burst out.

Miktar lifted his face. His eyes were distant, as though he was busy thinking things through.

“Tell me!” Juan demanded.

His eyes shifted to Juan. “I must communicate with my colleagues before I can be sure of anything,” he said.

And he walked away.

“Hey!” Juan raced after him. “You’re ~not~ going anywhere until you tell me what you’ve found.”

Juan clamped his hand around his wrist, and the doctor turned. Myeong hurried over and stood by Juan’s side, folding her arms.

“Tell us!”

The Zibon didn’t appear angry; in fact, he raked his glistening eyes over them as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He nodded toward Clint’s capsule. “Clint is not showing any signs of consumption. His mass remains static. The Wriling itself shows no sign of growth.”

“You mean, it’s not…it’s not eating him?” Juan dared to hope.

“Apparently not,” he said. He ran his trembling fingers through his hair, looking both breathless and remarkably handsome.

“I cannot believe it.”

“What about Roco?” Myeong asked desperately.

His eyes darkened. “I’m afraid he’s like the others.”

Myeong gulped back a sob.

Juan tightened his grip around the doctor’s wrist. “But there’s something going on. There’s something about…about ~us~ that could help.”

“But I don’t know what yet, exactly. I have theories that I must discuss with my colleagues,” he said.

He pulled his arm from Juan’s grasp. “But please…stay here. Stay with them. Stay with ~all~ of them.” His voice was shaking. “We may need use of you.”

He walked away.

“What do you think it is?” Myeong asked as they sat down together.

“The bond. It’s got to have something to do with the bond.”

“But Roco and I aren’t bonded.” She wiped at her eyes.

~And that’s why he’s being eaten.~ But of course, Juan didn’t say it. He tapped his lips.

“There’s something about you. There’s something about the bond. The bond means that he’s taken on some of my characteristics, like I have his. ~Rictorian~ characteristics.”

Myeong stood. Juan watched as she walked over to Roco’s capsule, her mouth thin, her shoulders stiff.

She started looking over it, patting it with her hands.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I want to get inside.”