Dr alien, p.7
Dr. Alien, page 7
Clouds drifted high above me when I opened my eyes, and a waterfall roar tickled my ears. Yes. I was in my stateroom, lying on my back, warm, comfortable, and feeling blissfully light. Sleepily, I glanced down at my body. The smartsuit was whole and obviously working. My skin beneath felt a little tight where I’d been cut, but pain free. I tugged on the valence zipper, opening the fabric just far enough to see the uppermost part of my wounds. The separated skin had been glued together. Nice.
Then memory flooded in, and my heart seemed to lurch.
Deal’s question seemed to come from nowhere. “How the heck did you know?”
“Deal-of-ten-lifetimes? I recognize your—the voice your translator uses for you.” Which was obviously working perfectly since “heck” has gone the way of the stegosaur. “And I hear your clicks so you must be in here, but I don’t see you.”
The Trader seemed to step right out of the landscape. “My bad. I’ve been here so long and kept so still, the controller blended me into the virtuality.”
“Oh. How’s my patient?” I asked nervously. “The striped one?”
“Most excellent. Back in her room and we are providing her appropriate care. But how did you know the robot would restrain her temporal mass-shifting abilities?”
Relief is such an underappreciated emotion. My “tyger” was alive! Grinning from eyebrow to eyebrow, I opened my mouth to ask what the hell “temporal mass-shifting” meant but then thought better of it. It was time to start working for my own species. Seemed reasonable to expect the Traders to pay me more if they respected me more. Remuneration commensurate with reputation, as Diana might’ve phrased it. So I needed some pondering time.
“If you don’t mind,” I said, levering myself off the couch. “I’ll tell you after a short visit to the bathroom.”
“Be my guest, which you are.”
I felt a bit light-headed but otherwise fine as I walked past Deal. Moving must’ve oiled my brain cells because I had a possible answer before I’d reached the bathroom. My guess: Deal’s people figured that the tiger-creatures possessed some extra-dimensional aspect that would allow them to withdraw their own substance from their future selves and concentrate it in the present moment. Then, when they’d caught up to that future, their bodies attenuated enough to move through solids. In a weird way, if this was true, I suppose they could be considered time travelers. Or time borrowers. Handy talent if you make your living by stalking and pouncing. And … yes! Maybe it even explained why my cub got left behind.
Liking the fantastic idea better and better, I used the Earth-style toilet and flushed it, washed my hands, and returned.
“How?” Deal prompted in case I’d forgotten the question.
“Nothing to it. Once I realized that my patient was a toddler, the robot’s role became obvious.” Time to make hindsight and guesswork look like brilliance. “Here’s what I think happened: My client was traveling with only one adult. When the spaceship became disabled, the grown-up had to use its time-phasing ability to seek help.” How, I wondered, does a disembodied body move itself? “Are you with me so far?”
“I have not departed. How could this person seek help?”
Improvise, Al, improvise. “I’m thinking an time-shifting adult, but not a child, could move their body back through their own timeline to wherever help would be available.”
“Interesting. Perhaps this adult might find another computer-controlled starship since these beings do appear cyber-tropic, as our master controller learned to our regret. But please explain your understanding about the robot.”
Good thing he didn’t ask me to explain “cyber-tropic.” “Easy. If you had to abandon a child, even temporarily, wouldn’t you make sure she was fed and kept clean? And if that child could walk through walls into vacuum and get lost, or killed after the mass-exchange thing wore off, wouldn’t you make sure she’d stay put? I’d say you underestimated that robot even more than you underestimated me. And I’ll bet momma or poppa is going to show up here when they find baby gone—uh, presuming you posted a star map in their spaceship showing where you took her?”
“Of course we did. And it may enhance trade when they learn we have not slaughtered their progeny. Most excellently reasoned!”
“There’s more,” I said. “You told me my patient didn’t start her vanishing act until recently. Isn’t that when the robot began losing power? All you needed to do was charge it up.”
“So simple! Yet we failed to dig it. Doctor alien, you are a wonder.”
I studied him for a moment. “You’re not angry any more about losing that bet?”
“I might be bummed out if I hadn’t placed a whopping new wager on your continued success before the odds changed. Thanks to you, I am now glutted with exchange credit.”
“Look, maybe it’s just the translator, but you don’t sound all that happy.”
“That is because I must give you some sad news.”
Uh-oh. “Tell me.”
“When we found you, you were near exsanguination and required far more blood than your body could hustle up. Our medics took samples and gave you a transfixion.”
“You mean transfusion.”
“How are hyper-nuclear processes involved in this?”
“Never mind, go on.”
“I regret to report that your blood has been severely contaminated. We believe your patient was the disease vector although her claws are currently free of the contaminant.” Deal’s body practically drooped. “We dared not attempt to rid you of the infection because the organisms involved, which appear to be synthetic, are unknown to us. Also, samples were unaffected by our finest antibiotics and antivirals. We fear disastrous consequences for your health in the near future and suggest you hasten back to your own medics, who may be of more assistance. Again, my most sincere regrets. It has been an unexpected pleasure knowing you and quite profitable. Please have a good death, and I must congratulate you again. Your successes have been phenomenal. As you people say, ‘Two out of three ain’t bad.’”
This relief thing, I could get addicted. Keeping a straight face I said, “Actually, three out of three is better.”
“You understand your third patient’s needs? You blow me away! In fact, you qualify for whatever is the grandest compliment among humans. I am asking my DM to search out the appropriate phrase.”
“Can’t wait to hear it.”
“So what is your solution to the final problem?”
Okay Al, I told myself, grab every inch of credit you can steal, and pretend your victories weren’t part luck, part Trader insight, and the rest Diana’s doing. “Solution indeed. As it happens, we’ve got tiny creatures back home with a strong resemblance to your flat guy. If the similarity means anything, here’s how you fix it: just add water.”
“I don’t understand. We found it in an atmosphere devoid of moisture.”
“That’s the point. You described its starship as ‘trashed,’ right? On Earth, the miniature look-alikes go into a special dormant mode when the environment turns hostile. They dry up, and in that state they can endure almost anything. I bet the DM on Mr. Flat’s inter-galaxy cruiser dehydrated the vessel after the accident to save its life. So hydrate the poor fellow, but slowly in case I’m wrong.”
I laughed. “And don’t worry about my blood. I’ve got a condition called leukopenia, which means my bone marrow can’t make enough white blood cells to fight off infection, and the disease, as my doctors put it, hasn’t responded to conventional treatments. So those little biomechanical bugs you found in my blood are all that’s keeping me alive—them and an unpleasant amount of clean living.”
“Cool. I’m pleased as punch. As to patient three, I have relayed your instructions and technicians are already following them. I am delighted to report that patient three already appears to be inflating. And I have garnered that ultimate human statement of admiration: Doctor, you are the bomb.”
I stood near the airlock and fidgeted. Every Tsf I’d met, and many I hadn’t, waited to see me off, and no one had brought up the delicate subject of remuneration. I wasn’t even sure what to ask for or how. A crazy idea had gotten into my head and, like a bad houseguest, wouldn’t leave.
Perhaps Deal read my mind. “Before you depart in glory, Doctor, have you decided on your fee, or will you cling to Earth’s initial bargain of simple trade goods?”
Oh hell, everyone said the Tsf were dead honest. “I’m not sure because I don’t know how much I’ve earned or how much the things I want are worth.”
“The solution is simple. Tell us what you want, and we will assess their value against your performed services. I suggest you not be penny wise and Euro foolish as your saying goes.”
“Okay. Gravity control as you suggested?”
“Done. That technique plus the original trade goods still leaves us mucho in your debt due to the unprecedented opportunities you’ve opened up.”
“Really?” I took a breath. Shoot for the stars, Al. “Then I’ve got a big one: faster-than-light propulsion.”
He waved a leg. “Too big. FTL entails not only technology but astrophysical information still unknown to human science. And it involves a small risk to us. Eventually your kind may become trading competition.”
“I understand.” It had been so much to ask for that I was surprised at feeling a pang of disappointment. How greedy could I be? Wasn’t the secret of generated gravity enough for a day’s work? And the thought of someone in my soft field bringing home the hard-science bacon tickled me immensely.
“But your surplus,” Deal continued, “will make a handsome down payment.”
“What?”
“Should you choose to earn the balance, we have a proposition. We will set up a clinic with various controllable environments, provide you a staff of useful beings, and bring you only the most challenging patients. Certainly, you can treat your human patients there. If you do a fraction as well as you did here, your species will soon be flying high and fast.”
“You plan to add my services to your … trading portfolio?”
“Right on.”
A fantastic offer, a thrilling offer. But I saw a personal pitfall ahead that could make me one miserable shrink, namely helping the human race at the cost of losing my family. “Where,” I asked slowly, “would this clinic be located? Could I bring my wife and son along, or at least have them visit frequently?”
“They could visit with ease. We shall set it up on Earth near your residence to maximize your convenience. Does the proposition appeal?”
Psychiatrist to the stars.
“Appeal? My God, yes.” I was flying so high and fast myself that I forgot the one cautionary note about dealing with Traders: make sure you understand every detail of a transaction. I didn’t ask what Deal meant by “staff of useful beings” and the thought of my neighbors’ reactions to such an institution on their turf never crossed my mind. But I wouldn’t discover my mistakes this day.
I smiled. “I can’t promise anything close to this success rate, but I’d love to try.” I doubted I’d ever again get this lucky.
“Then this could well be the start of a symbiotic friendship.”
Doctor Alien’s Five Empty Boxes
You’re not the first person in town to ask me what kind of crazy contraption I’m driving these days. But in your case, Pastor, if you wouldn’t mind, and have the time, I’d feel better telling someone the whole story. I’ve never been completely open about some of it, not even with Sunny. My wife’s been through more than enough. Does that nod mean you’re willing to listen? In that case, I suppose it never hurts to start off with a bang.
If you’d asked me that Wednesday afternoon, I wouldn’t have said that everyone in my neighborhood hated my clinic. You didn’t, far as I know. Sunny merely felt “jittery” about it, or so she claimed; Mrs. Murphy, living directly across the street from the main building, never uttered a complaint; and our son, Alex, even labeled it “groovy,” a word he’d hijacked from one of the more usual unusual visitors to the institution. Of course, Ember Murphy suffers from multi-infarct dementia, and Alex recently turned eight. And while I’m being candid, an unprofessional condition for someone in my profession, I’d grown a bit sour about the place myself.
Still, I was surprised that anyone felt so strongly about it that they would try to kill me.
I picked myself up off the parking lot pavement, stared at the smoldering remains of my one-month-old car, and then turned toward Tad, the extraterrestrial gripping my right arm with a hand longer than my torso. My shoulder hurt and I was breathing hard, but at least I was breathing.
My ET companion, a female1 Vapabond from what I’d come to think of as the wrong side of our galaxy, gazed down at me with her big brown eyes and a grimace that may or may not have been sympathetic. What? You’ve never seen a Vapabond? Think seven-foot-tall gorilla with two appropriately hairy arms and legs but then add a torso covered in armadillo shell that expands and contracts hugely with every breath, plus a walrus head with three shrunk-down tusks. Throw in size 22 footwear with an improbable resemblance to huaraches as the only articles of clothing, and a pungent odor only an elephant might find sexy. That puts you in the ballpark if not quite in the infield.
“How did you know, Tad?” I asked her. At that moment, I was only mildly perturbed. What had happened was too surreal to take seriously. Besides, maybe my first guess had been wrong and some fluke, rather than someone with a grudge, had ignited the car’s fuel cells.
“Scent. Explosive,” she said, finally releasing my arm.
Tadehtraulagong was a being of few words, or rather few words at a time. She was supposedly fluent in English and Spanish, but you’d never have guessed; perhaps her jaw structure and tusks made human languages uncomfortable to chew on. When in the mood, Tad acted as a clinic nurse and was my official security officer. Now she’d added something new to her résumé: bodyguard.
Tiny rectangles of safety glass glittered across the parking lot like obese snowflakes. I shook my head, and a few pieces fell out of my hair.
Doors slammed. I looked around and watched neighbors rushing outside, undoubtedly hoping that the clinic had blown up rather than to enjoy the lovely fall afternoon. They must’ve been terribly disappointed judging by the glowers I was getting. Even sweet old Ember Murphy nearly frowned at me.
I felt a rush of blood to my head along with a rush of fear as the reality of what had just happened began to penetrate my brain fog. It also dawned on me that I was being an ingrate. “You saved my life, Tad. Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
If she hadn’t chosen to walk me to the parking lot today, which wasn’t her usual practice, my neighbors would have had to find someone other than me to mutter about, and I definitely appreciated her effort. A nice change, since she’d given me three kinds of headaches ever since she’d joined my staff.
My feet felt unaccountably hot, so I lifted a shoe and found the back heel half worn away. Evidently, friction was the culprit. Now that I knew what to look for, it was easy to spot the long, dual track of brown rubber leading from what remained of my car to my present position. All this confirmed my vague impression of what had just happened. My least favorite employee had dragged me backward and twenty yards away from my Volvo Hydro even as I’d pressed the clicker to unlock it. I hadn’t even had time to wonder why I was suddenly zooming in reverse before the BOOM.
I waved apologetically at the onlookers then used my DM to call Sunny and asked her to retrieve our Alex. Naturally, she reminded me that it was my turn to perform that crucial errand, but I explained that my car was out of commission while cleverly skirting the word “fireball.” She gave me her much-put-upon sigh but agreed to go. Incidentally, the first name on my wife’s driver’s license is “Sonja,” but don’t tell her I ratted her out, Pastor.
When she logged off, the reaction finally hit me full force. If I’d been using an old-fashioned smart phone rather than my DM, I would’ve dropped it. My hands got busy shaking, my legs gave out, and only Tad’s renewed grip kept me from falling. That’s when I heard the approaching sirens and realized I’d better postpone doing a proper job of falling apart.
An impressive turnout: six police cars, two ambulances, an unmarked black sedan, a fire truck, and a way too late to the party, a large van containing the city bomb squad. Five uniforms cordoned off the parking lot with green Day-Glo cones and yellow tape. Festive. Another three either engaged in crowd control or took statements from the locals; hard to tell from where I stood. After a paramedic pronounced me unworthy to ride in an ambulance, two grim officials in dark suits interviewed me and tried, unsuccessfully, to interview Tad. One, a Detective Lenz, clearly believed the incident was my fault. He was probably a neighbor. He oscillated between glaring at me and staring at the Vapabond as if about to challenge her to a bout of arm wrestling.
Luckily, the other law minion, Detective Carl Beresch, did most of the questioning and stayed reasonably polite, although from the lines on his face I guessed the man was allergic to joy. Our little chat started off awkwardly as we performed a conversational duet that’s become so familiar I could do it in my sleep, and probably have.
“Doctor Al Morganson?” he asked, pro forma.
“My friends call me ‘Al.’ Short for Alanso.”
He flicked his eyes toward Tad then back to me. “No disrespect intended. But you are the man known as ‘Doctor Alien’?”
“’Fraid so.” And how annoying is that since I’m not an alien here.
“You are the owner and operator of the—” he consulted an item practically considered incunabula since the Data Manager revolution: an actual paper notepad “—the Morganson Center for Distressed Beings?”
I hadn’t chosen that name, and it always made me wince. “Only the operator; a Trader Consortium owns it.”
