“Such mastery is within your reach, Dr. Jane Holloway,” he rumbled reassuringly. “I will instruct you. In time.”
She noted his smug satisfaction as he watched her struggle. He’d wanted this.
There was no time to contemplate that. Numb for so long, it was an incomprehensible flood.
The filaments retracted—all at the same time, tenting her skin, slithering over and through her. Her lips curled and she coughed as the strands drug over her lips, exiting her throat en masse.
She hit the bottom of the tank with a thunk, sending a painful jolt through her leg. Ei’Brai was right. It wasn’t healed yet. Well, he hadn’t lied about that. That was something.
She shuddered with a bone-deep chill. Slowly, she reached up and wiped the gel from her eyes. That helped. Sight was definitely helpful.
She sat up slowly, expecting weakness after the long, inactive submersion. But weakness wasn’t the problem. Her teeth chattered and slimy, chilled strands of her hair slapped her face, dripping with gel.
She gripped the side of the tank and hauled herself up on the good leg. Her right leg ached and burned. The slightest movement sent pain slicing through her. She was going to have to use it. There was no other way. The violent shivering was only making it worse.
She tested the edge of the tank by leaning against it, then put all her weight on it and swung both legs over the rim and slid down, faster than she intended. The residual gel was slippery. Her feet slid out from under her. Her head struck the side of the tank, narrowing her vision to a tunnel of light. After a few moments, she came back to her senses, leg throbbing from the impact. She grunted, regained her footing, then half walked, half hopped to the wall.
Her fingers touched a protruding module. It eased out. She grabbed the silky material inside, wrapping a length around her hair, using another to dry herself. The fabric was incredibly thirsty and efficient for its weight. She felt better almost immediately.
She opened various drawers and shook out the garments inside until she found a tunic and a pair of drawstring pants. The pants and sleeves were far too long, but she tight-rolled them at wrists and ankles and left her feet bare. The gauzy fabric instantly warmed her, allowing the chilled tremors to subside. She tugged at her turbaned hair and found it slightly damp, lanky, and matted. She ran fingers through the tangles for a moment, then gave up. There was no time for that now.
Ei’Brai tried to convince her to do a scan, to hear the computer’s assessment of her condition, provide some kind of mechanical support—at the very least get some kind of an injection to control the pain. But she wouldn’t let him slow her down or distract her again. She’d make do.
She hobbled out of the infirmary and down the corridor to the deck transport. Just a few floors away was the protection she needed—Sectilius battle armor. It would keep the nepatrox off her, give her defensive weapons. Since it was mechanical, used minimal effort to operate, it would take some of the stress off her leg.
By the time she got there, she knew Ei’Brai had been right. Healing was far from complete—she could be doing permanent damage. Her breath hissed through clenched teeth with every jolting, painful step.
She leaned against the wall and slapped her palm on the door control. The door slid open to reveal undulating rows of gleaming obsidian armor. Jane wrinkled her brow. These things were designed to protect, to kill, and yet the sight of a sea of them in graceful, inverted U-shapes was compellingly beautiful, moving.
Each suit was designed to conform to fit the entire spectrum of Sectilius body types. Meant to be stepped into, the legs stood short and squat, open at the waist, compressed like an accordion. The torso was split down the center and arched back, the compacted arms terminating in gauntlets that gently rested against the floor, like the advanced yoga pose upward bow, urdhava dhanu, that she’d never successfully managed.
She took a tentative step inside. The nearest suit twitched. She staggered a step back to grip the doorframe, until she realized it had just turned itself on in response to her presence and intent.
She stared at it, bemused. There was no good way to get into the thing. She’d have to put all of her weight on the bad leg at some point. She was afraid she might fall in the process. There was nothing to hold onto.
Ei’Brai’s voice flitted gently against her mind, a recommendation.
She frowned, but followed his thought toward a simple command and watched with awe as the suit picked up one foot and then the other, moving toward her in odd, shuffling, mechanical steps. She hopped back, pressing herself into the wall as the suit positioned itself precisely before her and the contents of the entire room shifted in a roar of clinks and thuds to fill in the empty space the suit had left behind.
She laughed out loud. She almost expected it to wag a tail.
This was going to be a far different experience from the EMU.
The smile remained plastered to her lips as she eased the warm clothing back off. The suit was meant to be worn naked, which was simply absurd, but utterly Sectilius. Their attitudes about the physical body and sexuality were completely different. They were Pragmatists by culture and inclination, innately.
That thought gave her a moment’s pause. How did she know this with such certainty? She mentally raised a brow at Ei’Brai. She could feel him now—smugly swelling. He didn’t have to say a word. He’d used her time in the tank wisely, indoctrinating her mind with Sectilius experience and knowledge.
She cursed at him viciously in Mensententia and felt his vibrating, answering chuckle. She was bound to this lunatic now, for better or for worse.
She turned and braced herself against the wall, put all her weight on the good leg, and lifted the injured leg with a hand, guiding it up, back and into the corresponding leg of the suit.
She inhaled sharply as the boot constricted around her foot and lower leg, locking into place.
She gripped the doorframe, easing her weight onto the injured leg, partially supported now, and slipped the good leg in, quickly. She managed to stay upright, knuckles white, inhaling in a strangled gasp from the pain. She leaned down and gripped the handholds inset into the waistband in a practiced manner, almost like she’d done this before, and lifted up. Her every muscle tensed as the suit took over with a whirring boost, adapting to the contours of her lower body and molding over her injury. There was a brief squeeze as the internal computers tested her anatomy and then settled the suit into a semi-comfortable position. It’d do better once the entire suit was donned, she knew.
To that end, she had only to lean slightly to the side and slip her arm down into the gauntlet. It stretched and constricted against her shape. She expected it to be heavy, but the gear moved proactively, reducing the load for her. The other arm was waiting, exactly where it needed to be, for ease. She bit her lip and shoved her fingers down the tube.
A dizzying flurry of mechanized movement made her pulse throb. Her right arm was enveloped. The suit closed and locked over her chest. The helmet closed up and over her head. She winced as the plumbing engaged with an uncomfortable rasp to her private parts, surprisingly sensitive from her recent mental diversion.
She was protected now—from the vacuum of space, from the elements, from chemical or biological warfare, and all but the most potent weapons. The suit was designed for combat with the Swarm. It would easily handle the nepatrox.
She stood there for a moment, dazed, adjusting to the new sensory input. A huge red symbol hung before her eyes, its three-dimensions telescoping in and out of focus.