That was another thing Austin did here. Translating, stealing, lifting. He was glad to be of use. The starship was destroyed, but civilization would not be, because of what Tony and Beyon-kal were creating here, now, with Austin’s help. He was important. He was necessary.
Isabelle Rhinehart didn’t go with them to the medical facility, which disappointed Leo. By now he had the relationships sorted out. Noah Jenner and the two other men who lived in the house, although they weren’t there now, were married to native women, who all lived in other places (weird—why?) Kayla was Isabelle’s sister; she had a kid that came with her on the first Terran mission to Kindred. The kid was supposed to be at school but school had been canceled because of the Russian attack and now the kid, Austin, was missing and Kayla was hysterical all over again and Isabelle had to go look for Austin.
“How old is Austin?” Dr. Patel said.
“Fifteen,” Isabelle said. “Thirteen in Terran years.”
Well, shit—the kid was just playing hooky. Leo had done that enough when he was thirteen (and done a lot worse, too). Austin would come home when he damn well felt like it. Leo suspected that Isabelle thought so, too, but she was humoring her wuss of a sister.
Owen called the unit together before they walked to the clinic. “This all looks legit so far, but nobody surrenders any weapons for any reason whatsoever. First priority is to assess situation, resources, terrain. If this medical procedure is judged necessary, we will undergo it in two shifts, first Berman and Brodie, and then Kandiss and me. Personnel not in clinic will take possession of the weapons of those who are. The immediate goal is to attain physical functionality to drink and eat on this planet, in order to carry out the larger goals of, first, defending civilian personnel and, second, discovering the means to return to Terra. Is this understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Leo said, along with the others. But—return to Terra? Was that possible? How?
Zoe said, “Permission to ask a question, sir.”
“Go ahead.”
“How long does this medical procedure last and what do we do? Like, take a pill or an IV or what?”
Nothing so easy.
“Fecal transplant,” Dr. Bourgiba said. “The quickest way to augment the gut biome.”
“What’s that?” Zoe said suspiciously.
The civilians, except for the two doctors, had already been taken into rooms someplace. The clinic turned out to be a short walk down the hill from Jenner’s house. Leo and Owen had done a recon of the nearby town. The houses came in clumps, usually a big one surrounded by smaller structures, all made of that same light bamboo-like stuff in those same curves and weaves, with decks and open sides. Beautiful but hard to defend. The houses were set in a lush landscape of gardens, orchards, and fields connected by paths of smooth stone. He saw nothing that looked like factories or warehouses or office buildings, but the town center had what looked like stores and restaurants but could have been schools or temples or something really alien, for all he knew. The only large building was next to the clinic. Jenner said it was a combination school and community center.
Not too many natives around; probably they were inside, mourning their cities. The ones he saw were mostly tall, all coppery skinned, all with huge dark eyes like the ones in those sappy paintings his foster mother, the bitch, had hung around her living room. The natives walked or rode bicycles, although he saw one more electric transport and one heavily laden cart pulled slowly by a big stupid-looking animal.
The clinic was another bamboo-y building but more closed up and level with the ground. Leo saw Owen appraising it. He and Kandiss went into the small lobby, scoped it out, and came back outside. A native woman in loose white pants and tunic, more covered up than the usual wrap, led Leo into a small room with two scrubbed-looking raised platforms covered with what looked like plastic but probably wasn’t. Leo had already observed that these people didn’t use plastic. Canteens were metal; carrying was done in baskets; Isabelle’s necklace was some sort of fake gold with wood carvings on it. Beside the platforms stood some metal buckets. An open door led to the head, which had—thank God for small favors—a toilet that looked pretty normal.
Dr. Bourgiba came in, translating for a native. “I’m sorry we have to put two in a room, but space is limited here. Accommodating all eight of us will be a stretch as it is. Dr. Patel and I have prepared everything. Lieutenant, which of your men goes first?”
“Negative,” Owen said. “I want to see it first on civilians, including recovery.”
Dr. Bourgiba blinked. “I don’t think you understand, Lieutenant. This is the best way to make it possible for you to drink and eat, which you must do soon. We are all losing hydration in this heat. Recovery takes about a week. We must begin now.”
Leo watched Owen, stony faced, come to a decision. It was true that they needed to hydrate; thirst made Leo’s throat feel clogged with sawdust. Owen had no choice.
“Brodie and Berman, you first. Kandiss and I will observe.”
Bourgiba didn’t argue. “This is not going to be pleasant, I’m afraid. Please undress, everything off, including your face mask. Almost immediately the Kindred microbes will invade your lungs. The nurse here will give you some water to drink. And I’m going to insert a small capsule of native microbes into your rectum. Some of these should take hold and further your acclimation. In addition, they might serve to build immunity to—”
“Wait,” Leo said. “Up my asshole? Some native’s shit?”
“Yes. This is a well-established procedure on Earth, although there we would have the equipment to do it via colonoscopy. Undress and lie on your side, facing the wall.”
Zoe said, “Wait a minute, I—”
Owen said, “An order, Berman. Go with Dr. Patel.”
Leo handed his weapons and gear to Kandiss. The doctor drew on plastic gloves—they must have come from Dr. Patel’s handy-dandy suitcase. Then Leo lay still for half an hour. Well, this wasn’t so bad. He felt fine.
Soon after that nausea started, then vomiting, diarrhea, violent headaches, and the misery that made him sure he was going to die, and almost want to.
A nurse stayed with him, or somebody did. They were all a blur. He puked and shat and drank water and ate whatever they made him eat. Two days later—two lost, everlasting, fucked-to-hell-and-back days—he suddenly felt himself again. Weak as a puppy, but himself. His stomach stayed still, which was, he now knew fervently, what you wanted of a stomach. He was clean (who had done that?), lying on the raised platform in a clean room. Kandiss lay on the other platform, asleep, a huge dark lump. Through a window blew fresh, warm, scented breezes. Leo closed his eyes and slept.
When he opened them again, he was still clean, and Isabelle Rhinehart stood at the foot of his bed.
“Congratulations,” she said. “You had it much easier than the others.”
“They—”
“Will all live, all eight of you. Tough sons of bitches.”
Her smile was glorious. Leo slept again.
Salah lay motionless, hoping that would still both the vomiting and the vertigo. Like most doctors, he was seldom ill; more delicate types didn’t survive med school. Feeling this bad was new to him. But, he thought with the introspection natural to him, doing nothing was not.
Everyone he’d ever known would dispute that. Salah Bourgiba, polymath, Renaissance man. Respected physician, historian, speaker of five languages—six, now. But Salah knew, even if no one else did, that he had made only two independent decisions in his life: Aisha and applying for this expedition.
Otherwise, he had just drifted along the path marked out for him by others. The right schools and the right career choice, neither ever imperiled by the sorts of political activism—for the environment, the homeless, the economy, a dozen different idealistic causes—that had seized some of his classmates. The right hospitals for internship and residency, obtained partly by his own easy successes and partly by parental string-pulling that he had not asked about too closely. The right publications and board memberships and political stances, flowing from being born with the right connections. He had dotted every I, touched every base, filled out every required line on every form. Drifting, without decision, through all of it.