If only he had not.
Blackness seized him; his breath went short; the room, the med tech, the instruments—all and everything smeared into a blur of senseless color. Dislocated, he fell—and his knees struck the vanished floor.
The jolt focused him; he gasped for breath; heard the med tech call out; felt a hand beneath his elbow.
“Are you in pain?” the tech asked.
Was he in pain? Daav felt something like laughter, if laughter were bleak and bladed and chill, snarling in his chest. He gritted his teeth and denied it.
“I am—a thought unbalanced,” he managed, breath coming easier now. “A momentary lapse.”
“Ah,” the tech said and spoke over Daav's head. “Let us assist the pilot to the chair, please. Then, rerun the room readings for the last six minutes.”
He allowed them to lend him support and crept to the diagnostic chair on their arms, like a toddler taking his first steps on the arms of fond family. Once he was seated, the shorter med tech left them, doubtless to find the room readings, as she had been directed.
Daav leaned back and closed his eyes, spent.
“Blood sugars critical,” the tech murmured. “Systolic . . . ”
He took a soft breath. “Attend me, Pilot. It would seem that you have suffered yet another potent shock to your system. Please rest here. The chair will give you several injections, to assist in balancing your body's systems. I will return in a moment.”
He departed. Daav lay limp in the chair, scarcely caring when the injections were administered. Over in the corner, he could hear the techs speaking quietly, they thought. His hearing had returned with his eyesight, however, and he heard how worriedly they discussed plummeting blood pressure, a sudden, unexplainable crisis of blood sugars, and a glittering moment of cranial pyrotechnics.
“Seizure,” the team leader murmured.
Fear flooded him, very nearly drowning the horror of his loss. If the med techs could prove brain damage, he would never fly again. He stirred in the chair.
“I am,” he said, and stopped, shocked at how weak his voice was. He opened his eyes. Both of the techs were watching him, alarm clearly visible.
Daav took a deep breath.
“I am,” he said again, “the surviving partner of a true lifemating.”
The techs exchanged a glance.
“I suggest,” Daav continued, “that I be released into the care of my kin, with whatever regimen will, in your professional opinions, best restore my strength. When I have had some time to become . . . ” His breath grabbed; he deliberately breathed deeply, “ . . . some time to become accustomed, then I will return for another series of diagnostics.”
“If you have another seizure,” the head tech said, “you will immediately return here.”
“Agreed,” he said, feeling considerably more awake. The injections from the kindly chair at work, no doubt.
“Very well,” the head med tech said, motioning his subordinate out of the room ahead of him. “We will call your kinsman to you, and bring a mobile chair. Please remain in the diagnostic chair until the mobile arrives. The room is awake and watching as well.”
And would certainly report another seizure or any other small infelicity, Daav thought. As it happened, he was content for the moment to rest where he sat.
“I understand,” he told the med tech, who gave him one more hard look before he, too, departed, leaving Daav alone.
Carefully, wishing neither to think, nor to invite yet another state that might cause a med tech even the smallest concern, he began to review the Scout's Rainbow.
In general, he had only to think of the Rainbow in order to achieve its benefits, as accustomed as they were to each other. Now, however, he deliberately slowed the process, visualizing each color particularly and fully before moving on to the next.
He was contemplating, with difficulty, the color blue when he heard the door cycle, and opened his eyes, fully expecting to see Er Thom.
But it was not Er Thom.
He straightened sharply in the chair, his heart jolting in what he could only hope was an unalarming and perfectly usual manner.
“Go away, Master Kestra,” he said, his voice harsh. “I don't want you.”
The Healer raised her hands, fingers spread wide.
“Peace,” she said softly. “I had only come to look, now that you are aware again.”
She paused, her eyes focused on some point just above his head, as Healers were wont to do.
“Well,” he snapped, “and what do you see?”
“I am not certain,” she answered, dreamily. "I note that I am neither blinded nor deafened in your presence, and that we both know the Rainbow is not potent enough to quiet you. Normally.
“I see your pattern, and I see your anguish, and I see the abyss that you carry within. Apparently, choice is available to you.”
She blinked, her face sharpening as she looked directly into his eyes.
“You are not brain-burned, if that soothes you, Daav.”
“If I continue to have seizures, it will scarcely matter why,” he pointed out. “If I continue to have seizures, the Guild will have my license, and rescind my right to fly.”
“And you still care about that,” the Healer murmured. “Deeply.”
Anger licked through him, and he took a deliberate breath.
“Master Kestra, are you through looking?”
She bowed, gently. “In fact, Korval, I am. In this, I am timely. Your brother approaches.”
With no further ado, she turned and walked toward the door, triggered it and stepped back, allowing Er Thom to enter first, in deference to his rank, and then the chair, in deference to the inept driver.
“Master Kestra,” Er Thom murmured, pausing to give her a bow. “Have you business with my brother?”
“Our business is done,” she said, inclining her head. “He does not accept my assistance. If it should come about that he requires it, please have no hesitation in sending for me.”
Er Thom bowed. “Our House is grateful.”
“Of course,” she said, an edge of irony on her voice. “In the meanwhile, by all means take him home. Hospitals magnify every ill and pain; it is better to heal among kin, especially of such wounds as his.”
She bowed then, and passed through the door. Er Thom turned to Daav and offered his arm.
“Daav.”
Anne's embrace was sisterly and enveloping. He leaned his head against her shoulder and for a heartbeat simply accepted the comfort that she offered, feeling her warmth and her true affection.
She held him lightly, as would a woman accustomed to handling wild things, or small children, and released him the instant he lifted his head.
“Er Thom will have told you that the boy's with us,” she said, in her lilting Terran. “He and his cousins have been having a fine time of it, running Mrs. Intassi ragged. I took it on myself to have some of your things brought up and a room made ready. You're to stay with us for as long as you want and wish to, understand me, laddie?”
“I understand,” he said. “Thank you, Anne.”
“No thanks,” she said severely, and gripped him by his shoulders, forcing him to look up into her face. “No blaming yourself, either—do you hear me? She knew what she was doing.”
“I think so, too,” he whispered, and cleared his throat, blinking his eyes to clear them.
“Now, you'll tell me what you need to make you comfortable—a bite of food, maybe?”
“No,” he said, striving not to sound as if he found the thought of food nauseating. “No, I—I thank you. I think that I wish . . . to be alone for a time.” He paused and added, “I'm very tired,” which had the felicity of being perfectly true.