She’d had three days since the embryo had been placed within her. The others had healed this rapidly, but they hadn’t been subject to a night of stumbling along rough forest trails.
“Please hurry,” Harvey pleaded.
“I’m coming,” Igan said. And he thought, Listen to his tone change now that he needs me.
Boumour sat up opposite him, asked, “Shall I join you?”
“Wait here for Glisson,” Igan said.
“Did Glisson say where he was going?”
“To arrange for another guide. It’ll be dark soon.”
“Doesn’t he ever sleep?” Boumour asked.
“Please!” Harvey begged.
“Yes!” Igan snapped. “What’re her symptoms?”
“Vomiting… incoherent.”
“Let me get my bag.” Igan retrieved a thick black case from the floor near his head, glanced across at Svengaard. The man’s breathing still showed the even rhythm of the narcotic they’d administered before collapsing into sleep themselves. Something had to be done about Svengaard. He slowed them down.
Harvey pulled at Igan’s sleeve.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” Igan said. He freed his arm, followed Harvey through a low hole at the end of the room and into a room similar to the one they’d just vacated. Lizbeth lay on a pad beneath a single glowglobe across from them. She groaned.
Harvey knelt beside her. “I’m right here.”
“Harvey,” she whispered. “Oh, Harvey.”
Igan joined them, lifted a pulmonometer-sphagnomometer from his bag. He pressed it against her neck, read the dial. “Where do you hurt?” he asked.
“Ohhhh,” she moaned.
“Please,” Harvey said, looking at Igan. “Please do something.”
“Stand out of the way,” Igan said.
Harvey stood up, backed off two steps. “What is it?” he whispered.
Igan ignored him, taped an enzymic vampire gauge to Lizbeth’s left wrist, read the dials.
“What’s wrong with her?” Harvey demanded.
Igan undipped his instruments, restored them to his bag. “Nothing’s wrong with her.”
“But she’s -”
“She’s perfectly normal. Most of the others reacted the same way. It’s realignment of her enzymic demand system.”
“Isn’t there some -”
“Calm down!” Igan stood up, faced Harvey. “She barely needs any prescription material. Pretty soon, she can do without altogether. She’s in better health than you are. And she could walk into a pharmacy right now. The prescription flag wouldn’t even identify her.”
“Then why’s she…?”
“It’s the embryo. It compensates for her needs to protect itself. Does it automatically.”
“But she’s sick!”
“A bit of glandular maladjustment, nothing else.” Igan picked up his bag. “It’s all part of the ancient process. The embryo says produce this, produce that. She produces. Puts a certain strain on her system.”
“Can’t you do anything for her?”
“Of course I can. She’ll be extremely hungry in a little while. We’ll give her something to settle her stomach and then feed her. Provided they can produce some food in this hole.”
Lizbeth groaned, “Harvey?”
He knelt beside her, clasped her hands. “Yes, dear?”
“I feel terrible.”
“They’ll give you something in a few minutes.”
“Ohhhhh.”
Harvey turned a fierce scowl up at Igan.
“As soon as we can,” Igan said. “Don’t worry. This is normal.” He turned, ducked out into the other room.
“What’s wrong?” Lizbeth whispered.
“It’s the embryo,” Harvey said. “Didn’t you hear?”
“Yes. My head aches.”
Igan returned with a capsule and a cup of water, bent over Lizbeth. “Take this. It’ll settle your stomach.”
Harvey helped her sit up, held her while she swallowed the capsule.
She took a quavering breath, returned the cup. “I’m sorry to be such a -”
“Quite all right,” Igan said. He looked at Harvey. “Best bring her in the other room. Glisson will return in a few minutes. He should have food and a guide.”
Harvey helped his wife to her feet, supported her as they followed Igan into the other room. They found Svengaard sitting up staring at his bound hands.
“Have you been listening?” Igan asked.
Svengaard looked at Lizbeth. “Yes.”
“Have you thought about Seatac?”
“I’ve thought.”
“You’re not thinking of releasing him,” Harvey said.
“He slows us too much,” Igan said. “And we cannot release him.”
“Then perhaps I should do something about him,” Harvey said.
“What do you suggest, Durant?” Boumour asked.
“He’s a danger to us,” Harvey said.
“Ahh,” Boumour said. “Then we leave him to you.”
“Harvey!” Lizbeth said. She wondered if he’d suddenly gone mad. Was this his reaction to her request that they seek Svengaard as her doctor?
But Harvey was remembering Lizbeth’s moans. “If it’s him or my son,” he said, “the choice is easy.”
Lizbeth took his hand, signaled, “What’re you doing? You can’t mean this!”
“What is he, anyway?” Harvey asked, staring at Igan. And he signaled Lizbeth, “Wait. Watch.”
She read her husband then, pulled away.
“He’s a gene surgeon,” Harvey said. His voice dripped scorn. “He’s existed for them. Can he justify his existence? He’s a nonviable, nonliving nonentity. He has no future.”
“Is that your choice?” Boumour asked.
Svengaard looked up at Harvey. “Do you talk of murdering me?” he asked. The lack of emotion in his voice surprised Harvey.
“You don’t protest?” he asked.
Svengaard tried to swallow. His throat felt full of dry cotton. He looked at Harvey, measuring the bulk of the man, the corded muscles. He remembered the excessive male protectiveness in Harvey’s nature, the gene-error that made him a slave to Lizbeth’s slightest need.
“Why should I argue,” Svengaard asked, “when much of what he says is true and when he’s already made up his mind?”
“How will you do it, Durant?” Boumour asked.
“How would you like me to do it?” Harvey asked.
“Strangulation might be interesting,” Boumour said, and Harvey wondered if Svengaard, too, could hear the Cyborg clinical detachment in the man’s voice.
“A simple snap of the neck is quicker,” Igan said. “Or an injection. I could supply several from my kit.”
Harvey felt Lizbeth trembling against him. He patted her arm, disengaged himself.
“Harvey!” she said.
He shook his head, advanced on Svengaard.
Igan retreated to Boumour’s side, stood watching.
Harvey knelt behind Svengaard, closed his fingers around the surgeon’s throat, bent close to the ear opposite his audience. In a whisper audible only to Svengaard, Harvey said, “They would as soon see you dead. They don’t care one way or another. How do you feel about it?”
Svengaard felt the hands on his throat. He knew he could reach up with his bound hands and try to remove those clutching fingers, but he knew he’d fail. There was no doubting Harvey’s strength.
“Your own choice?” Harvey whispered.
“Do it, man!” Boumour called.
Only seconds ago, Svengaard realized, he’d been resigned to death, wanted death. Suddenly, that wish was the farthest thing from his desires.
“I want to live,” he husked.
“Is that your choice?” Harvey whispered.
“Yes!”
“Are you talking to him?” Boumour asked.
“Why do you want to live?” Harvey asked in a normal voice. He relaxed his fingers lightly, a subtle communication to Svengaard. Even an untrained person could read this.