Story #15 - Doctor's Orders

Doctor's Orders

Dr. Chance Heston was an expert, of that there was no doubt. What exactly he was an expert in, meanwhile, was up for some debate.

“Do you think you can cure, him, Doc?” General Yuri Comlo's voice was full of concern, more for the mission than the man. His squat frame led Chance quickly through the corridors of the L1 Space Station toward the “secure quarters”, and the good doctor leaned heavily on his cane to keep up.

Chance sighed. The question was common, expected under the circumstances but still manged to dig a little deeper under his skin every time he heard it. Didn't they understand? The field was so new, so untried - “cure” had far too broad a meaning yet.

“I don't know. I hope so. I've never heard of a case quite like this.” That was the trouble. Robotic humanoids – rumans, to most – were only a decade old and while they'd been made almost entirely disease and parasite resistant, that didn't mean that they couldn't suffer the same kinds of mental illness that had plagued humankind for centuries. Ruman psychology was quickly becoming a popular field of study in no small part thanks to Chance himself, but it was poorly understood by the public.

In fact, there was disagreement even in the community over how ruman pathologies should be documented, diagnoses made and treatments recommended, which was why Chance had jumped at the opportunity to work on L1. He needed a break.

They came to a halt in front of a thick metal door bounded by two control panels. Chance had insisted he see the patient – Captain Muir – alone in the room and the General had agreed, so long as he could remain outside should any trouble arise. Chance had been very specific; his sessions with patients were confidential, and no audio or video recording would be permitted. The General had agreed readily, which meant such equipment was likely installed already.

Taking a deep breath he steadied himself before reaching for the door control. Muir was one of the best Lightship pilots the military had, and losing even one would be a disaster. Unfortunately, Muir had come back - “crazy” was the word used in the official reports – from his last assignment to Sigma Tau.

The door slid open with a soft “whoosh” and he stepped inside, thumbing a small button at the top of his cane as he did so. Thanks to a portable EM generator, any scanning equipment in the room would be disabled. Mention of such a disabling would label the military as liars, so Chance doubted he would hear much of it.

Inside, he found a narrow room with a long cot and desk, one chair and an agitated ruman pacing side to side. Captain Muir was tall for a Lightship pilot, topping five foot four, but thin with short black hair cut close to his head. He gestured as he moved, not bothering to acknowledge Chance's presence in the room.

“Captain Muir?” He kept his voice low and smooth; rumans were sensitive to changes in tone, “I'm Dr. Chance Heston. I'm here to help you.”

“Cajoling rhino. Flocked majesty. One train, backward polearm over studio. Timing case!” Muir's voice was deep and strong; characteristic of the male ruman.

Chance tapped his cane lightly on the steel floorplate beneath him. Simple aphasia, perhaps? Seemed like the station doctor's would have caught that, and nothing on the bio-scans had indicated any sort of infection or malfunction.

“Captain, if you don't mind could you,” turn was going to be his next word but Muir spun before he could get it out and he took a quick step back, metal door coming to meet his frame.

Muir's face was unlined, his skin a bronzed tan and without mark or aberration. His eyes, however, were open as wide as they could possibly go, and then what Chance Heston was sure was at least half an inch more. The worst part of it was the lack of any other distended facial feature, giving the ruman a distinct look of pure and utter madness.

Many ignored the physiological characteristics of Muir's kind, relying instead on machine-based diagnostics and energy level checks, but many saw only the robotic half of the self and forgot or ignored the other significant portion of the makeup. Muir was as much human as machine, and his eyes would tell a great deal about his issue, if Chance watched for long enough.

As it turned out, Dr. Chance Heston was standing in the right place at the right time and it only took thirty seconds.

A – shadow- was all he could call it swam across Muir's left eye and then his right and Chance moved without thinking. His staff cracked against the Captain's head, sending him tumbling to the floor and was quickly followed by the wet sound of something striking the wall of the cabin.

Looking to his left, Chance saw a dull gray worm, no longer than his pinky finger in size, covered in neural fluid and struggling to squirm downward and under the cot below. With a quick jab, he pinned the creature in place and jammed the top of his cane down. A useful device, especially for a man with no real injury.

Bio-electric! Of course! Rumans weren't immune to disease, just resistant, and this little bastard needed exactly what Muir could give out – electric energy for mobility and biological energy for food. It must have latched onto him during the last Slipstream.

“Everywhere,” Muir mumbled, still on the ground with his hands to his head, “non-linear. Coming!” The last was raised an octave; as panicked as a ruman could get.

Taking his skewered prize with him, Chance Heston headed back into the corridor. He'd cured Muir, but the General had a bigger problem. Earth was a veritable buffet.

- D