Cress

Chapter 43

           Cress stood to the side of the lab table, clutching a  portscreen as Dr. 
          Erland  held  a strange tool beside beside Thorne's face, sending a thin beam of
         light into pupils.
                 The  doctor  grunted,  and   bobbed    his   head in   comprehension. "Mm-
            hmmm,"   he   drawled,  changing  the  tool's  settings  so   that   a   green   light
           clicked  on  near  the   bottom. "Mm-hm," he said    again, switching to the 
          other eye. Cheer   leaned closer, but she couldn't see anything that would
    warrant such thoughtful humming.
            The tool in the doctor's    hand   made a   few clicking sounds   and   he
        took  the portscreen out of Cress's hand. He nodded at it  before handing  it back
      to  her. She looked down at  the  screen,  where  the  strange  tool  was transferring
   a  jumble  of incomprehensible diagnoses.
             "Mmm-hmmm."
               "Would   you   stop   Mm-hming   and tell   me   what's   wrong   with   them?"
       said Thorne.
               "Patience," said  the   doctor. "The  pic  system  is  delicate,  and   an   incorrect
     diagnosis could be catastrophic."
     Thorne crossed his arms.
          The doctor changed the settings on his tool   again and completed
               another scan of Thorne's   eyes. "Indeed,"   he said. "Severe    optic nerve
               damage, likely  as   a    result of traumatic head  injury. My hypothesis  is  that
              when   you  hit  your   head  during the fall,  internal bleeding   in   your    skull  
           caused   pressure   build up against the optic nerve and—"
                 Thorne waved, bumping the  doctor's   tool away  from  him. "Can you fix
              them?"
      Dr.  Erland  huffed  and  set  the  tool  down  on  the  counter   that  ran  the
          length  of  the  Rampion's  medbay.  "Of  course  I can," he   said, sounding
      insulted.  "The  first  step  will  be   to  collect  some  bone   marrow   from the
          iliac  crest  portion  of  your  pelvic bone.  From   that,   I can harvest   your
      hematopoietic stem  cells,  which  we  can  use  to  create  a  solution  that  can
          be externally applied  to  your  optic  system.  Over  time,  the  stem  cells  will
      replace  your  damaged  retinal  ganglion  cells  and  provide  cellular  bridges
      among the disconnected—"
          "A-la-la-la-la,  fine,  I  get  it,"  said  Thorne,  covering  his  ears.  "Please,
          never say that word again."
          Dr. Erland  raised  an  eyebrow.  "Cellular?  Hematopoietic?  Ganglion?"
          "That last one." Thorne grimaced. "Bleh."
              The doctor scowled. "Are you squeamish, Mr. Thorne?"
               "Eye  stuff  weirds  me  out.  As  does any  surgery  regarding  the  pelvic
          bone. You  can  knock me   out  for  that  part,  right?"  He  lay  back  on  the
          exam table. "Do it fast."
        "A localized numbing agent will suffice," said  Dr. Erland. "I  even  happen
          to   have   something   that should work   in my   kit. However,  while   we
      can harvest the bone marrow  today, I  don't  have  the  instruments  necessary
      to separate the stem cells or create the injection solution."
          Thorne slowly sat up again. "So ... you can't fix me?"
              "Not without a proper lab."
     Thorne's mouth twisted into a frown.
      "At least now we know what's wrong," said Cress, "and that it can be
         fixed. We'll figure something out."
        The doctor glanced at her, then turned away and set about organizing
the medbay cabinets with the equipment they'd taken from his hotel. He
        seemed to be making an attempt to hide any emotions aside from professional
curiosity, but Cress    got the    impression   that he    didn't care   much
for Thorne.
         His feelings toward her, on the other hand, were a mystery. She didn't
    think he'd met her eye once since they'd left the hotel, and she suspected
    he   was    ashamed    about the     whole    purchasing-Lunar-shells-for-their-
blood thing. Which he had every reason to be ashamed of. Although they
    were on the same side now, she hadn't yet forgiven him for   how he'd
     treated her, and countless others. Like cattle at an auction.
     Not that she'd ever seen a cattle auction.
           If she were honest with herself,   she had   uncertain opinions   about
    most of the crew of the Rampion. After   seeing   Wolf snap in the hotel,
    Cress had done her best to steer clear of him when she could. His temper,
and the knowledge of what his kind were capable of, made the   hair
    prickle on her neck every time his vivid green eyes met hers.
       It didn't help that Wolf hadn't  spoken  a  word  since  they'd  left  Africa.
   While  they'd  all  discussed  the  danger  of  staying  in   orbit   before  Cress
   could  reinstate  her systems  for keeping   them unobserved,  Wolf  had
crouched solitary  in  a  corner  of  the  cockpit,  staring  empty-eyed  at  the
        pilot's seat.
            When Cinder had suggested they go somewhere  that  was  in  reach  of
          New Beijing while they figured out the next phase of their plan, Wolf had
          paced back and forth in the galley, cradling a can of tomatoes.
       When they had finally descended into  the  desolate  wasteland  of  the
       Commonwealth's  northern Siberian regions, Wolf had lain on his side on
       lower bunk bed of one of the crew  quarters,  his  face  buried  in  a  pillow.
        Cress  had  assumed  it  was  his  bed,  until  Thorne  informed  her  it  had
           been Scarlet's.