to throw or hit something to release the frustration damming up in him, but he forced himself to be patient. "And what is that?"
The computer answered innocently, probably without meaning to sound as cheeky as it did, "What is what?"
Travis took a deep breath and told himself he was not going to crush the ship's brain between his fingers, and that he must endure this conversation, and tried again. "What are you trying to tell me?"
The computer tested his tolerance level when it answered, "Tell you about what?"
Getting up from the chair, he kicked the machine. He knew doing so was futile and childish, but it made him feel slightly better, and it gave him enough patience to rephrase the question. "The lady has contracted a disease and she is very ill. What should I do?"
He was surprised when the machine gave him an answer that both made sense and was helpful. "You have antibodies in your blood, and the ship carries the equipment necessary to make a cure."
The procedure seemed daunting. This was something he had no training for, and the thought that he was about to manufacture something he'd be injecting into her blood was unnerving. Still, he had to try. If he did nothing she would die, and that could not be allowed to happen.
He was so preoccupied it took him a while to realize this was a medical matter, and he could probably make the computer help him through the terminal in the infirmary. Usually steady as a rock, he was not pleased to find his hand wanted to shake when he withdrew his blood.
*****
Patricia was lost in feverish dreams, haunted by monsters in her mind that would surpass Hollywood's wildest creations, and it would have been a relief to wake up if she hadn't felt so bad. She was burning up, her head was pounding, her limbs were aching, and breathing was difficult.
Something was cold on her arm, and when she broke through the fogs in her head enough to be able to focus her eyes, she saw Travis dabbing something on it in a rather random manner. He didn't look like he knew what he was doing, but she was too sick to care much about it. It felt as if someone had piled coins on her eyelids, they were so heavy, and running a marathon must be easy compared to the effort it took to watch him.
Thinking back was almost as difficult. She remembered being on the bridge, sitting in his chair, but everything after that was blurry. Darkness was calling to her and it was so tempting to give in. Closing her eyes and not having to care about anything would be easy, maybe even pleasant, but a tiny little voice in the back of her head screamed that she needed to stay awake.
She wet her dry lips with the tip of a tongue that seemed just as dry, and asked, thinking her voice sounded much too weak, "What are you doing?"
*****
Patricia's voice, faint as it was, broke Travis's concentration, and he looked up from her arm, forcing himself to smile. It was difficult to ignore that she already looked more dead than alive. "I've made something for you, and if it doesn't work, I'll just try again."
When he added, "Don't worry, it'll be alright," it was with a certainty he didn't feel. He was trying to figure out how many of those seventy-three hours he might have left, how long this might have taken, and how many attempts he could make. If this didn't kill her, that was. He had very little faith in his own medical abilities.
Looking at her arm confused him. The computer had told him he couldn't use a hyposyringe, so he had to do it the old-fashioned way, and had to make sure to sterilize the skin before injecting her. He didn't know where to enter the needle, and he felt a trickle of nervous sweat find its way down his neck. Patricia said softly, "Yes, it will be alright because you will make it alright. It's what you do for me."
Her unwavering confidence in him gave him the belief in himself he needed to try. That shade of blue just under her skin was a good spot. He swallowed, told himself to stop
The computer answered innocently, probably without meaning to sound as cheeky as it did, "What is what?"
Travis took a deep breath and told himself he was not going to crush the ship's brain between his fingers, and that he must endure this conversation, and tried again. "What are you trying to tell me?"
The computer tested his tolerance level when it answered, "Tell you about what?"
Getting up from the chair, he kicked the machine. He knew doing so was futile and childish, but it made him feel slightly better, and it gave him enough patience to rephrase the question. "The lady has contracted a disease and she is very ill. What should I do?"
He was surprised when the machine gave him an answer that both made sense and was helpful. "You have antibodies in your blood, and the ship carries the equipment necessary to make a cure."
The procedure seemed daunting. This was something he had no training for, and the thought that he was about to manufacture something he'd be injecting into her blood was unnerving. Still, he had to try. If he did nothing she would die, and that could not be allowed to happen.
He was so preoccupied it took him a while to realize this was a medical matter, and he could probably make the computer help him through the terminal in the infirmary. Usually steady as a rock, he was not pleased to find his hand wanted to shake when he withdrew his blood.
*****
Patricia was lost in feverish dreams, haunted by monsters in her mind that would surpass Hollywood's wildest creations, and it would have been a relief to wake up if she hadn't felt so bad. She was burning up, her head was pounding, her limbs were aching, and breathing was difficult.
Something was cold on her arm, and when she broke through the fogs in her head enough to be able to focus her eyes, she saw Travis dabbing something on it in a rather random manner. He didn't look like he knew what he was doing, but she was too sick to care much about it. It felt as if someone had piled coins on her eyelids, they were so heavy, and running a marathon must be easy compared to the effort it took to watch him.
Thinking back was almost as difficult. She remembered being on the bridge, sitting in his chair, but everything after that was blurry. Darkness was calling to her and it was so tempting to give in. Closing her eyes and not having to care about anything would be easy, maybe even pleasant, but a tiny little voice in the back of her head screamed that she needed to stay awake.
She wet her dry lips with the tip of a tongue that seemed just as dry, and asked, thinking her voice sounded much too weak, "What are you doing?"
*****
Patricia's voice, faint as it was, broke Travis's concentration, and he looked up from her arm, forcing himself to smile. It was difficult to ignore that she already looked more dead than alive. "I've made something for you, and if it doesn't work, I'll just try again."
When he added, "Don't worry, it'll be alright," it was with a certainty he didn't feel. He was trying to figure out how many of those seventy-three hours he might have left, how long this might have taken, and how many attempts he could make. If this didn't kill her, that was. He had very little faith in his own medical abilities.
Looking at her arm confused him. The computer had told him he couldn't use a hyposyringe, so he had to do it the old-fashioned way, and had to make sure to sterilize the skin before injecting her. He didn't know where to enter the needle, and he felt a trickle of nervous sweat find its way down his neck. Patricia said softly, "Yes, it will be alright because you will make it alright. It's what you do for me."
Her unwavering confidence in him gave him the belief in himself he needed to try. That shade of blue just under her skin was a good spot. He swallowed, told himself to stop
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