Good grief, I never would've imagined that this Sector 12 General Hospital portion of my crossover would become so lengthy. I wanted it to only take up three chapters or so, but I guess it just took on a life of its own, to the point where this fic now has not three, but four acts! Looking back, I probably should just have had Rafiki heal Jack with magic, one of the aliens induce hyperfast cellular regeneration, or something like that and save myself and you guys a lot of time. Thankfully, there's just one more chapter to go before the actual story gets going again.
As for this particular chapter, I felt it was now an appropriate time to press the fast forward button. And press it down hard.
"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe." Rutger Hauer in Blade Runner, 1982.
"Enter a world of pure imagination." Tagline for the 1971 movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
Pulling at an olive won't make it ripen faster-Italian Proverb.
During the next two and a half days, Jack Driscoll showed more and more encouraging signs of recovery. His intravenous tubes were removed, and so was the chest tube, his punctured lung having healed. He spent more time actively holding his head up when awake, looking around with interest and fascination at the activity and machines in his ward, asking questions when in the spirit, and drank more water.
"What is that thing called? What does that thing do? Is it dangerous? Are you dangerous! Can I have some more water? What species do you belong to buddy? So, what's your planet like? What's your culture like?"
36 hours or so after coming around for the first time, one of Jack Driscoll's waking periods was marked not by wonder or bewilderment about his surroundings, but unequivocal gratitude and pleasure. For that was the first occasion Doctor Aaron Zhong, Ph.D, was able to pay him a visit.
Now able to walk about her room, Ann watched the encounter remotely, through the holograph link. Initially somewhat surprised to see a Chinaman in the role of surgeon, Jack had become very emotional, tearing up as he shook a touched Aaron's hand in thankfulness and embraced the doctor, voice cracking as he told him, "I owe it to you Doc, big time. Thank you, thank you so much pal, I'm forever grateful."
Zhong assured him it was nothing, and then personally presented Jack with a plate of what Ann had informed him was one of the writer's favorite desserts, custard bread pudding with caramel sauce and vanilla ice cream. Soft, rich in energy, and easily digestible, it was a perfect first helping of solid food. A delighted Jack Driscoll tucked in, consuming three-quarters of the contents, holding a conversation with Aaron between bites, learning more about the circumstances of his arrival and what had happened over the past Terran week since then.
Ann knew that normally, Jack could beat his gums for two hours or more. In his current weakened state however, a twelve minute session was strenuous enough, and worn out, he returned to slumber. He slept a lot in general, really, as his flesh knit up.
Ann's wounds however, had already healed to the point where she could sit, stand, kneel, and as mentioned, walk short distances with only minor discomfort. Over the next three days, the last of her malarial symptoms disappeared as well. Still, she was in no shape as yet to walk the quarter mile through the winding maze of corridors, filled with all kinds of weird and exotic and ghastly looking beings, over to Jack's room in the recovery ward.
There was also the matter of the terrible, agonizing aches that flared up in her neck and back, courtesy of all the thrashing she'd endured while Kong had displayed with her over the remains of previous sacrificed women he may or may not have killed, and especially as he'd wildly struggled against the trio of tyrannosaurus. Sleeping on hard dirt or stone in Simba's world hadn't exactly helped matters either.
When she mentioned her spinal troubles to her Sciurid RN however, she reaped the reward of sweet relief in daily sessions with a superb Dwerlan chiropractor, and a back massage from an Eltan dame to follow it up. Their hands were soft and gentle, locating and pressing the afflicted portions of her spine with skilled precision. It really did wonders.
Now that Jack was out of immediate danger, she found herself able to more fully enjoy the diversions and activities on offer. There were mouth-watering treats and meals to be had, for instance. Some, like Snickers bars, Popsicles, and beef stew, she knew well. Others, like chocolate chip cookies and Fruit Roll-up's, were totally new to her, but eagerly accepted.
After going for so long without having a decent talk with a fellow dame, Ann made the most of the opportunity, shooting the breeze with both her human and Eltan nurses if they weren't too pressed for time, talking about men, hair care, their job history, their hopes, former flames, sharing cooking tips, and so on. It was immensely satisfying and indeed, reassuring.
Females belonging to other species could be rather more difficult to relate to, and there was always the danger of innocently offending them. In one instance, registered nurse Dhuituk, a Sciurid, had shown the actress a holograph picture of the squirrel-like alien standing with some ferret-like and chipmunk-like beings that were about two-thirds her height.
"How cute!" Ann remarked as she regarded the scene, feeling the corners of her mouth turn up. "Those must be your pets."
Dhuituk's tail went erect, bristling, and she gruffly barked-squealed, "My pets? I should say not!"
Mortified, Ann felt her cheeks become heated as she amended, "I mean, they must be your friends. Friends. Sorry."
"Now you've got it," the Sciurid confirmed.
The hospital had various animals available to hold and pet, which they called "therapy animals." An unusual concept, but a delightful one in Ann's view-a black rabbit named Lola and a gray tabby called Max were two of her favorites. It was a pleasure to stroke their coats, to feel the warmth of their bodies against hers, to feel their ribs gently pump, to connect with their undemanding presence.
After spending time in a universe where animals had the power of speech and intelligence for two days however, sometimes Ann couldn't help but be temporarily bewildered by their failure to respond when she spoke to them, or have to remind herself that Lola, Max, and the other critters she handled were "dumb" beasts in more than one sense.
And although he was an entirely different species, as different from a lion as she was from a spider monkey, sometimes Max reminded the actress too much of Simba-and then her heart would be scorched by a terrible, despondent guilt. He'd told her he loved them, accepted them as family, and they'd ultimately betrayed him. Maybe there'd been nothing she could've realistically accomplished, other than getting herself killed as well, but the thought of how she'd chosen to let the lion prince die would forever gnaw at Ann's soul.
Then there were the nightmares, horrible visions that made her bolt up out of sleep with a yell, often bucking and struggling like a cottontail rabbit in a snare, some graphic to the point where they nearly made her throw up with nausea. The savages, the bat-wolves, the giant centipedes, the tyrannosaurs, they all got unwanted starring roles, making her mind cower in undiluted, crippling terror.
At last, about a week after she'd spoken to Jack remotely, Ann Darrow's flesh wounds had healed enough for her to comfortably and capably walk to where Jack was recovering in CCU.
While the slashes across her lower spine and ribcage still needed the stitches kept in, the magic of cellular mitosis had knit together enough muscle tissue so that it wouldn't be painfully yanked and plucked with each stride she took.
Seeing her progress, one of her nurses, Diane Lopez, had asked her if she felt like walking the distance to CCU, and paying Jack her first in person visit since the attack.
Her face lighting up like a searchlight, a thrilled Ann exclaimed, "You sure bet I do! Could you please lead the way though?"
"No problem," Diane said.
Dressed in a hospital gown, Ann stuck close to Diane as the RN led her through the three dimensional maze of white corridors on DBDG, regarding the kooky looking aliens moving around them with mixed interest and wariness. A Cinrusskin or two even flew over her during the journey.
After about twenty minutes, taking the stroll at an easy pace, they neared the room in the majors area where Jack Driscoll was being housed. Excitement and anticipation and joy swelled inside Ann with each step she took towards the door, held ajar.
She could hear him laughing riotously, that slightly nasal, purring chuckle she'd come to adore hearing. Evidently, it was about something on a television, and something bizarre at that, for Ann could hear, mixed with Jack's laughter, someone singing "Say, I don't think you're happy enough! That's right...I'll teach you to be happy! I'll teach your grandmother to suck eggs! Now boys and girls, let's try it again. Happy happy joy joy, happy happy joy joy-"
At that point, approaching the door first, Diane politely informed the playwright, "Mr. Driscoll?"
The sound from the TV came to a sudden halt. "Yes?"
"You have a special visitor here to see you."
Ann could sense his expectant delight touch stratospheric levels as she entered the room, pos-i-tive-ly bursting with emotion and joy. There was a Kelgian in his recovery quarters, doing something or other, but the actress only had eyes for Jack, calling out his name and running to him as he called out hers.
She took his angular head in her hands, reveling in the warmth of his cheeks under her hands as he encircled her in his arms and pressed her to him as best he could and before she knew it, she was kissing him and he was kissing her back in a passionate, thrilling joining that she never wanted to end.
"Well, that didn't take very long," the Kelgian muttered.
They parted to draw breath, and Ann half closed her eyes, touching Jack's forehead with hers, inhaling his clean, musky scent and feeling those long fingers caressing her hair, each enjoying the moment, the realness of the other.
Everyone goes away, Ann thought in astonished gratitude. But for once, someone came back!
She kissed him again, on the forehead, before drawing back and sitting in a chair Diane had thoughtfully brought over, still holding the hand of her Adonis.
"Before anything else happens," she said, "I just want to say, thanks Jack. Thanks for saving my life and not dying on me," she smiled.
Giving that skewed grin, Jack responded, "Well, you're welcome Jane Port-oops, I meant Ann." making both of them laugh. "And I'm pretty glad I didn't die on you too," he wryly chuckled.
"How are you feeling now?" she asked.
"Better than the last time we talked face to face, but still weak as a newborn calf. And with all these stitches holding me together, I also feel a hell of a lot like Osiris after Isis put him back together again," he dryly added.
Diane laughed, saying "Good one!"
"Quite nice of her, really." Jack continued, ignoring her. "And you?"
"I'm doing fine enough," she assured him. "I can walk at a good pace already."
Jack gave a thin smile of satisfaction, than shook his head ruefully.
"A leopard," he muttered wryly.
"Yeah, a leopard," Ann repeated, flashing her teeth knowingly, in irony. She'd often thought the same thing. It wasn't the huge or disgusting-looking or fever-dream things that got us in the end.
"I really thought I'd had it," he said, the skin around his eyes contracting. "No more playing Tarzan or trying to emulate Sasha Seimel for me anymore-once was plenty."
Filled with the lunatic humor that sometimes comes after cheating death, Ann giggled, saying, "I said I'd love to have a spotted cat's hide to wear Jack, but you've really got to quit catching them with just your bare hands and a sharp stick!"
He laughed, replying, "That's why you should remind me to bring the shotgun along next time!" chuckling.
"A Tommy gun sounds even better," Ann muttered, as she regarded his healing injuries.
"And how. I don't know about you, but I'm awfully thankful to a certain blue-faced baboon wizard for getting us out of that jam, wherever he is," Jack commented, tone becoming more serious as he lay back against the mattress, pianist's hand still linked with hers.
"You and me both," Ann fervently agreed.
"And I'm sure happy that we're both here. Alive, I mean," he amended.
For a time, they didn't speak. They just were, mutually savoring the reunion.
"So," Ann asked at length, "they been treating my hero well?"
"Very well. The food and the entertainment sure are great, for one thing. I just had a tasty ham and cheese sandwich earlier, in fact."
"Speaking of which, what had you in such a spin just now on the television?"
"Oh, that. I was watching one of those silver and green record type things called DVDs that has this hilarious cartoon series on it called Ren and Stimpy. It's about this starved, rat-looking pink dog called Ren, and his friend Stimpy, a really stupid, fat, red cat-type creature. It has a lot of gross out, sick humor though, so I doubt you'd personally like it. I sure do though."
For the next twenty minutes, they talked about the hospital, the aliens, what each of them had been doing in the meantime, the strangeness of the place and the technology they'd both seen. Then, worn out, Jack reluctantly, regretfully told Ann that he was too pooped to stay awake any longer. Knowing how crucial it was that his body got as much rest as possible, she gave him one last hug, told him he was a great fella, the perfect man, and then allowed Diane to lead her back to her own room.
The next four weeks saw a progressive improvement in Jack's condition. Ann visited him often in the recovery ward, watching movies with him, laughing at cartoons, talking about whatever subjects struck them, and often just spending quality time together, taking a wordless delight in each other's company.
Ever compassionate, and knowing better than to rub salt into a wound, Ann never mentioned the gorge or how Jack had dragged her away from a beleaguered Simba during these times. Still, there was an unspoken indication Ann picked up from the wounded writer, a sense that he felt remorseful and embarrassed, and that if she expressed unease about something or someone in the future, he would no longer ignore her advice so flippantly. Although there was a part of her that could never fully forget, she accepted that Jack had chosen the only practical option in forcing her to make for the woods, so to speak. It was for the best.
Both Ann and the RNs were of the same mind in agreeing that not only did Jack need to sleep as much as he could, but eat as much as he could, even if he didn't have much in the way of an appetite. At first his desire for food was as vapid as he was, but it became more powerful as time went on. All the same, he was noticeably thinner, having lost quite a bit of muscle mass.
Not surprisingly, Ann's shallow flesh wounds healed long before his did, her stitches cut and removed by the agile hands of a Cinruss surgeon, producing a tickling sort of sensation as they slid out of her tissue.
After spending at least a decade of her life in a profession where cramped backstage dressing rooms and walk in closets were a matter of course, participating in magic tricks that often involved hunkering down in a tight space, and sharing restricted living quarters with three or more other dames-to say nothing of living on a tramp steamer for six weeks-Ann couldn't exactly be called claustrophobic.
Even so, being confined to the same room for days on end didn't sit well with her. She had to get out and be physically active. Thankfully, Doctor Zhong and the nurses notified her about DBDG level's gigantic recreation deck, which featured artificial solar light, a half-mile track for running or walking, a swimming pool, a tennis court, a faux beach of golden sand, a gym, and other attractive options for the athletically inclined.
Instead of having breakfast, lunch, and dinner brought to her by a human or Martian nurse, she now ate in the cafeteria, never quite getting used to the idea of sitting and eating alongside weird-looking beings from among the stars, even if many were awfully adorable and sweet.
Everything was a constant wonder, a delightful yet unreal waking dream. Sometimes it felt like an absurdist novel, sometimes like a child's fantasy come true.
It wasn't long at all until Ann Darrow knew her doctor and nurses not just as caretakers, but as extraordinary friends, and as time went by, she came to know the other inhabitants of the strange, surreal, futuristic multi-species zoo that was Sector 12 General Hospital.
More a few of the staff and patients were equally curious about her. After all, she and Jack had come from at least 200 years in the past and a different universe at that!
So it was that she came to be on terms with the surgeons, the janitors, the nurses, the maintenance technicians, the cooks, the sector chiefs, the administrators, the interns, generals, lieutenants and colonels, and the members of the Monitor Corps in their dark green coveralls, whose job was to supply and maintain the station. They also acted as law enforcement and guards, carrying sidearms in hip holsters.
Sometimes-particularly when she'd recently visited Jack in his room-Ann would regard one of those holstered guns with a chilly longing, wishing that she had one and was back in the Pridelands world; she would use it, and she knew precisely whom she'd use it on.
There were other levels to the hospital, ones with mixtures of gases, temperatures, radiation levels, oxygen levels, and pressures that no human could survive unprotected. With reluctant permission from the head admin, and the experienced Dr. Lynn Menendez to show her the ropes, Ann got to indulge her curiosity and visit some of these levels after donning suitable, lightweight protective gear.
She met the water breathing Chalders on level AUGL, resembling 40 foot crocodiles with thick, knife-edged tails, and fleshy fins in place of legs. She met the three-legged, stork-like Eurils on MSVK, who liked dim light, high humidity, and were insatiably curious. Needless to say, they kept her busy answering questions for a long while.
She went to level PVSJ, home base for the chlorine breathing, blistered, repulsive looking Illensans, who would die if they made contact with water and had hearing sensitive enough to hear a feather sliding over a floor tile. On level SNLU, a hellishly cold place, she met the Vosans, creatures that breathed supercooled methane and looked like footstool sized, eight armed starfish with scales that sparkled and broke up the light like diamonds. Both Ann and Lynn had to wear thick full body suits to visit them, with a self-contained, powerful heating system inside each one, and inch thick soles of foam rubber.
This was on account of the fact that Vosans required temperatures close to absolute zero for their survival. At temperatures higher than eighteen degrees above absolute zero, the crystalline structure of their bodies would disintegrate, and at temperatures above 120 below Celsius, would essentially spontaneously cremate. They were also ultra-sensitive to audible sounds, which meant that visitors had to be as silent as possible, down to their very breathing and footsteps.
Despite having to wear the awkward protective suit, the otherworldly experience of seeing these dazzlingly beautiful, remarkable, wonderful beings as they noiselessly crept and glimmered through the methane fog was well worth the discomfort.
On level VTXM, Ann was introduced to the small, beetle like Telfi, who had a hive mind and fed on radiation. Most impressive of all were the Groalterri, of classification BLSU. Resembling gigantic, stocky octopuses at least twice Kong's size, they were bright red-orange in color, with four blue eyes spaced evenly around their head, a mobile mouth located on top. Unlike an octopus, their tentacles had no suckers, alternately ending in flat, sharp blades, or finger like appendages for fine manipulation.
As a vaudeville girl like her mother before her, the urge to show her skills and just perform, to feel the rush of pleasure and adrenaline she received from making others laugh and be entertained, ran strong through Ann Darrow's arteries. She wanted to juggle, to mock trip, to grab things out of the air.
After about three weeks in Sector 12, the desire became overwhelming. Using Dhuituk as an intermediary, she discreetly asked Sector Chief Gordon Halvorson if she could give one woman stage performances to entertain staff and patients. Gordon agreed, and Ann Darrow enthusiastically displayed her comedic skills and simple magic tricks once daily for the weirdest audience she could've ever conceived of.
In spite of their differing viewpoints on what their species found to be humorous or entertaining, both humans and Martians alike truly seemed to enjoy her pratfalls and card magic. So did the young patients in the level's pediatric ward, and the terminally ill.
Unfortunately, poor Jack didn't have nearly as many options for activities as he convalesced. Although he'd been out for the first six days, and was being given morphine, that classic opioid narcotic, the wounds from his brutal mauling still pained him and his body felt achingly stiff during those several days.
Every day was an agony, each night a nightmare.
And he had them. Christ did he ever have them, just like Ann herself.
During these times he would often cry out for help, or for Ann, or voice the name of some member of the Holy Trinity. Tossing and turning, eyes still shut, his arms would move frantically underneath the bedsheets, as if grappling with a phantom attacker.
Although a combination of inactivity, blood loss, and the energetic demands made by his healing wounds had greatly weakened him, the writer still remained stronger than Ann. The odd sheet or pillow being torn in the frenzy of a nightmare was the result.
During his waking hours, in spite of his wariness and distrust of many of the star-beings, especially Cinrusskin, the crablike, garishly colored Melfans, and any other races that resembled insects, the playwright was as much of a gentleman of a patient as he was on the streets of Manhattan.
Any time someone gave him a bagel with cream cheese and strawberry jam, gave him a bath, changed his bandages, put in a DVD for him, brought him his Maxwell House coffee, took away his Baby Ruth wrapper, or did anything for him at all, he never failed to give a crooked smile and thank them.
In addition to television and talking with Ann, remotely or in person, he amused himself by saying phrases in one of the six different languages he had at least passing knowledge of and listening to the response in English.
Still, he found it frustrating to be lying in a bed all day, every day, confined to the same room, totally vulnerable and humiliated by his helplessness. As a writer, he was used to sitting on a chair or bench or couch for several hours, listening to the clacking of the typewriter keys or the murmur of the pen as he made words appear on virgin paper. He'd even been known to stay in his apartment for several days at a time while working on a new play or novella, only stopping to nap, eat, drink, bathe, or relieve himself.
There was only so much of that sort of inactivity though, that even he could take...especially without something to physically occupy his time. The staff did everything they could to help keep the disorder of cabin fever at bay, and he appreciated that immensely.
Yet a cow pie covered in chocolate isn't a brownie; it is still cow shit, and Jack yearned for the day when he could safely swing his legs over the bed's side and walk, comforting himself with the awareness that day by day, his improvement was perceptible.
Then, about three and a half weeks after Rafiki had teleported them to this kooky, madhouse hospital, his injuries had healed up enough to the point where his sutures could be clipped and extracted, by the dozens. It was done in three different stages.
Due to liberal applications of various topical creams and dermarolling, his scarring proved to be minimal. All the same, there would forever be reminders tattooed on his flesh of how the disturbed leopard tom had nearly made him into cat food.
Five days later, the ecstatic, long-awaited occasion came when Dr. Zhong decided that Jack Driscoll had healed enough to the point where he could attempt walking.
For the first time since being teleported to Sector 12, he turned ninety degrees, felt the carpet brush his bare soles, and then delicately put pressure on the weight-bearing bones of his feet. Using a cane for support, his legs slightly splayed like an hour-old foal's, the writer gingerly staggered and tottered around the room like a man four decades his senior.
Tikini, an Eltan man, closely supervised the procedure, while Ann watched from the live holograph feed, encouraging her partner, every bit as thrilled and delighted and proud as if Jack was her own child learning how to walk. She told him what a strong man he was, how well he was doing, to keep going. As Aaron had predicted, the playwright's good physical health before his mauling went a long way towards speeding up his recovery.
All the same, reaching the point where he could once more walk comfortably, with a stable, deliberate gait, took time. Under a regimen of physical therapy though, and a diet rich in protein, the muscles in his legs and thighs filled out and toughened up nicely after a while, and the clumsy wobbling reverted to his natural elegant, unhurried stride.
And so it was that around five weeks after being sliced to pieces, gutted, and tortured by a mentally disturbed male leopard, losing about a third of his blood, and dying on an alien operating table, Jack Driscoll was finally sound in flesh again, if not mind perhaps.
Now that his surgeons and nurses had done their duty splendidly, Jack and Ann were given rooms in another area of DBDG. To the great joy of both, the rooms were located across the hallway from each other, an arrangement they unsurprisingly took full advantage of.
Many a time, a staff member would see Jack knock on Ann's door, or vice versa, and greet the other with an affectionate "How's my favorite dame?" or "Well, there's my Jack of Hearts!"
At first, Jack could only take short walks through the corridors before needing to rest. Soon enough though, he too began to explore and integrate himself into the fabric of Sector 12 every bit as zealously as his angel already had.
As far back as he could remember, Jack had always been a big fan of science fiction and modern fantasy. Lovecraft, Wells, Jack London, Verne, Haggard, he enjoyed them all. Some of the authors, like Lovecraft, he'd even had the pleasure of meeting in person. To be in a place like Sector 12, full of marvelous secrets and inconceivable wonders to discover, an issue of Weird Tales come to life, was like a dream come true for the playwright.
Like Ann had done before him, Jack couldn't resist wheedling permission out of Head Administrator Sullivan into being allowed to take tours of many of the other levels on the hospital station. Such a high-profile guest's request could hardly be refused in the end, and his wish was granted.
Fittingly, his savior Dr. Zhong served as Jack's guide. Changing into and out of different protective suits, and donning the various belts that maintained or reduced gravitational forces on his body was a little irksome, but the rewards made up for it in spades.
Every time he accompanied Aaron to a new level, and was introduced to the incredible beings that resided and/or were treated there, Jack felt as amazed and excited and wowed as if he'd just seen Santa Claus putting gifts under the tree on Christmas Eve.
On one level, where the air was at least as humid as the Skull Island rainforest, the temperature was 100 degrees Fahrenheit, the atmosphere contained more oxygen and nitrogen, and the gravitational forces were maintained at a level about two and a quarter times that of Earth, Jack met some frightening, truly hideous beings who called themselves "Yautja" in their chittering, growling, purring tongue.
The size of beef cattle, and towering over the six-foot writer by a foot or more, their yellow, tiny pig eyes, sunken and savage, malevolently regarded him over horrible mouths filled with crystal knives of teeth and ringed by four ghastly, folding, insect mandibles. He could tell that although not to the same extent, even Dr. Zhong was frightened by these beings.
One, noting the dreadful scars curling around Jack's arms and legs, asked him in a slurred, demonic voice that horrified Jack to the core, "What...beast...did...that...to you...during your...latest Hunt?"
"It wasn't exactly a hunt," Jack replied, trying not to quake too much. "It was a leopard, and he attacked my girlfriend and I after we'd just escaped from a stampede. I managed to kill him with a simple spear, but he nearly killed me too."
At those words, every Yautja within earshot turned, and gazed at him, their appallingly disgusting visages containing respect and amazement. Their attention just made Jack even more petrified, and he realized that the corners of his mouth had pulled back in what could be taken as a smile, but what he knew was actually a grin of utter terror.
Sitting in a massive chair, its left leg replaced by a prosthetic limb, a huge Yautja, with a knowing, cool, grim amusement, commented, "We frighten you badly, don't we, ooman?"
Trying very hard to master the quaking in his voice, Jack masterfully responded, "Sir, or Mam, if I told you I wasn't scared of you and your kind, I'd be lying and asking for trouble. But if I said that I was nervous, that would be a mistake too-I'd be presenting myself as easy quarry."
The horrible creature cocked its head, considering. Then it laughed, making Jack's spinal column vibrate like a plucked guitar string-a Yautja laugh is something the wise person doesn't provoke.
"That'll do nicely ooman," it stated, tusks flaring briefly in approval. "You're wise not to ever lie to a Yautja-especially a female like me-nor to reveal that particular truth. After all, we hunt those who put themselves into a position to be hunted and can give us a challenge."
"I think this Soft Meat could certainly give us a decent challenge if he bested a great predator with just a spear, as he claims," a bed ridden male, one side of his torso swathed in bandages, chillingly replied, regarding the playwright with the gaze of a fox watching a partridge.
"You know, I think we should leave," an unusually harried-sounding Zhong suggested, turning on his heel and heading to a lift, Jack being all too happy to follow him.
Later, back on DBDG, Aaron told the playwright all about the gruesome, complex relationship between Yautja and humans. Most of the time, the interactions involved the aliens deliberately stalking, killing, and then taking the skulls or skins of armed humans on Earth or human-colonized planets. Sometimes they would also abduct armed and dangerous humans from Earth, and then cut them loose on other planets they controlled to be hunted.
"Almost like a pheasant shoot," a sickened Jack commented.
"Exactly," Zhong nodded.
At the same time though, the Yautja were pragmatic creatures, who weren't above forming covenants with their favorite quarry if they felt they could benefit from it. Thus it was that members of their race who suffered extensive burns, lost limbs, came off worst in a battle with dangerous game, got caught in explosions, or so on, and didn't have access to a med kit or any other alternative would be brought to Sector 12 General Hospital to be treated.
Despite the stomach-churning awareness that these aliens hunted and mutilated their fellows, the humans and members of other species hunted by the Yautja for sport (like the Melfans) would still graciously accept them. Even out here, the Hippocratic Oath remained inviolate. Besides, in hunting only those who could potentially turn the tables, at least the hunters fought semi-fairly.
As Zhong said though, "Giving medical help to a Yautja is like trying to help a tiger. If they're in a pissy mood or feel threatened, you could lose more than just your dignity."
A far less disturbing experience for Jack was when Captain Greg Searls took him and Ann on a slow, spiraling flight in a shuttle around the entire station itself. Floating in space, blinking with all sorts of colored lights, the station looked like a gargantuan, 384 level, cylindrical Christmas tree. All around them, stars shone like candles in a rich, stark blackness. The dazzling beauty of it all damn near brought tears to one's eyes.
Eager to regain the lean muscle and just the weight in general that had melted off his body during his time in the recovery ward, Jack gladly made use of the recreation deck's exercise opportunities. He used the track for jogging and running, played tennis with whatever partners were at hand, lifted weights and did sit-ups in the gym, and played handball, often ending up sore and sweating like a horse from his exertions. It all paid off though.
As a doctor's son, Jack was also intensely interested in the incredible progress medicine had clearly made. From penicillin to laser knives and stem cell transplants, lifesaving innovations were on display everywhere throughout the station. Examining them intently and not being scared to ask questions, he carefully stored away as much information as he could in his head about the simpler tools and procedures, ready to reveal them to 1933 New York when he got sent back for the benefit of mankind.
And that brought up a very pressing, nagging question, one that both New Yorkers asked with increasing frequency as Jack returned to his old self. When was Rafiki going to send them back "home," and would he even do it at all?
It was fairly obvious from the get-go that the mandrill wouldn't spring them outta Sector 12 unless and until Jack had sufficiently healed and improved, that much was evident. Still, why hadn't he conjured up one of his kooky mystical portals and dropped by to give a general date for when they could expect to be sent back, to the time and world they knew?
A worried Ann proposed that perhaps Scar had found out or at least suspected that Rafiki knew the truth about Mufasa's murder, and promptly killed or banished the baboon shaman. But Jack pointed out that even if that was so, Mganga would've filled in for him, and already have shown up by now, if only to tell them what happened. No, for reasons known only to him, Rafiki was either waiting for things in the Pridelands to simmer down or biding his time, Jack assured her.
Then, a couple days later and exactly seven weeks after Nduli had savaged Jack and clawed Ann, the wizened mandrill showed himself-and the playwright and the performer would have to make a harsh, harsh choice.
The Sasha Seimel Jack refers to was a Latvian hunter living in the Pantanal region of southeastern Brazil at the time, who from 1927 to the end of World War Two, killed close to 300 jaguars at the behest of local cattle ranchers, in addition to assorted mountain lions, anacondas, and caiman. Amazingly, although Sasha killed some of his jaguars and cougars with firearms, he often took them down at close quarters with bow and arrow, bayonets, knives, and a seven foot spear known as a zagaya.
Jane Porter of course, is a reference to Tarzan of the Apes.
"Yautja" is the name the alien hunters from the movie Predator and its sequels use to refer to themselves in the Alien vs. Predator novels based on the Dark Horse comics, with Prey and Hunter's Planet being my references. Their cameo appearance in this chapter to begin with is of course, a playful nod to Adrien Brody and his impressive performance as Royce, the male lead in the newly released movie Predators.