Things have happened, changes have occurred, but events move onward. And, for the record, TinTin surprised me, too...
Grateful thanks to Tikatu, Opal Girl, I'mpekkable, Dark Helmet and Mad Friend, for the thoughtful reviews of this story and 'Wildcats'. Like Virgil with the twins, I get a better reflection of the characters, sometimes, from hearing the impressions of others..
36
Endurance-
With Cho up and about, and Roger on his way to recovery, Pete McCord had sunk so far into luxury as to enter his bunk compartment, zip himself into his sleeping bag, and put on a set of ear muffs. He'd hardly gotten the waist straps snapped before imploding into the densest, most badly-needed sleep of his life. More functioning crew meant a return to the usual 'Blue' and 'Red' flight-day schedule, and genuine rest.
Mission Elapsed Time stood at 29/06:31:05, and out of those twenty-nine days, Pete had slept maybe 81 widely-spaced hours, prodded along by alertness tablets and sheer will power. Allowed at last to sleep..., hell, required to..., the mission commander was soon snoring and hacking like a backed-up saw mill.
Linda didn't mind. She'd already gotten her miraculous eight hours, and felt better than she had in weeks. As far as the doctor was concerned, Pete could float there and strike up the band, all day. She had other concerns.
Leaving Kim Cho up front to monitor the instruments and listen for Houston, Dr. Bennett kicked away from the flight deck. With accustomed ease, she soared down a branching passage and into the Medlab, seizing a bulkhead brace to redirect her forward momentum and swing herself through the hatch.
Her patients were there, both of them; hanging like fruit in a cybernetic orchard. An old-style, Earth-based physician would have taken a look at the clipboard attached to the patient's bed, learning what she needed to know about lab and test results, medical history, and such. Not Linda.
Doctor Bennett had bulkhead-mounted biomonitors to examine, instead. There were five of them, each dedicated to an astronaut through sensors implanted within, and pasted on, their bodies.
Her own vital signs she scarcely glanced at. Like Pete's, they betrayed all the effects of too little rest, and too much of the stress hormone, cortisol. Nothing that regular sleep and a normalized schedule wouldn't cure, though. And chocolate-chip ice cream.
Kim's readings were a mite more interesting. Her body was still working to shake off the effects of suspended animation, and having a hard time doing so. In much better shape, though, than Roger and John.
The two young men, one a U.S. Marine, the other a civilian orbiter pilot, had experienced severe reactions to the freezing process. In John's case, nearly fatal. Touch and go, for awhile, there. They hung now in their medical harness and cybernetic 'sick bay' suits, recovering.
Linda scooted herself over an autoclave, under a sample cabinet, and past the drug locker, arriving first at John Tracy. He was a puzzle, for several reasons.
Dr. Bennett had done her best, she really had, applying every art and technique that her situation allowed... but she shouldn't have been able to save him, and she knew it. So violent had been his body's shock response, that John should, by all rights, be dead.
Linda surveyed the biomonitor readings, taking in his health by the numbers. EEG, temperature, blood pressure, pulse and respiration, complete blood count, organ function, metabolism... all borderline, but improving. Somehow, on a cell-by-cell basis, war was being waged, the cryoprotectant flushed out, and damage repaired; one injured blob of cytoplasm at a time.
It shouldn't have been possible. Had he faced so dire and complete a collapse, Roger (who'd gotten no special 'Dr. Franken-ghost' help) would certainly have died.
Hauling herself closer to the semi-conscious blond, Linda noticed that one of his intravenous meds had been adjusted downward 2 mils. Acetyl-I-carnitine. There it was, again...!
She said aloud, to no one in particular,
"I would have done that."
Her only response came from John himself, who opened his eyes at the sound of her voice. (Pupil response normal, bilaterally... bulbar conjunctiva clear...)
"Done what?" He asked, seeming tired, but fairly oriented and alert. Blood sugar was still too high for his stressed liver and pancreas, though. Damn, damn, double damn!
"Left you on the curb with a cardboard sign saying 'free to good home'. You and your Klingon drinking buddy, over there. There's got to be somewhere out here I can pick up a pair of healthy specimens."
Muttering something about her bedside manner, John sort of shrugged, which caused him to drift away a bit. The harness prevented him from going very far, though. Like a fishing bobber on a breeze-ruffled pond, he wafted slowly up and down, as well as in and out of alertness.
"So, how 're you feeling, Sunshine?" Dr. Bennett asked, beginning her examination.
"She said I felt pretty good..., last night." He replied.
Linda rapped the top of his blond head with her knuckles, feeling that she ought to be angrier. But, he seemed so adorably helpless. Still...
"One of these days, Fella, you're going to make the wrong crack to the woman with the tray full of instruments, and wake up minus a few non-essentials."
He was far from daunted, parrying hoarsely,
"Well, I can get along without a kidney... spleen, too, maybe... but everything else, you're going t' have to... fight me for."
She laughed. Then (as he was doubtless rather thirsty, but not yet allowed to drink) she got a piece of ice, and put it in his mouth. That shut him up, for awhile.
When she'd completed her examination, and was about to launch herself up and across the lab to check on Roger, John said,
"How much longer... till someone actually starts flying this thing?"
Linda shook her head.
"Don't worry about it, John. Your business right now is to get better. We'll..."
"I just want to know. Please."
All of a sudden, John had armored up, again. He was once more as calm, frigid and alert as he had been at the Cape. Weird.
He was difficult-to-deal-with handsome, and knew it; would use looks and charm as a weapon, if he thought it would do any good. Otherwise, he'd revert immediately to flash-freeze impenetrability. Thinking...,
'Will the real John Tracy please stand up?'
...Doctor Bennett replied,
"Pete's planning to take her off auto in three flight days, but that's not your concern, Sunshine. Getting better is. We'll manage, trust me."
John nodded, and closed his eyes, seeming to lose interest. Bennett waited a bit, then swooped off to visit Roger.
'Three days... shit.'
He appreciated the doctor's help. She was a good person, and he owed her; but, she was wrong. Flying Endurance was very much his concern, and he had just three days to push himself back into working shape.
Five had reduced herself, again; becoming little more than a sparkle of warmth at his wrist. Times like this, it was good to know that she remained nearby, covering for lapses in consciousness.
For awhile, unless he'd imagined it all, Five had gotten into his mind. In hacker terms, he'd been 'owned'. But, having gained root access, if his recollection stood, she'd given it up. In effect, freeing him. He couldn't decide how he felt about that, or about all the things she'd told him. Food for intense thought... later.
John Tracy hung there, weightless and weary, surrounded by beeping, flashing machinery and one fiercely loyal, virtual friend. Three days left, serious damn repairs to do. And then, Mars.