"Well! That was fun, wasn't it?" said Dayna. "Yu‑dhisthira, is there anything we should know, here, about what's going on?"

"If Avon hasn't told you he is far from well, yes." Sethi swung round to stare at her, then back to face Soolin and Tarrant. "He hasn't, has he?"

"Avon says he doesn't remember much," Tarrant told him. Seconds slipped by, and the other nodded.

"That's possible." He turned to take his seat, his expression chill. "They kept him sedated much of the time, after the first few hours. The first two days, they couldn't keep him stable otherwise. He was held on life support for four days, in the intensive care unit until two days ago."

"You sound as though you were there," Soolin commented.

"I was, much of the time. My commission was to see that nothing passed between him and those caring for him, which the Commissioner would not have sanctioned, but—I think there are some things one cannot witness, without becoming involved."

"That's possible," Tarrant said. "So you did."

Sethi nodded, looked up to meet his gaze squarely. "The fact remains, Tarrant: he is not well, and I would recommend that a close eye be kept on him."

"That could be interesting," Dayna eyed him sideways over the rim of her mug. "Avon doesn't generally tolerate anything resembling interference in his private affairs...and he's one of the more secretive people we know."

"Prime contender for the most secretive," said Soolin.

"Your leader and your friend for at least two years..." Sethi drew in on himself, frowning. "You must forgive my amazement. I could as easily say that he is a fellow human being, and in difficulty. It surprises me that none of you seem as concerned for him as I, on the basis of so much less acquaintance."

"You might consider less acquaintance part of your problem." Soolin cut off at Tarrant's silencing look, and shrugged, turning back to her seat.

"I do not understand!" Sethi stared at them in open dismay, and Tarrant sighed.

"Oh, we're concerned," he said. "but as you do seem likely to find out, Avon isn't especially tolerant of people being concerned about him. If you mean to try it—do watch yourself. He's a man of his word, and he doesn't bluff." He stared blankly at the instruments for a moment, then looked up. "Make sure he isn't armed, when you tackle him."

"Or else begin by knocking him briskly over the head," Dayna added. She smiled at Sethi's shocked expression. "I'll give Avon that. He does have nice manners when he's concussed."

The medical unit might have been the sensible suggestion, but he might have left it too long.

Sitting against the edge of the high bed, Avon lifted his hand to pull at the collar of the trooper's uniform shirt, and stopped, wincing as the snaps gave, the material pulling tight over the adhesive bandage at the base of his throat. No question the drugs were wearing off. He caught at the edge of the bed as another wave of dizziness hit him, blinked and drew a deep breath, as vision blurred. Too soon for what he'd taken.

Perhaps no surprise. He might have realized that injured, it would take more to keep him on his feet for as long as he would need. Should have checked the medications locker for some sort of stabilizer, before letting the ward's vigil light draw him in here. Its glow, through the translucent‑panelled door, had surprised him, its sunny warmth unexpected in the cool silence and darkness he'd expected. It was at odds with the polished hardness and harsh new scent of the of the main clinic beyond. Only after he had come far enough to see the glowing yellow band above the workstation between the two beds, had it made sense.

He should have turned back then, finished his investigation, before letting his interest narrow to that soft pool of light. To the smooth expanse of the further bed, its privacy screen drawn back, covers turned half‑open. A discreet suggestion? Sethi's, probably.

He had automatically turned, letting his gaze slide past it, to take in the hanging screen pushed back to the far corner of the bed, the bank of supply lockers beyond it, and a smaller door opening onto what appeared to be a washroom. Turned again to look back at the warm light spilling across the pillow, and drawn a breath, and realized that the room itself was warm. Warmer, at least, than the body of the unit, beyond. Somehow that had made it inevitable that he turn and to go back to close the door.

Come back to sit down and rest a moment, before—well, perhaps, he thought, before nothing. Only now, could he still move if he wanted to?

Drawing a careful breath, he gripped the edge of the mattress and shifted, edging himself to a more secure seat; gasped as the movement pulled at his back, and threw his head back to ease the pressure. Between familiar pain and unfamiliar, it was for a moment too much to do more than hold still, try to breathe, and not black out.

As the spasm passed, he stared across at the wall beyond the second bed, reaching for a mind as blank as its shadowed surface.

All right! just hold on. You're safe, for now.

But for how long?

He closed his eyes, leaned back with a sigh and tilted his head back, trying to ease the tightness between his shoulders.

So long since I felt safe anywhere. Is this worth it? When the only safety does lie in winning...and I can't win this one?

Not now.

Not alone. Not without Blake.

That's almost funny.

It shouldn't seem so much harder to live, in a world without him in it.

Even having killed him. Even having meant to.

It shouldn't mean living in a world where every dream ended in the same nightmare: I set this up!—Avon, I was waiting for you! In that certainty of betrayal, he could no more have not fired, then, than done anything that might blunt the pain of a breaking heart. Only to know before the last charge tore into the other's body, that something was wrong. That there was more than shock in Blake's eyes, at his murder.

More surprise than pain, and then a kind of understanding, as he had gently brushed the gun aside, stepped forward, stumbled, hands closing on Avon's arms, and said, "Oh, Avon..." falling, and they had both understood. A mistake. Too late for anything.

Oh, Blake. I 'd thought our deaths might be linked in some way. I never bargained on it being this one.

I must have hoped more than I knew, that you could help me.

Trusted, that as long as you were alive out there somewhere, you'd always be there, if I were ever desperate enough to need you.

Just as you trusted in me.

He sighed again, opening his eyes. Well, we were both wrong about that, weren't we?

If only dying could be as easy as letting go, and from the gathering tightness in his chest, perhaps it could be. He tilted his head back, yielding, drew a breath almost in hope, and gasped as a soft knot of pain pulled tight at the base of his skull, and sent fire‑trails blazing across his shoulders. Hope fled; only being alive could hurt this much or this familiarly. And if there were anything I needed less right now, than a runaway tension headache, I can't imagine it.

Desperately, he pushed himself to his feet, caught at the low railing that circled the end of the bed, and clung to the cold metal arc with crushing force. Cold. Head down, he squeezed his eyes shut against involuntary tears and swept his arm up, pulling his sleeve across his face to catch the fine sweat beading his forehead. Cold might be the only thing to keep him from throwing up, if he couldn't stop this quickly.

He lifted his hand to press the back of his neck, trying to loosen the seized muscles, winced and let go a gasp of pain. As useless an effort as ever—but in the corner beyond him, the washroom was nearly enough within reach, and cold water, if likely to be of little help, should at least present no complications.

With an effort he pulled himself up, one step and two around the end of the bed, and twisted to catch at its frame again, urgently, as balance betrayed him. He gasped as the movement pulled, now, savagely, at every muscle it touched. Not, in the end, unbearably. Nothing he couldn't endure...if, for the moment, he could only concentrate sufficiently not to fall on his face.

As the pain eased, he drew back again, carefully. Turned his head, gauging the distance to the wall behind him; then froze, as light and shadow shifted in the outer room. One of the double doors from the corridor was sliding open.

As I might have expected. He let his hand drop again to the bed frame, braced himself, and sighed. Too much to hope, to have avoided it... as footsteps turned, quickly and quietly, in the outer room. Turned, and stopped.

He lifted his head at the unexpected hesitancy in the sound. Something, as the next footfall came, not towards the door, but as a sliding sidestep out of the light. It suggested a man poised to leap back and run at the first hint of anything untoward. And he had to have seen the light in here, by now.

He waited as another step fell warily, then something spun softly against the wall outside the door, and the shadow of a hand shot across to the access plate.

"Avon!" From his expression, peering past the opening panel, Vila wasn't sure whether to consider him untoward or not.

"Vila." Avon sighed, shook his head and immediately regretted it. "I might have guessed."

"More than I'd have done." Vila entered, stopped at his frankly less than welcoming stare. "My life, you gave me a start!" He spread his hands to take in the room. "What're you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same." Avon pushed himself straighter, wincing, and suppressed a sigh. "Except I already know." He shifted slowly to rest against the foot of the bed and gestured towards the wall. "I believe the controlled medications locker is in the next compartment. Rifle it quietly, if you must. I expect they'll have soma. I expect that's what you're looking for."

"Probably. This ship looks to have just about everything." Vila studied him and edged a step closer. "You know, Avon, it's a bad sign when you don't answer questions. Are you all right?"

"Do I look it?"

"No. You look terrible, actually."

"Thanks." Avon turned again, with great care, to face the wall behind him. The urge to be sick had passed, but his headache was still worsening. "Now that you've worked that out, Vila, you can leave. Shut the door behind you." Carefully, he reached again to squeeze the tight muscles at the back of his neck, wincing as the movement pulled everything from wrist to shoulder. "I'm tired, I hurt, and right now, getting to bed is all that really interests me."

"Uh—huh." Vila stepped back, half turning, and before he could quite breathe a sigh of relief, slid the door closed behind him.

"That isn't what I meant."

"I'd have guessed." There was just enough caution in the other's eyes as he moved forward again, circling, to keep it from being an insult, and not quite enough in his tone, when he stopped just past arm's reach. "You're starting to feel it, aren't you, Avon?" he said softly. "Everything that's happened."

"Am I?"

"That's how it looks."

"To you, perhaps." He gave the other an icy stare. "But then, Vila, your perceptions have always been a bit limited." He looked down, shifting his grip on the metal warming under his hand, and heard his voice go empty. "Right now, all I know is that it happened. I don't even know that it matters."

"I wouldn't bet on that." Vila moved a step further, closer into the circle, eyes watchful and his expression grim. "There are limits, Avon, to what even you can get away with, without there being consequences—"

He stopped, chin lifting, when Avon glared at him.

"Consequences you have never been and never will be competent to threaten me with!" Sheer infuriation gave him the control he needed to wheel away, past the end of the bed, catching at the edge of its hanging screen to steady himself. "You, or any of the others," he said bitterly. He twisted recklessly, to look back over his shoulder. "So don't waste my time with empty threats."

"No..." There was something in the way the warning faded from the other's tone, that bit deeper than anger would have done. A note of controlled understanding. "It'll keep, until you're fit to face it." He heard Vila move again, quietly, closer behind him. "In the meantime, Avon," he continued,"unless there's anywhere in particular that you really do need to go, I suggest you sit down before you fall over." He paused and shrugged, faintly, when Avon shifted to stare at him. "Then we can see about getting you a bit more comfortable."

"Comfortable—" He hadn't the energy to give the word the edge he could have wished, or any way to carry on from it.

Seeing it, Vila stepped back again to dart a glance into the darkened washroom, then turned to investigate the cabinets outside its door. He was careful enough to stay out of arm's reach, Avon noted, despite his serene manner. A pointless precaution under the circumstances, but one that somehow made it easier to relax, draw a breath, and turn back towards the other side of the bed. The worst of his dizziness seemed to have passed, and his headache had settled down to a steady if murderous pressure. Nothing he couldn't outlast, if he could only lie still and give it a chance to fade.

Slowly, he made his way back to the head of the bed, to dim the light. Behind him, from the sound of ripping plastic, Vila had found something of interest in the locker he was inspecting. Less of interest just now, than managing to sit down again without it hurting any more than necessary.

"You planning to sleep in that uniform?" He looked up as Vila came to stand at the end of the bed, holding up something loose and white. A standard pull‑on nightshirt, about knee length. One of the old regimental styles gone institutional, someone had said, once.

Reflex provided an answer. "I can't say I'd given it any thought."

"Well, think about it." Vila came to drop it on the bed beside him, and held out his hand. "While you're thinking, let's have your arm over here so I can undo that sleeve." He sighed, when Avon hesitated. "Come on, Avon, you could use the help. You may not like it, but you aren't usually stupid about turning it down when you need it."

"What worries me is that coming from you, it's likely to hurt more than it's worth." He drew his arm up to pull the snaps free himself, first on one cuff and then the other. "I may not be moving well just now, but at least I can tell when I need to stop."

"Raising the next question." Vila didn't move while he finished undoing the front of his shirt, and shifted to pull it free of his belt. "The way you're moving, everything's hurting."

"I'd noticed."

"The question's what you want to do about it. I'd say you could at least stand a hot drink and a muscle relaxant or two before bedtime, to help you sleep."

"That mightn't be a bad idea." Impossible not to sound wistful.

He dragged the tunic back from his shoulders, reached behind him to work the sleeves down and pull his arms free. Sighed, taking the nightshirt as Vila held it out, and pulled it clumsily over his head.

"But I think not." He let the other move in to twitch the soft material straight across his shoulders, and brought up a hand to brush his hair back from his forehead. "Considering everything that's been run through my system in the past few days, I'd as soon not risk a cross‑reaction."

"Well, look, we couldn't be in a better place to check on that." Vila held up a hand and turned to switch on the terminal beside the bed. "Just hang on, and we'll see what this can tell us." The unit hummed briefly and a plastic sensor bracelet extruded from its side. "Here." He turned back as Avon held out his hand, and wrapped the band neatly around his wrist. They both looked up as above the bed, the diagnostics display lit.

"Standard vital signs monitoring..." Avon said.

"Which all looks more or less okay, so far. You're running a bit of a temperature, but nothing that needs medicating, from the looks of it." Vila pulled open one of the drawers under the terminal, revealing a tray of diagnostic probes. "Ha, here's what we need. Let's have your hand back." Avon winced as the point of the sampling probe drove home on the inside of his wrist, but held still until the telltale above its point turned green and Vila pulled it back. "There. We'll know in a few minutes, just exactly how you're doing."

Text began to scroll up the terminal screen, and they both turned to follow it.

"Let's see. Blood type...findings outside normal parameters..." Vila paused the display. "High levels of stress hormones, fatigue poisons, presence of...these look like standard stabilizing drugs. Breakdown products of at least one sedative, traces of a couple of stimulants, anti‑nausea medication. Diagnostic review in progress, please wait."

"That won't help." Avon stretched past him, carefully, to brush one of the touchkeys at the side of the screen. "Query: are any relaxant medications contraindicated?" The response flashed. "No."

"Right...one round of adrenaline and soma coming up, then, if you'll take it."

"I'll take it." He gave the other weary look. "Just give me twenty minutes or so to deal with the rest of getting to bed."

"Done." Vila smiled. "Though the way you look right now, Avon, you should know I won't rule out having to pick you up off the floor when I get back."

He had made it back to bed—just—and was pulling the bedclothes straight over his legs, when Vila tapped lightly at the door again.

"Hey, you made it." The other grinned at his expression. "Seriously, I didn't think you would."

"The idea of you picking me up off the floor was motivating." He took the mug Vila held out to him, and sipped its steaming contents, cautiously. "Thanks."

"For the idea or the drink?"

"Whichever you prefer." Avon lowered the mug for a moment into the circle of his hands, then sighed and drained it. "At least this should make getting to sleep less of a problem."

"A lot less of one." Vila took it from him, slid it onto the bedside shelf, and reached in to catch him, as the room suddenly swam. "The only trick is likely to be lying down without hurting yourself, the state you're in."

"And I figure I put enough soma in that mug to make that painless," he went on cheerfully, as Avon gave a startled murmur and slumped against him. He gave the other a warm, briefly sheltering hug and slipped him down on the pillow, gathering it comfortably under his head. "Probably more than enough, you not being used to the stuff the way I am." He grinned. "You could call it a punishment for clean living!"

He leaned across the bed to pull up the covers, tucking them loosely around his friend's shoulders. Waited, as Avon automatically pulled his right arm up to free it, hand falling across his chest, then stood watching the resistance fade quietly from his face, before reaching to stroke the other's dark hair. "Never mind. I figure it's the best thing for you, right now."

"Not to mention the novelty," he added. "One could just about take you for human, this way."

Above the bed, the vital signs telemetry showed everything slowing, steadying, now, as the drugs took hold, and he stepped back softly, turning to go. Stopped, at the flashing of a block of text on the diagnostic display beside him. He touched the screen to stop the flashing, and tilted the monitor for a better look.

"Diagnostic summary...analysis of viral proteins indicates unstable multiple infection, Type A influenza, strains H1N1, H2N3, H7N2...projected mutation rates above anticipated mean values, no material immune response to H2N3, H7N2 variants, 12% response to H1N. Immediate isolation recommended, implementation Level 2 biohazard precautions. Testing of CSF advisable to establish magnitude of infection." He stopped, pulling back. "Oh, no. Avon, what have you got us into now?"

On the flight deck, Tarrant sighed and pressed the comlink override.

"He's got what?" he said. "Look, Vila, just calm down—I don't imagine anyone's died of the 'flu in centuries, unless they were more than half dead to begin with." He looked at Soolin, listening, her expression neutral, from the co‑pilot's seat. "Soolin, would you go down and see what's got him going? Take Orac, get it to read the medical databank. If I know anything, Vila's just misread something and getting overexcited about it."

"Very likely." She rose and slid the computer from the desk. "Come on, Orac, let's go find out what's wrong. If anything."

"I will come too, if you do not object," Sethi came up from his seat as she passed. "My father was a military doctor on Sahadeva—I may be able to be of some help."

"By all means." She raised an eyebrow, regarded him thoughtfully, and held out the computer. "You can take Orac."

"Sure you don't want to join the party?" Tarrant asked Dayna. She smiled, eyes not wavering from the point of the probe she was working into the depths of her mostly disassembled sidearm.

"No. I've seen Vila in a panic before."

"As have we all." He shook his head. "It doesn't take enough to get him going, to be worth the effort."