veryvorkosigan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
veryvorkosigan) wrote2004-11-09 10:49 pm
veryvorkosigan) wrote2004-11-09 10:49 pm
(no subject)
Red light slanting through the window. Voices, somewhere over her aching head. One of them Aral's.
"...how many deaths are we talking about?"
"Thirteen, my lord. Eight in the past day alone."
"And how many projected over the next week?"
A short silence.
"Hundreds, my lord."
"And how long before you can synthesize a cure?"
Frustration. "At least that long, to get antibodies from one of the surviving victims of the slower version of the illness. Unless someone with the wildfire version survives it, and the recovery period's as fast as the --"
A hiss, scaling downward in pain. "Unacceptable."
"My lord, you need rest --"
"Keep your voice down."
Darkness, and the voices fade, spiraling down the current of the fever-dreams. Then they're back, minutes or hours later.
"...no. Have to ... talk t' Gregor ... tell him ... quarantine --"
"You told him this morning." The second voice, the doctor's voice, is still soothing but underlain with worry. She can see the worry, in the fever; it's like a line of green smoke, curling around the words. "I can give you something to bring your fever down, my lord, but you have to sleep."
Minutes or hours, crawling past like newborn kittens, blind and mewling. Throbbing ache in her head, in her back, in every muscle she has. Sheets rasping against the raw patches of her skin. Heat, intolerable stifling heat, and she can't stop shivering. Aral thrashing at the blankets, Aral's hand groping for hers.
Hundreds of deaths projected over the next week.
It's dark (still? again?), and almost silent. Her legs tremble as she swings them to the floor and tries to put her weight on them, for the first time in ... however long it's been.
She is not yet well, and will not be for some days. The hot blurriness of fever is still there behind her eyes, and she still aches as though she's been beaten with mallets, and her stomach still rebels at the thought of food. But she can stand on the third try, and she can stumble out of the bedroom, leaning on the wall as she goes.
Hundreds of deaths. Unacceptable. We need more time.
The access hallway is close enough.
"...how many deaths are we talking about?"
"Thirteen, my lord. Eight in the past day alone."
"And how many projected over the next week?"
A short silence.
"Hundreds, my lord."
"And how long before you can synthesize a cure?"
Frustration. "At least that long, to get antibodies from one of the surviving victims of the slower version of the illness. Unless someone with the wildfire version survives it, and the recovery period's as fast as the --"
A hiss, scaling downward in pain. "Unacceptable."
"My lord, you need rest --"
"Keep your voice down."
Darkness, and the voices fade, spiraling down the current of the fever-dreams. Then they're back, minutes or hours later.
"...no. Have to ... talk t' Gregor ... tell him ... quarantine --"
"You told him this morning." The second voice, the doctor's voice, is still soothing but underlain with worry. She can see the worry, in the fever; it's like a line of green smoke, curling around the words. "I can give you something to bring your fever down, my lord, but you have to sleep."
Minutes or hours, crawling past like newborn kittens, blind and mewling. Throbbing ache in her head, in her back, in every muscle she has. Sheets rasping against the raw patches of her skin. Heat, intolerable stifling heat, and she can't stop shivering. Aral thrashing at the blankets, Aral's hand groping for hers.
Hundreds of deaths projected over the next week.
It's dark (still? again?), and almost silent. Her legs tremble as she swings them to the floor and tries to put her weight on them, for the first time in ... however long it's been.
She is not yet well, and will not be for some days. The hot blurriness of fever is still there behind her eyes, and she still aches as though she's been beaten with mallets, and her stomach still rebels at the thought of food. But she can stand on the third try, and she can stumble out of the bedroom, leaning on the wall as she goes.
Hundreds of deaths. Unacceptable. We need more time.
The access hallway is close enough.