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simon_doctor) wrote2006-05-03 04:13 pm
simon_doctor) wrote2006-05-03 04:13 pm
Taking Care of Business
New Canaan
Mal's been to enough backwaters and slums to know what the cough of a dead man sounds like, and the old man with the tablet taking inventory of the equipment he ordered sounds very rutting familiar. Mal is trying to stay as far away from him as possible without being impolite.
The old man - Thalan, if the patch on his shirt actually means anything - seems ready to go. "Not to be rushin' you off there, Captain Reynolds," he says, "but I got quite the appointment to be keepin'. Took three weeks to get; don't want to be late." He sticks his pen behind one ear, exposing red blotches across the top of his hand -- poorly placed IV tracks.
"Takes three weeks to get a doc 'round here?" Mal asks, keeping his eyes a respectful direction away from Thalan's hand, though it takes effort.
"Take a miracle to get a doc 'round here, Captain Reynolds, ever since ours come down with the lunglock herself." Thalan's mouth goes wry. "You know anyone any good at raisin' the dead?"
Mal isn't even aware of coming to a decision.
"Got no need to raise the dead." A moment to fish out the commlink from his coat pocket. "Wash? Send Simon out here. Tell 'im to bring his red bag."
Thalan's face goes slack. "...You've got a doctor?"
"We actually refer to 'im as Simon, but yes," Mal responds, turning to the open cargo bay doors. Simon is visible as a shadowed figure in the far end of the bay. As Mal raises a hand to him, Simon starts to walk at a faster clip.
The old man's eyes dart from the cargo bay back to Mal, a desperate hope warring with alarm in his face. "--look, Captain, I'm not authorized to negotiate payment for this kind of thing."
"No?" Mal takes a step forward. "Why don't you point me towards someone who is. And meantime, show the doc around."
-----
The hospital's a converted church, the pews dragged out of the way and cots set up in grim rows. It's clearly the only building in town large enough to handle all the sick.
As Mal follows Elder Janeck into the room, Thalan's moving along the end of the last row, Simon and a middle-aged woman at his heels. "...best we can do," he's telling Simon, his cracked voice low but echoing nonetheless in the vaulted hall.
The Elder hurries forward to talk to Simon. Mal sidesteps, and only half pays attention. He's happy that the others are standing toward the back of the church hall, away from the altar.
Until he sees the quiet, discreet plaque set into the opposite wall -- bronze-brown, reading REMEMBER OUR FALLEN and a list of names he doesn't know and dates he remembers better than his mother's birthday -- and then there's two things in the room he has to avoid looking at. Three, if you count the rows of people sick or dying.
After a few minutes, Janeck comes back up the row of cots towards Mal. "You understand we don't have a great deal of cash money," he says, low. "And much of our budget for this year went to purchasing the farming equipment you've just delivered us. We could pay you in goods -- there's the brandy the orchards bottle up this time of year...."
Mal remembers flying over the orchards before touching down. Easy enough to remember, with the wide expanse of apple trees being the only cultivated area for miles. "You'd need a distributor for that much product," he responds helpfully, if not a little stiffly.
Simon and the nurse are coming back towards them, Thalan following. "If you'll excuse us," Mal continues before Janeck can reply, and steps aside, pulling Simon with him a few steps. Janeck retreats to a respectful distance, with the air of a man prepared to wait.
Mal turns to look at Simon, trying to ignore the fractured colors of light from the stained-glass window dotting the younger man's face and shoulders, the floor between them. Lowering his voice, mindful of how this room can magnify the smallest sounds, he says "Tell me, Doc. Straight up."
He glances aside, seeing the filled beds of the church hall, Elder Janeck and the nurse still waiting, REMEMBER OUR FALLEN somber on the wall beyond them, all of them lit through a kaleidoscope of colored glass.
What colors's He flyin'?
And turns back to ask in a hoarse near-whisper: "Can these people be saved?"
Simon looks at him for a long moment, his brows drawing together in a combination of concern and puzzlement: why so fervent, that look asks, over people you don't even know?
But he follows Mal's glance to the rows of sickbeds, and when he turns back, there's no hesitation in him. "Yes."
-----
Mal walks back to Janeck confidently, Simon falling in step behind. Janeck's back straightens with the captain's approach, but keeps a smile on his face in hope. "If you've got an interest in it, we have a number of cases of the brandy packed already."
Mal smiles a business smile, a deal going smoothly. "Think that'd work, Janeck."
Awash with relief, the Elder starts again, "We can get the crates moved onto your ship in an hour. If the product is to your liking, we could work out another exchange."
There's a pause, and he adds to Simon and Mal both: "I don't suppose --" He's attempting to be casual and failing, the weary lines of his forehead giving him away. "Are you folk likely to be back this way any time soon?"
Simon and Mal exchange glances.
-----
About seven hours later
Simon's sitting on the metal stairs down into the cargo bay, watching the team of locals hauling in heavy wooden crates (contents packed in straw and gurgling slightly).
Four hours tending to the sick, including several cases of pneumonia misdiagnosed as the lunglock fever. Two hours training the nurse, Lea Graf, who told him with the nervousness of a much younger woman that she's not even a registered nurse, she's an engineer for gossake, she only started doing this because old Dr. Andrews needed an assistant and now she's gone; the concrete instruction seemed to calm her a good deal. Most of an hour trying to convince his datareader to interface with the ancient hardware that's all the colony has, to copy medical data they desperately need. He left Graf making printouts to distribute to the outlying villages, and collapsed exhausted for a twenty-minute catnap.
Right now he's going over a list of supplies he'll need to replenish at their next stop on a slightly wealthier world.
Mal's been to enough backwaters and slums to know what the cough of a dead man sounds like, and the old man with the tablet taking inventory of the equipment he ordered sounds very rutting familiar. Mal is trying to stay as far away from him as possible without being impolite.
The old man - Thalan, if the patch on his shirt actually means anything - seems ready to go. "Not to be rushin' you off there, Captain Reynolds," he says, "but I got quite the appointment to be keepin'. Took three weeks to get; don't want to be late." He sticks his pen behind one ear, exposing red blotches across the top of his hand -- poorly placed IV tracks.
"Takes three weeks to get a doc 'round here?" Mal asks, keeping his eyes a respectful direction away from Thalan's hand, though it takes effort.
"Take a miracle to get a doc 'round here, Captain Reynolds, ever since ours come down with the lunglock herself." Thalan's mouth goes wry. "You know anyone any good at raisin' the dead?"
Mal isn't even aware of coming to a decision.
"Got no need to raise the dead." A moment to fish out the commlink from his coat pocket. "Wash? Send Simon out here. Tell 'im to bring his red bag."
Thalan's face goes slack. "...You've got a doctor?"
"We actually refer to 'im as Simon, but yes," Mal responds, turning to the open cargo bay doors. Simon is visible as a shadowed figure in the far end of the bay. As Mal raises a hand to him, Simon starts to walk at a faster clip.
The old man's eyes dart from the cargo bay back to Mal, a desperate hope warring with alarm in his face. "--look, Captain, I'm not authorized to negotiate payment for this kind of thing."
"No?" Mal takes a step forward. "Why don't you point me towards someone who is. And meantime, show the doc around."
-----
The hospital's a converted church, the pews dragged out of the way and cots set up in grim rows. It's clearly the only building in town large enough to handle all the sick.
As Mal follows Elder Janeck into the room, Thalan's moving along the end of the last row, Simon and a middle-aged woman at his heels. "...best we can do," he's telling Simon, his cracked voice low but echoing nonetheless in the vaulted hall.
The Elder hurries forward to talk to Simon. Mal sidesteps, and only half pays attention. He's happy that the others are standing toward the back of the church hall, away from the altar.
Until he sees the quiet, discreet plaque set into the opposite wall -- bronze-brown, reading REMEMBER OUR FALLEN and a list of names he doesn't know and dates he remembers better than his mother's birthday -- and then there's two things in the room he has to avoid looking at. Three, if you count the rows of people sick or dying.
After a few minutes, Janeck comes back up the row of cots towards Mal. "You understand we don't have a great deal of cash money," he says, low. "And much of our budget for this year went to purchasing the farming equipment you've just delivered us. We could pay you in goods -- there's the brandy the orchards bottle up this time of year...."
Mal remembers flying over the orchards before touching down. Easy enough to remember, with the wide expanse of apple trees being the only cultivated area for miles. "You'd need a distributor for that much product," he responds helpfully, if not a little stiffly.
Simon and the nurse are coming back towards them, Thalan following. "If you'll excuse us," Mal continues before Janeck can reply, and steps aside, pulling Simon with him a few steps. Janeck retreats to a respectful distance, with the air of a man prepared to wait.
Mal turns to look at Simon, trying to ignore the fractured colors of light from the stained-glass window dotting the younger man's face and shoulders, the floor between them. Lowering his voice, mindful of how this room can magnify the smallest sounds, he says "Tell me, Doc. Straight up."
He glances aside, seeing the filled beds of the church hall, Elder Janeck and the nurse still waiting, REMEMBER OUR FALLEN somber on the wall beyond them, all of them lit through a kaleidoscope of colored glass.
What colors's He flyin'?
And turns back to ask in a hoarse near-whisper: "Can these people be saved?"
Simon looks at him for a long moment, his brows drawing together in a combination of concern and puzzlement: why so fervent, that look asks, over people you don't even know?
But he follows Mal's glance to the rows of sickbeds, and when he turns back, there's no hesitation in him. "Yes."
-----
Mal walks back to Janeck confidently, Simon falling in step behind. Janeck's back straightens with the captain's approach, but keeps a smile on his face in hope. "If you've got an interest in it, we have a number of cases of the brandy packed already."
Mal smiles a business smile, a deal going smoothly. "Think that'd work, Janeck."
Awash with relief, the Elder starts again, "We can get the crates moved onto your ship in an hour. If the product is to your liking, we could work out another exchange."
There's a pause, and he adds to Simon and Mal both: "I don't suppose --" He's attempting to be casual and failing, the weary lines of his forehead giving him away. "Are you folk likely to be back this way any time soon?"
Simon and Mal exchange glances.
-----
About seven hours later
Simon's sitting on the metal stairs down into the cargo bay, watching the team of locals hauling in heavy wooden crates (contents packed in straw and gurgling slightly).
Four hours tending to the sick, including several cases of pneumonia misdiagnosed as the lunglock fever. Two hours training the nurse, Lea Graf, who told him with the nervousness of a much younger woman that she's not even a registered nurse, she's an engineer for gossake, she only started doing this because old Dr. Andrews needed an assistant and now she's gone; the concrete instruction seemed to calm her a good deal. Most of an hour trying to convince his datareader to interface with the ancient hardware that's all the colony has, to copy medical data they desperately need. He left Graf making printouts to distribute to the outlying villages, and collapsed exhausted for a twenty-minute catnap.
Right now he's going over a list of supplies he'll need to replenish at their next stop on a slightly wealthier world.