Chapter 11 Em #3
Jonathan grunts, brows pinched in frustration, lips scowling at me. “You don’t know if your shit Kys did anything fucked up to us? What if we’re addicted to it now, huh? How do you expect us to quit cold turkey? Like we’re only numbers to you, quack doctors!”
Idris takes the attention back with two palms up. “Em’s formula impressed every regulatory body that reviewed it. That hasn’t changed overnight. What has changed is that we now have a violent incident aboard the ship. That’s separate from Kys.”
“Was it murder?” someone blurts. “Just say it. Was it murder?”
A heavy quiet follows.
Idris frowns. “There are signs his injuries may have been intentional,” he says. “We’ve handed all evidence digitally to authorities for investigation.”
The statement elicits another round of noise. Fear, anger, disbelief. I feel all of it moving around me like static before a thunderstorm.
Inside my body, a different storm occurs. Heat in my neck. Cold in my hands. My peripheral vision narrows in and out. I track these symptoms like I would in a subject.
Panic. Everyone else is allowed to show it. But I’m not. I must proceed.
“Hey,” Stan calls, his deep voice capturing my attention completely. “Eyes up here, fellas.”
Many people glance his way, including myself.
He stands on top of a table. “I get that we’re scared, okay? And if anyone needs to get a good punch in, you can hit me. Just not the face. That’s the moneymaker, y’know?”
A few shaky laughs break out. Idris smiles. Darius scoffs lightly. And I keep staring at Stan.
He presses on. “Look, I seriously get it. We’re all on edge. But the guy who found Sergio is not the bad guy here. The bad guy’s whoever actually did this.”
Idris nods, acknowledging the assist. “Thank you, Stan,” he says. “He’s right. We’ll share more information when we can do so responsibly. Until then, if any of you have concerns, or fears you can’t get a handle on, you come to me or a member of the medical staff we have on board.”
Those other staff members wave and walk around, checking on each subject—no, each person.
“They’ll stay by your side until we reach Egypt,” Idris adds. “It’s currently at a ratio of four people per extra pair of hands, so just make sure you’re always with someone.”
The crowd of people talk among themselves. Their voices sound less tense now.
I watch Idris as he addresses the group again while they ask more questions. He calls them all by their names. He smiles, even through the harshest questions. His posture’s authoritative without being harsh. His tone remains calm but never turns cold. And I see it now.
He’s doing what I can’t do as easily. He’s standing in front of a frightened crowd and soothing them.
My body, meanwhile, is still brewing like a storm.
I log the contrast.
By the time Idris starts to close the meeting, my muscles ache from holding so still.
“We’ll keep you updated,” he speaks to the crowd. “For now, eat, hydrate, and check in on each other. If you see or feel anything that worries you, come to us. No judgment.”
Chairs scrape. The room’s volume rises again, with people breaking into smaller clusters.
Idris turns to me. “Em,” he says with a smile, “you did well.”
It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s referring to the one short segment I spoke, while he handled everything else expertly.
I bow my head. “Thank you,” I say. “You did much more.”
He studies my face. I can tell he’s looking for signs. Pupil dilation. Breathing rate. Muscle tension in my neck.
I keep everything as neutral as I can.
“We can talk in the MedBay,” he says. “After this.”
I answer with a nod. He looks like he wants to say more. But Darius approaches before he can.
“Father will want a summary of this gathering,” Darius says. “I’ll handle the structural points. Em, if you can send him your preliminary decision tree on dose suspension…”
Decision tree. That’s concrete. Contained. A task. I latch onto it. “I’ll draft it now,” I say.
Darius walks off after. Idris hesitates, spares me another smile, then follows after his older brother.
As they move, I stay where I stand for a moment longer, tablet against my beating chest.
When I see Nil and Stan walk toward my direction, I rush out of the mess hall, determined to get to work and not get distracted.
***
Time’s typically easier to track when I focus on tasks. That has always been reliable. Right now, it isn’t.
I’m seated at my workstation in the MedBay, tablet open to a blank decision tree. It should be simple. The variables are already defined. The data points are plainly obvious. The pattern recognition requires low effort.
Yet I can’t continue.
My hand hovers over the screen, motionless. I outline the first branch in my mind, but the shape of it keeps collapsing. My thoughts refuse to organize. Even the sounds of air hissing through the vents, and the droning motion of the ship feel like more competing inputs.
There are no other sounds that should be distracting, yet the near-silence lets my mind fill the noise with words I heard earlier.
“Are we next?”
The words play in my mind again and again.
My hovering fingers are turning numb. My throat feels as though it’s closing. I log every sensation, but it doesn’t resolve the problem.
The MedBay doors slide open.
A controlled inhale leaves my lungs. I expect Idris. He said we would talk. I prepared to receive his voice, his warm presence, the exact calibration of calm he brings when mine is proving to be faulty.
But when I turn to face the door, it isn’t Idris who enters.
Nil walks in first. Stan follows close behind him.
“Oh good,” Stan says, “you’re breathin’ fine, doc. We were betting on it. Well, Nil was betting on it. I was betting you turned into a damsel in distress waiting for the right princes.”
My brows knit out of confusion over his rather lengthy greeting. But his light tone loosens the tightness in my chest.
Nil shoots him a look before turning toward me. His smile is small and seems careful. “Hi, Em.”
My fingers ease slightly as I drop my hand down. “Hello,” I answer. “Are you two alright?”
Stan steps closer. “We’re doing alright, all things considered.”
Nil stands in front of me. “We came to check on you, Em.”
I open my mouth to reassure them, but nothing coherent forms. My body gives me away before I can control it. My breathing becomes a bit shallow, so I straighten, trying to correct it.
“Okay, whoa.” Stan waves a hand in my direction. “That’s the face of someone doing math to her own heartbeat.”
Nil angles his head down. “You look tired, Em,” he says. “Have you eaten?”
“I’m fine,” I say. The words should sound accurate, but they don’t feel honest.
Stan clicks his tongue. Nil frowns. I suppose they can tell I’m not being entirely honest.
Nil glances at my tablet. “You working on something?”
“Decision tree,” I say. “Dose suspension justification. It should be easy.”
“But lemme guess, it isn’t?” Stan asks.
I nod, not knowing what else to say when they’re focusing their questions on me.
Stan walks around the workstation, peering at the tablet’s screen. “Yeah, this looks like the opposite of easy. This looks like depression’s first draft.”
My brows pull together. I want to ask what that could possibly mean, but Nil’s voice eases the tension in my neck. “Em, we heard what Idris told the others. None of this is something you could have predicted.”
“Or prevented,” Stan adds. “Unless you’ve mastered time travel and forgot to mention it.”
Nil inches closer. “Sergio’s passing isn’t on you,” he whispers. “I know you know that logically, but…sometimes logic doesn’t help when your body decides to do its own thing.”
My throat is drier than before. I don’t trust my voice to hide my feelings. My eyes search Nil’s, until Stan speaks, drawing my attention.
“We’re not going to be as good as Idris is at this, but…” Stan leans in. “You look like you’re about to metabolize stress into a new element on the periodic table.”
My brows deepen. I want to tell him that’s not how it works, but Nil nods at Stan and says, “You don’t have to work right now, Em.”
Stan grins at Nil. “Look at you, babe, being all wise and monk-like. When did that happen?”
Nil’s eyebrow arches as he frowns. “Not even close to being a monk.”
“Oh, I know,” Stan says suggestively.
My cheeks warm at the implication. He must be speaking of the development of their dynamic. That, I catch on to.
Stan and Nil keep talking. Their exchanges sound light, almost effortless. Stan nudges Nil with his elbow and says something about his body being a temple, and Nil gives him a look that contains more expression than most people manage with full sentences.
I observe the interaction as I would any fascinating, familiar behavioral pattern. Stan teases in exaggeration. Nil retorts dryly. Stan’s tone dips lower. Nil’s eyes narrow once more.
Their voices fill the MedBay, fill my mind. It takes me a while to realize my breathing has eased.
Their exchange isn’t directed at me, but the pressure around my neck lessens. My thoughts stop circling the same question.
At some point, we’re moving. Stan says something about the mess hall. Nil notes that I didn’t “grab a bite” earlier. No one waits for my response as they walk, placing me in between them.
The conversation continues around me as if this was decided without needing my input. But my shoulders lower without conscious effort. My thoughts stop spiraling long enough for the sounds around me to feel normal again.
Hours later, I’ve eaten my meals and taken sea-facing walks with Nil and Stan, and by evening, the decision tree has been done. I’ve even informed Set who sounded pleased. He didn’t ask for revisions. Rather, he said he’d be on call speaking with his sons.
It’s why I suspect Idris is late to bed. Or maybe I shouldn’t expect him at all tonight.
Something scratches at the inside of my throat. I try swallowing. It doesn’t ease.
Idris has been sharing my bed since we boarded this ship. Rerouting that routine makes my palm itch when reasonably, there’s nothing irritating that patch of skin.
Forcing out an exhale, I take my glasses off and place them on the nightstand. Then I lie down and tell myself I should be tired enough to fall asleep without him.
I’ve done it before. I can do it again.
But then the door opens. It must be Idris this time. I don’t reach for my glasses, but I sit up and see him as he steps into the dim light of my quarters.
His brows are creased at the center. His frown rather prominent. He looks exhausted. After all, he was running around all day, handling the heavy burden his father placed on him.
“You’re awake,” he whispers, sounding surprised.
“I was about to sleep,” I reply.
His frown lifts into a soft smile. “I’m so sorry I kept you waiting, Em.”
“You had responsibilities to attend, Idris,” I say.
He sits beside me on the bed. He studies my face as he usually does, holding my attention. His hand lifts, stopping at the curve of my cheek, as though he’s checking if he’s allowed.
At my nod, he touches me. His palm is warm. It eases my chest, as if I could finally take a full breath at the end of the day.
“I know I’ve been busy, but…” he starts, voice lower. “You’ve been on my mind every second. Every millisecond, even, Em.”
It feels like a strange thing for him to admit, considering his claim’s statistically impossible.
“I managed,” I reassure him. “Nil and Stan stayed by my side. They helped.”
His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers threading into the ends of my hair. The motion is quite calming to my nerves that I nearly close my eyes.
“I’m glad they were there,” he murmurs with an approving smile.
When silence returns, I feel a question rise in my mind. I want to voice it and ask, Why didn’t you tell me sooner about Sergio?
It almost leaves my lips, but Idris leans in and kisses me. The words get stuck in my throat.
His hand moves to my waist, guiding me back down to the pillows. He follows it with another kiss, and the question I meant to ask out loud becomes a quiet thought. Truly, all thoughts disappear at the soft feel of his lips pressing deeper and deeper.
“Em,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Let me take care of you.”
I don’t answer. My attention has narrowed to the heat of his hand at my waist and the fact that my pulse is spiking, not from distress as it has all day, but from pleasure.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs. “Just let me lead.”
His next kisses hitch my breath. It comes out uneven, though I try to catch the rhythm of his. I realize belatedly that his breaths are more erratic than mine.
By the time his hand slides along my thigh under the blanket, coaxing me closer to him, my body fits easily under his.
My thoughts narrow to the feeling of his fingers slipping inside me. He moves with gentleness, guiding me into motion. Heat pulls low in my abdomen. My breath turns heavy. My hand finds his shoulder.
The rest is a blur of pressure and warmth, and the sound of him whispering my name. And when my body trembles and the tension finally releases, Idris pulls me close, one arm around my waist, his forehead resting against my temple.
His voice is quiet when he speaks. “Sleep, Em. I’ll be right here.”
Sleep comes quickly after, when I feel this regulated around Idris, and when I feel his fingers tap tenderly at my beating heart.