Chapter 15 #3
Except then, she sees something else. A little flash of light, almost like a speck of glitter floated on to the slide.
She peers at the sample more closely, closes one eye to try to focus.
There, in the chromatin — the mix of protein and DNA that make up her chromosomes — is a tiny, gold flare.
And that, she is certain, is not something she has ever seen before.
She swallows, her throat suddenly thick. What does it mean?
She backs away from the scope, her heart pounding hard against her chest. She needs to talk to her father.
He’ll know. He’ll be able to tell her that she is very much Lumarian, that there is nothing else going on here except for a bit of good luck during an otherwise horrifying time.
Except that the further away they get from Lumaria, the harder it is to make contact with the planet.
The comms are patchier out here, less stable, and he’s been busy nearly every time she’s tried.
There’s a knock on the door, and she slides it open to see Oswald, spectacles sliding down his nose and sweat running from his brow, blood covering the front of his white Luminary cloak. “We need you. Now.”
“What?” Kit stutters, heart lurching into her throat. “Why?”
“It’s Ms. Payne,” Oswald said. “She’s very unwell.”
He hustles her down the hallway, casting a mask around his face and hers as they enter the quarantine ward, door sliding shut behind them.
Tullia leans over Pruett, a wet cloth in her hand, speaking to her calmly.
Pruett’s eyes are closed, face ruddy, rash an angry purple.
Tullia’s diagnostic hovers over her, showing a steadily increasing temperature.
Kit rushes over to Pru’s bedside, stopping short when she sees Task in the corner of the room. They cannot afford to be distracted right now. “Why is he still here?” she hisses to Oswald, who has come up beside her and is swiping through the diagnostic.
“He’s been ordered to guard the ambassador,” Oswald says. He turns to Tullia, who is still attempting to bring Pru’s fever down. “Canmore, can you lend a pair of hands?”
“I mean no disrespect, Luminary,” Kit says, “but we have a patient that is about to —”
Task steps forward, interrupts her. “What do you need?”
“Fluids. In the cabinet over there. We need another bag.”
Kit is about to argue with Luminary Oswald, insist they get Nevis or Amaltheia down here instead of Task — but Pruett begins to seize, her entire body convulsing on the bed, and Kit’s attention is diverted. Oswald pulls the curtain shut around the bed. “Canmore! We need the fluids. Now!”
Task runs back into the curtained area, his fingers brushing Kit’s as he hands the fluid over to her. She hangs it on the pole and connects Pru’s line. Oswald stands very still, thinking. “Let’s try the pink salt,” he says finally.
Kit’s stomach drops. Pruett is having a seizure, and Oswald is about to find out that she’s already dipped into the pink salt.
Her eyes find Task’s across the bed, locking with his as she says, “We’ve already tried it.”
Luminary Oswald looks as though he’s been struck by an airbus, his eyes widening behind his spectacles. “What do you mean, you’ve already tried it?”
Kit swallows, steels herself, as Pruett’s limbs continue to jerk in front of her. “The antidote I administered yesterday. I added 1 cc of liquified pink salt.”
“You mean to tell me you dipped into the pink salt without consulting me? You know we have a limited amount. We’re meant to ration it and —”
Kit thinks this is not the right time for this, is about to open her mouth to say so, but Task cuts in. “I will replace whatever was used. You have my word.”
Kit is shocked at his pronouncement, but he’s just saved her. He shakes his head at her, once, as if telling her not to worry about it. Oswald still appears shell-shocked, but he unfreezes a moment later. “Do you have any of the antidote left?”
Kit shakes her head, wanting to kick herself for not brewing more. Pruett shakes, her lips turning a strange shade of purple. They’re losing her. “No, but it didn’t work anyway. She’s gotten worse.”
Oswald presses his lips together. “I thought another dose might at least bring down the fever. Perhaps if we try another liquefied injection alone.”
Task is leaving the makeshift room before Oswald finishes his sentence, running for the cabinet containing the pink salt, Kit on his heels, realizing he’ll need her print to unlock it.
They don’t speak as she presses her thumb to it, Task reaching in and pulling out the jar.
He stares at it puzzled, as if he’s not used to seeing it like this, in its purest form. “How do you liquefy it?”
“Grab a breaker,” Kit says. He reaches up and hands her one. “Measure out a quarter of a teaspoon into here.”
Task does as she says, pouring the pink salt into the beaker.
Kit rests the beaker on a table, grabbing the Calandrian token from her pocket and murmuring “ignite” under her breath.
She wouldn’t normally do it this way — it’s more effective when brought to a slow boil over a burner, but they don’t have time to waste, so a dash of magitech will have to do.
It’s liquefied in under a minute, and she draws it into a syringe, running back to the curtained area.
She tries to flip open the port on Pru’s IV, but her jerking makes it difficult, and Oswald has to hold her down so Kit can still her arm enough to insert the needle.
Finally, she manages it, and steps back, waiting for the solution to make its way through her veins.
Pruett stills, and Kit feels a surge of hope. The pink salt worked.
But then, a solid tone replaces the steady beeping on the monitor beside her, a flat line where her heartbeat should be. No, no, no. They can’t lose Pruett. She promised Finn that she’d save her.
Her heart stutters in her chest as she glances around the room, looking for anything that could be used as a source.
If she is a Vitalis, she should be able to imbue Pruett, if only she could find something to leverage.
There is nothing readily available except for other people, and she doesn’t know anything about the power.
If she even can draw from other people. If she would want to.
She feels Task’s eyes on her as she sucks in a breath, tears welling in her eyes.
She squeezes them shut. She can’t cry — it’s not how they are taught.
Emotions are a hazard in her line of work.
And yet, she feels it deeply. This loss added to every other one.
A flash of memory of her falling to the floor in her mother’s room at the Center, the way she’d screamed and clawed at her father.
It feels as though her windpipe is being crushed as she takes uneven, gasping breaths, trying to pull herself out of the memory.
“Luminary Hart,” Oswald says softly, resting a hand on her shoulder. “We did everything we could.”
“I promised him,” she whispers, and then the tears are falling as she sinks to the floor, head in her hands.