The Promethead

Althea trembled with anxiety, fought to remain conscious, refusing to fall back into a catatonic dreamland. She willed herself to be calm, suppress the worry – muster the little strength she had to stay awake.

Her desperation must have activated some of her systems. The blinding pain had been downgraded to weakness, stiffness, ache. Struggling into a sitting position, she gingerly started removing the wires and tubes they had attached to her, eventually noticing a container of water on the stand by the bed. Consumed by a sudden thirst, Althea drank it all, her shaky grip causing some of it to spill out over her hands, her lips, onto her and the bed sheets. The water relieved her dry mouth and throat, but she needed much, much more. The NANs couldn't restore health on their own; they needed material to work with.

Guilt returned. If those men hadn't found her, she would have died, NANs or not. There wouldn't have been much of her left, either; the NANs would have burned all her soft tissue up, to keep her alive, warm. It was an ugly thought. She pushed it out of her mind, concentrating on her imminent – she hoped, she prayed – reunion with Dorian and to determining the extent of her head injury, the best she could. She started by cautiously feeling all around her skull, finding it tender and sore. Maybe a skull fracture, maybe worse.

They returned before she'd finished. The young man had a box – the older man, her travel tunic. She motioned them to approach, give her the tunic. She searched over the back of the fabric, until she felt the bulk of Dorian's case, feeling immense relief. They hadn't unlocked the pocket. Finding the impact gel unbroken, she decided that he must be safe, must be fine.

The wire box appeared to hold her memsuit, her boots and most of the contents of her pack. She felt terribly exposed again, c.a.r.e.s.sed the fabric concealing Dorian for comfort. Althea felt warmer, excited with the thought of him – hoped the men didn't notice. She pointed at the box, then at the bed in front of her; warily, the young man complied, lay it near her right calf, then ducked back as she freed theNANsupplement ampoules and nanomeds from her tunic's pockets. Thankfully, the armored material had protected the little she had dared carry. Althea wanted to take Dorian out of his pocket, feel the smooth alloy of his casing, but was afraid to draw attention to him.

All the ampoules in her very thin hands, Althea took a deep breath, then looked back up at the two men. They returned the glance with uncertainty, expectation.

"Is there anyone else here?" she wanted to know.

"It's just two of us," the young man started. "I'm, uh, Traejan Edos. This is Kyso Densca." She was aware of his drawl but his words were clear to her ears. She could understand every word he spoke. At least her linguistic imprints were still working.

"My name is Althea Ram," she told them, leaning back against the pillow and headboard. "From Propero Emeraldis Prime, in the Palmyri Century… through the portal."

The older man nodded.

"You've come a long way."

"I know." She recalled the sense of stretched time she'd felt in the transit, the hallucinogenic jumble. She turned her attention to the tunic, the box of equipment, then looked back at Kyso… Densca "Is this all you recovered?"

"It was all I could find," Traejan interjected. "There was a lot of debris around you, a lot of ice."

I'll bet.

Althea shuddered at the memory. She gave them an honest smile. Rescuing her, pulling her out of there had to have been an act of courage; she doubted the port had been safe to enter at all after it had collapsed on her. Still – her smile faded – that didn't make it any wiser to reveal more than she had to.

The tech. She could use it to get them out of the room.

"Thank you," she offered, then began looking through the ampoules for what she would need first. She looked back to them, tried another smile.

"This should be enough," she lied. It wasn't remotely enough.

They looked relieved.

"For your safety, and mine, I need to do this in isolation," she told them, holding up the vials. "Nanomeds are very delicate, very s.e.n.s.i.t.i.v.e. You have to leave. Understand?"

Kyso lowered his thick white eyebrows in consideration. Traejan, was openly skeptical.

"I don't think–" he started.

Althea held up a hand to stop his protest. It was an effort.

"For a few fours at least," she pleaded. "And… I'll need food – as much as you can spare… and more water. Please?"

Traejan twisted his lips, scrutinized her. Kyso nodded, glanced over at his younger counterpart, then turned back to her.

"We'll go, get what you need," he offered sympathetically, generously, taking hold of the younger's shoulder. "Come on Trae… come!"

The young man looked clearly put out, but reluctantly agreed. It was almost comical the way Kyso pulled him out of the room. Althea wondered how long they had been alone together.

She listened, strained, but didn't hear either of them lingering by the door. The moment she was sure they were gone, she pulled up her tunic, opened the hidden pocket, drew Dorian's case from its protection. She looked over the shiny gold cylinder, smiled; there wasn't a dent or scratch visible on its surface.

Holding it in her hand, Althea fumbled excitedly with combination, forgetting the sequence, then remembering. The holograph fields unfolded like a fan, glowing bright, even in the lit room. She almost laughed, twisting her wrist to hold the display flat before her. All she needed to do was touch the reactive fields, activate the voice system, prove he was with her, unharmed, undamaged. Her fingers shook as she pressed out the sequence, one through twenty-six.

Althea brushed her hair back, took in a breath, waited a beat, then three. Then she pressed the final symbol.