VANGUARD(42)

Vanguard secured. Safe at base camp. Condition sub-optimal but improving. More information later.





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The next time Michael got out of bed went differently. Sophie, who had been in the midst of it, hadn’t had time to notice her colleagues’ reaction to seeing the infamous Nariovsky temper in action.

Anjali had been taking a briefing in the evening from the Rev and Georgs, the translator helping him work with the Commandant. They were standing outside the infirmary when a husky, crackling sound came from inside, punctuated with booming coughs. Anjali, the Rev, and Georgs looked into the room.

Michael’s voice was little more than a rasp from the pneumonia. But what he lacked in volume, he made up for in intensity. He stood at the end of Sophie’s bed, lines trailing away onto the floor, trembling with the effort to stay upright. Even though a strong wind could probably have knocked him down, Michael still managed to look intimidating. The Rev glanced at Anjali in alarm, clearly wondering if he should intervene.

Sophie sat in bed, glaring at Michael. They started toward her in concern, but she waved them back. Michael continued to rage in Orlisian, oblivious to his surroundings.

“Georgs,” Anjali said, nudging him. “C’mon. What’s he saying?”

Georgs gaped at her. “It is a conversation of a personal nature, Dr. Shah.”

“Then they shouldn’t be having it in front of a translator,” she said impatiently. “What’s he saying?”

Georgs looked at the Rev helplessly for a minute, then turned back to Michael. “He…he is…extraordinarily displeased to find Miss Swenda here.”

“We figured that. Go on.”

“He indicates that he left her very…um…clear instructions upon his departure that she was not to follow him. That, as usual, she shames him by acting like the…uh…” He swallowed hard under Anjali’s steely gaze and continued, “…by acting like the untamed brat that she is, even though she is now old enough to know how to behave properly.” Anjali had the feeling Georgs was editing the more colorful phrases.

“He asks if Miss Swenda…uh…has…um…recently checked her groin to ensure that she has not recently grown a set of…oh dear…testicles. And if she has not, perhaps she may wish to acquire some since she…uh…insists on behaving as if she had been born a man. A man, like Dr. Nariovsky-Trent is. A fact that he believes Miss Swenda has forgotten.”

Anjali didn’t know whether to laugh at the ridiculously prissy translation Georgs had provided, or if she should kick Michael back to Parnaas to see if he’d prefer it there after all.

Sophie and Michael were locked in a furious staring contest. Sophie took a deep breath and spoke icily in Orlisian. The Rev and Anjali turned to Georgs again for the play-by-play.

“Miss Swenda says it is refreshing to see that Dr. Nariovsky-Trent has not changed during his time in captivity, but I believe she is employing sarcasm in this case.” Anjali rolled her eyes at the Rev. “She also says that she understands how frightened he feels upon finding her in this place of danger. Because she has been similarly angry and frightened for the last several months while Dr. Nariovsky-Trent, too, was in harm’s way.

“She thanks God that Dr. Nariovsky-Trent is alive and still able to shout like the sexist…um…there is no translation for that word…individual that he is. Miss Swenda says she loves Dr. Nariovsky-Trent more than her own life, but that if he addresses her thusly again, she will…your pardon…acquire the testicles he referred to earlier from Dr. Nariovsky-Trent personally. With force.”

Anjali snorted with laughter. Even the Rev chuckled. Michael still stood there, but the anger had faded from his face. He looked lost. Sophie’s expression softened, and she patted the bed beside her. He limped over to lie down beside her. In minutes, he’d fallen back into a restless sleep, the fever sending him into another bout of violent chills.

They applauded from the doorway, and Sophie blushed. She busied herself with pulling the blanket up over Michael’s shivering form. But Anjali stepped forward to stop her, a loose IV line hanging from her hand.

“He can’t keep taking his IV lines out,” Anjali said. “We’re going to run out of veins. Nor can we keep him sedated around the clock. And I think restraints would be very bad for him psychologically, given what he’s been through.” Everyone in the room shuddered at the thought of Michael waking up delirious to find himself strapped to the bed.