Immersing himself in the Force, Nemo, as usual, looked at the colorful rainbow and currents. Under his skin, stripes of capillaries, nodes of muscles, vessels appeared. Further on was bone, which was also not particularly uniform. All of this was ordered, beautiful, effective. Very few technicians could have replicated all the solutions that were embedded in their biology. But the beauty of the body's design didn't interest him now.
He weakened the pain receptors, which pulsed like red nodes on the spread-out blue network of the nervous system. Cooling them to a soft pink color, he realized that this had affected the area in the brain allocated for their perception.
Everything is interconnected; one must always remember that. He could have simply turned off the necessary area in his head and not worked at this level. But it was the logical decision right now.
His second step was to reduce blood flow to the area he was going to work on. There was no need to fuss with every vessel and capillary; he simply slowed down the reactions of the area as a whole.
Judging by the picture he received, he had about twenty minutes before his influence on the body would start to cause negative effects.
There was fear, but he suppressed it, as well as the instincts of self-preservation, reliably embedded in his subconscious. The knife blade slid across his skin with a short flourish, where it was impossible to hit an artery, vein, or tendon, leaving a small bloody furrow behind. This is how it might have seemed to an outside observer.
Nemo wasn't here. He was there, at that scratch, feeling it as if he were looking at it under a microscope, although he couldn't name all the processes taking place. He needed to see how it happened to understand how to heal it.
He needed something to hold onto. A basis on which he would rely. And, it seemed, he got it.
For a few fractions of a second, which were imperceptible, the Force preserved the memory of the skin's integrity. It preserved it just long enough to keep up with the knife blade. And only one thing remained to be done...
He remembered the pattern in the Force, remembered the energy – and, grabbing the edge of the wound, began to stitch, restore, fuse. Not so much his body, but the wound in the Force. Through the Force and with its help. The Force influences the surrounding space just as it influences it, and therefore, by manipulating its fields, it is quite possible to fuse damaged human organic tissues.
The wound began to close, and after a few moments – or minutes, he lost count of time – a barely visible strip with traces of blood around it appeared in its place. Looking at it, the counter touched the cut with his hand. The skin itched. It couldn't understand what had happened, but... There was no tissue rejection. This was pleasing.
The next cut was deeper. There was more blood. But... it didn't matter. The Force pushed out the unnecessary, leaving another scar on the skin.
He wasn't expecting more than this for now.
Throwing on his cloak, putting the blaster back in its holster, Nemo stuffed the business cards and deck into his pockets, hid the electronic lock pick in a small pocket on his belt, and fastened the charged stealth generator. Closing the door behind him, he sat down, beginning to lace up his boot. At the same time, a small piece of paper was placed under the door, which, if someone visited the room, would fly out onto the street. No cleaning was planned for today.
Now he needed to get transportation.
After some thought, he decided it would be easier to rent a car than to buy or steal one.
The pilot listened. Carefully, thoughtfully – to himself, to the silence in the room. The chemical cocktail in his blood was doing its invisible work.
"To myself, you say?.."
Time passed, each second adding a tiny bit of strength. This was incomparable to what he had already received when the doctor fell asleep. He was too weak to resist...
"Eni, since you've decided to live here now, perhaps you could get more comfortable?" Tardi asked, without opening his eyes.
The doctor raised her head.
"Mr. Tardi, I thought you were fast asleep..." Eni stood up, stretching with pleasure after the forced pose on the low stool. "And what do you call 'getting more comfortable'?" she asked with a skeptical smile, looking around the room. Eni found nothing more comfortable than the same hard chair, just a little higher. That's what she had slept on before.
"And yes, for now I'll have to live in your room. I just don't have the right to leave you in this condition."
"Don't leave," the pilot agreed, and in the most unambiguous way, he moved over on the bed. There was enough space for two. "And if you tell me now that you're afraid for your innocence, I'll consider it the greatest compliment of my life."
Something flashed in her pupils, shining in the dim light of the night, but so quickly that the pilot could hardly see it, let alone understand it. She smiled, and her voice, when she began to speak, was soft.
"If I'm completely safe next to you, Mr. Tardi, I'll fall sound asleep immediately. And that's not part of my plans at all. I think the owner won't refuse the request to bring a soft armchair to your room. It will probably be more comfortable."
"Yes, that's him. Exactly."
"And if you're already awake, then maybe we can spend this time differently until my order for solutions arrives?"
Tardi rolled onto his back, propped himself up, resting his elbow on the pillow.
"I have a few interesting ideas," he said thoughtfully. "But I'll gladly listen to your suggestions."
"I don't know, Mr. Tardi," Eni shrugged, "how interesting my suggestions will seem to you. There are three of them: to examine you, to just talk. Yes, and I also want your blood," she looked at him very intently. "It seems to me, or are you feeling better, sir?"
He was feeling better. And he didn't want to think about how he had achieved this relief.
"It's still better than draining it from sentient beings... And at least it's not just for me..."
"Just don't say you're a vampire!" mock horror flashed across his thin face. "You want blood..."
Blood can tell a lot. A lot. If you know how to ask. Antibody profile. A set of characteristic compounds that will ensure secrecy if the truth serum is administered. And particles that cannot be hidden...
"Did you say something about trust?"
About trust. But not about suicide. If the girl knows what microorganisms are teeming in his blood and lets it slip...
"My offer isn't so romantic," Tardi sighed. "I'd like to take a shower."
"Yes, of course, Mr. Tardi, the rest can wait for now," Eni nodded. Only... she hesitated. "I can't leave you there alone," she finally said, trying not to look the pilot in the face. "I'll help you."
"I can handle that myself!" If he could, he would have jumped up. He wasn't bothered by the need to lean on her when she helped him get to the hotel. He accepted her help when she treated him. But this...
"I'm not that helpless yet, Eni!"
In his mind, such help was only given to the completely helpless, who couldn't even turn over on their own. And accepting it was admitting that it was time for him to go to the scrap heap. But... She might be offended.
"But I'll call you if I realize I've overestimated my abilities..."
Saying this was almost harder than walking those two blocks.
If only he knew what it cost her to say this to him... Protecting his life... And he raised his voice at her... Oh, she felt his indignation well... What shame...
Blood pounded in his temples, and his throat stung betrayingly. Well, that's it. He didn't need to show her tears.
Nevertheless, she managed to answer him quietly, almost in a whisper:
"I see, Mr. Tardi, you are indeed feeling better... I'm sorry. I'm just doing my duty," she turned away and walked to the window.
I wonder, if she refused to be a crew member, would they kill her?
"Excuse me, I'll be in my room for a couple of minutes, Mr. Tardi. Please wait for me," the words were difficult to pronounce, and when the door slid open, it seemed to her to last forever.
Another surge of emotion. Not as strong as when she was asleep. But powerful enough to feel. And to latch onto, like a fatally hungry beast on still-warm meat. Tardi knew he would be disgusted with himself later.
"At least it's not harmful to anyone..."
Except himself. Because this was a risk. A terrible risk of becoming a kind of teacher...
The girl felt something touch her. Invisible, almost intangible. Nothing happened, only the emotions faded, lost their strength and tension, like a watercolor painting splashed with water. Just a moment ago there was an image – and now only indistinct smudges on the sheet...
"You're offended after all," the pilot sighed. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to..."
"What are you talking about, Mr. Tardi, I'm a doctor, I can't be offended by a patient," she replied calmly, though she didn't finish the phrase about who she was offended by. Strange, a second ago she wanted to cry, and now – it didn't matter. As if she had already cried her burning tears, not resisting them, and now there was just heaviness and emptiness in her soul. "I'll be right back."
But, collapsing onto her bunk in the room, she stared apathetically at the ceiling. Returning to Tardi was very difficult for her. And she didn't understand why. How many screams and shrieks had she heard, how much aggression directed at her had she felt. But it didn't cause pain. Not at all. What was wrong now? She had no answer. "Get up!" Lieutenant Pola Carrada commanded herself, "and – march to the patient!"
"Excuse me, Mr. Tardi, I was a little delayed," she said colorlessly, entering and avoiding meeting his gaze, "I'll be here just in case."
A Hutt would understand these women... You never know what they're offended by. Even... Who?
A dull pain deep inside interrupted this thought. Tardi had no one in his past who could be offended by him. And the present looked with an detached gaze and was angry about something.
"What did I do wrong?"
The pilot stood up, managing to be surprised that the floor wasn't in a hurry to run out from under his feet. He was stronger now than he thought.
"And the price for this is her."
Tardi stepped towards the sanitary unit.
"You won't have to wait long..."
"Mr. Tardi, please forgive me," Eni said quietly, but Tardi had to hear, "I'm just very embarrassed," the last words came with difficulty. "Please, forget my inappropriate behavior."
"Lieutenant, what's wrong with you? What are you doing? A seriously ill, not young man apologized... This is too much. Air out your brains, Pola!" Getting some fresh air was a good idea... Especially since she had no clothes with her. Flying to her apartment – she didn't want to call it home – was exactly what she needed to get herself together.
The pilot thought he had misheard. What this time? And where did this self-abasement come from?
"What inappropriate behavior?" he almost groaned. "Eni, I'll go crazy trying to figure out what I said or did. Let me wash up for now, and you have some coffee, perhaps, and we'll talk later, okay?"
He entered the cockpit with less enthusiasm than he now fled to the sanitary unit.
He left, and she remained standing with a burning desire to disappear on the spot. Or to run away...
"I need to understand myself, Mr. Tardi," Eni whispered, looking around for something that could restore her peace of mind. Coffee? No, not that... Ice water... On the head... Salvation came unexpectedly. A signal arrived on the deck, and a Rodian loaded with boxes appeared in the open doorway.
"Your order, ma'am," he reported cheerfully, carrying the containers into the room.
"Just in time," Eni told herself, "I can focus on work. And there won't be time to talk."
In the polished metal of the shower cabin, the pilot clearly saw himself. He had always been lean, but now it was a sickly thinness. The disturbed balance of the Force in his own body was burning him from the inside, and something had to be done about it. Before it was too late.
"You're already doing it..."
He hated that insidious voice.
The reason the doctor reacted so strangely and strongly was incomprehensible to Tardi. He didn't see how he could have offended her. But he saw something else.
"One day you won't be able to stop. And you'll take more than you're given. Not because it's necessary for survival. Because you've acquired a taste for it. And if they don't give it to you, you'll demand, strive for it, tear it with your teeth..."
There was almost no green in the gaze of the emaciated reflection.
Washing off the foam and street dirt, the pilot listened to himself. Had he received enough stolen emotions, which had turned into the Force, to manage on his own now? Or not yet?
"Even if not – it's enough. This was the last time..."
The authenticity analyzer clicked evenly and soothingly, giving the same information on the deck: "Manufacturer chip compliance... Compliance with regulated composition..." The familiar work helped Eni gather her thoughts and focus only on it, but somewhere in the depths of her consciousness remained an inexplicable, strange feeling.
Eni unhesitatingly discarded everything that even insignificantly differed from what was declared. Perhaps she was overly demanding and meticulous. The solutions met the Empire's standards, but for Eni, nothing was too much when it came to such a seriously ill patient as Tardi. "Let them inject themselves," the rejected items returned to the container. Eni turned at the sound of the shower door.
Tardi entered the room, clearly refreshed. His short-cropped hair, completely gray, was still damp from the water. His movements were less stiff – he had loosened up a bit in the shower.
"As you can see, nothing happened to me," the smile on his stern lips looked a little strange, as if he had forgotten how to smile.
"That's encouraging," Eni thoughtfully glanced at him. His terrible thinness was striking when he stood at full height. And his smile with only his lips emphasized this. And again her heart ached painfully, as it had when she saw the scars on his body.
"Mr. Tardi, I think you're not getting enough nutrition from the canteen," the softness of her tone surprised even herself. "I'll give you parenteral nutrition. That's the first thing I'll start with today," Eni added, nodding in confirmation of her thoughts.
"And then blood and examination... And one more thing," she added hurriedly. "If, of course, you can be left alone for a while," she put aside the solutions and stood up to meet the pilot.
She wanted to support him, but for some reason she was afraid that it would be misinterpreted again...
"Eni, I'm not dying..."
"Not now..."
Tardi sat on the edge of the bunk, the silver glint from the lamp sliding across his head.
"And if you have any business..."
"Unfinished business..."
"Of course, you can attend to it, I'm almost in order."
"Alright, Mr. Tardis," Ani waited until he settled more comfortably and began to attach the protein hydrolysate bag to the stand. "I'll be back shortly. Just to my apartment and back. I hope you'll behave yourself in my absence," the needle carefully settled into a bluish bump in his vein. "And don't invite any dancers, okay?" the girl smiled. "You're still not well, Mr. Tardis."
"Far from well..."
The opalescent, heavy drops began to flow into the vein quickly and steadily. Ani raised her eyes to the pilot. Her eyelashes fluttered, but she didn't look away.
The answering gaze was calm. There was no tension left in it – Tardis no longer expected any tricks. If she had any plans, the doctor had plenty of opportunities to carry them out.
"Okay," the patient promised meekly. "I'll only invite dancers."
The gray gaze in response became serious. She had a different idea of 'dancers.'
"Then dancers are better, Mr. Tardis," she said quietly. "And give me your finger. It won't hurt. A small drop of blood, and I'll stop tormenting you."