Breathe

Riley leaned back into the pilot seat rubbing her eyes to focus, but her gaze fell fixated stubbornly on the empty vial in front of her. Her head felt like it would float off her body if not for the weight of the headset which today was like two bricks on a vice clamped to her ears.

Ruttin’ new mechanic and her delays. Somewhere along the line days or amounts were mixed or miscounted or maybe it was the days that blended into one, and now she was staring down the barrel of a long trip without the aviator aid she’d grown accustomed to. But sure enough when she calculated the distance and checked the date - four more days until they reached the skyplex. Four Days. Five thousand seven hundred and sixty minutes. Her heart beat faster with the thought of it, and the ruttin’ drog-kyri that never shut the hell up wasn’t making matters any better.

Even locking down the cockpit, she could hear them through the walls. They yipped and yelped, the sound echoing from even beneath the headset which the pilot ripped off her ears and flung onto the dash. Five thousand seven hundred and fifty eight minutes to go, but that was on a straight shot. It’d be even longer if more sleep had to be factored in.

Her stomach churned and sweat dripped from her brow into one of her eyes. Five thousand, seven hundred and fifty four minutes. Adler. He had to have something to take the edge off, but that would mean asking Adler for -- yeah, that simply was not going to happen.

Pacing back and forth, Riley scratched at the side of her neck, an invisible traveling itch she couldn’t quite place. When did the Gorram bridge get so small? Where was all the air? And why wouldn’t those ruttin’ dogs ever shut the hell up! *breathe,*she commanded as she squeezed her hands into tight fists. Five thousand, seven hundred and forty eight minutes.

*Breathe.* Her brain was boiling in its own fluid, her skull closing in on it by the second. Seconds. How many seconds in five thousand, seven hundred and forty four minutes? She mentally tried to do the math, raking a hand through her hair as the numbers swirled like sediment at the bottom of a protein shake. Her jaw clenched tighter.

*Is this what they taught you at the Gorram academy?* No. The Gorram academy taught her that they’d always have as much as they needed in flight, that this wouldn’t happen as long as they flew for the Alliance. It was like her CO said. Shit, her CO, what was her name? His name? Dammit. Dammit! She flopped back in the chair, resting her elbows on her knees, head in her hands. Five thousand and… five thousand… *Shit.* Why was everything so damn hazy? It’s because there’s no air on the ship. All the clean air was gone. She stood up and the bridge rocked like a teeter-totter. Every bit of her hurt, varying between dull aches and sharp shooting pains, her spine was fusing with cement. *Just something to take the edge off.*

The ruttin’ dogs finally settled down. Keller was passed out in the galley, the smell of stale whiskey was enough to make her gag. She had to stop in the corridor to grasp her stomach in passing so the contents stayed put. Blinking helped clear her vision but did little to help her process anything she was seeing, shadows moving and changing shape, reaching for her ankles. *Get it together, Thorne,*she chastised, rapping twice on the door next to the med bay. *Get it together*

The doc may have said enter or maybe that’s just what she wanted to hear, but the door was unlocked and she found Adler outstretched on the bed, drink in one hand, book in the other. She couldn't quite make out the title, because the Gorram letters all kept rearranging themselves. Like the rest of the ship, the air in his cabin was thick, toxic, shriveling her lungs with each breath.

Patient 02-421:
Adult female, approx. age 40, 5’1” and 110 lbs.
INCIDENT: Radiation exposure from a fuel spill (brand name Pro-Flite Extra, AFRN #3619JV.)
Large volume exposure in which fuel came into contact with 90% of the patient’s skin.
DIAGNOSIS: Surface exposure of 75 rads. Blood, fecal, and urine contamination of 52-67 rads.
TREATMENT: REMP procedures completed. Daily followup exams and prescriptions of iodine and Radox 2 for a course of 7 days.
PROGNOSIS: Patient is in good health. The low level of exposure will present some baseline symptoms, but radiation sickness and enhanced risk of cancer are unlikely outcomes.
NOTES: As a precaution, Iodine was administered to crew, passengers, and 8 canines of comparable size and weight to human males. (See Veterinary database, Tibetan Mastiff.)
ATTENDING PHYSICIAN: Adler, Dorian pgm #001.

After seeing the “report filed” icon from the hospital’s encrypted network, Dorian took to his room. The day had been busy, what with the radiation scare and Marisol’s exposure. Likewise the ensuing card game with Kate and the mechanic. Their plans had been laid as best as plans may be at this point. Kate would remain penned up on the boat. Marisol and Dorian would search the Skyplex for any sign of pursuit or ambush. Considering their duty posts, both had logical reasons to exit the ship.

*Vas, too,* Dorian thought. The punk’s being fired from the crew presented some intriguing opportunities. After all, Vas Jat possessed much more valuable skills than the ability to push boxes and pick up dog droppings. The key was discretion. Though Dorian conjured Vas the trained assassin could muster said discretion in droves, Vas the childlike post virgin seemed to have no boundaries when it came to his recklessly inquisitive paramour. The road they walked was fraught with risk; her particular savantism at the wrong time could have Riley adding three more coffins to the manifiest. He had a couple days to weigh his options...perhaps feel Vas out with a few questions.

But for now, a comfortable bed and a good book. The glass of whiskey on his night table was smooth and warm to the taste. The book before him, an ancient volume from Earth-That-Was, had proven engaging enough to erase the day’s challenges. Atticus, the protagonist, was explaining to young Scout the very basics of human dignity and egalitarianism, despite the prevalent racial caste system of their neighbors. It was a fascinating read whose message seemed all the more urgent for a society that had taken up the mantle of slavery and oppression.

So engrossed was he that he almost missed the knock at his door. At first, the sight of Riley Thorne entering his room was one to raise a smile. Though she played at being terse and unapproachable, he’d seen through the veneer to a more nuanced affection, a bond that he hoped to grow over time. The fact that she’d run hell for leather to Valentine to save his sight was a kindness he’d never forget. Of course, that hidden inner beauty translated in subtle ways to her surface, which he also found a quite pleasing vision as she made her way into his room.

Any fanciful musings he entertained were quickly doused as he noticed the pallor of her skin, the watering eyes, and shortness of breath.

*”Adler…”*

He pitched the book aside, coming to his feet. “Riley,” Dorian answered as he took in the obvious tells of her condition. He placed a palm to the glistening sweat upon her forehead. “Yah warm. C’mon. Let’s get yah tah medbay.”

Adler's voice was muffled and far away, probably stolen by whatever had taken all the air from the ship, but he’d said medbay. She was fairly certain she’d nodded in response or maybe it was just the ship moving, falling like a rock, it was hard to tell.

“Walk with me.” Dorian placed an arm behind the pilot, gently gripping her bicep as he guided her along the short corridor toward the infirmary entrance.

Following Adler’s lead, the harsh smell of clove and iodofoam burned the inside of her nostrils as they entered the medbay, the same one that Adler himself was holed up in not long ago. Riley sat on the table, trying to get enough air to fill her lungs, or at least to explain to Adler what she needed. She went there for a reason, right? “We’re out of air,” she choked out, because it was as good a way as any to start.

The medic pulled his stethoscope. “Ah need tah listen,” he said as he pressed it to her back. “Just take deep breaths.” He moved the instrument, listening as Riley struggled to fill her lungs. “Yah clear,” he observed, “but tha airways sound constricted.” He grabbed a penlight, “Please open yah mouth.” As she did, Dorian used a tongue depressor to gain a better view. The examination soon moved to her nostrils, the sight of which elicited a mild frown. “Ah see some inflammation,” Adler said. “Let’s get yah breathin’.”

From the pharmacy cabinet, he produced a small bottle with a tube. “Epinephrine mist,” Dorian explained. “It’s a short duration bronchodilator...should open yah airways pretty quick. Kindly inhale through tha tube.”

“A short what?” the pilot gasped, squinting as she tried to string his words together coherently, but if it was air in a bottle, she was all for it. She put the tube in her mouth and took in a short, sharp breath which woke her right up; the dense fog lifting from her brain as if hit by a fan, though her eyes still darted from object to object in the medbay.

He loosed a self deprecatory chuckle. “Ah love tha twenty credit words...makes me sound like Ah can bill more.” Another check with the stethoscope was more encouraging; Riley’s lungs were filling with each breath. “Yah can lean back an’ relax now.” Once she’d settled, he pressed the instrument above her heart, timing its’ beating with his pocketwatch. Next, Dorian slipped a blood pressure cuff onto her left arm. He pumped it to tightness, then monitored the gauge as it slowly released. “Yah heart rate is elevated,” the medic said, “which corresponds with low blood pressure. Tha fever an’ airway constriction had me thinkin’ canine dander allergy, but that doesn’t sit right with balance impairment.” He laid the stethoscope upon the counter with the other tools. “This seems like either bad food,” Dorian said as he turned to face Riley, “or a chemical imbalance. How’s yah tetrahalcynate intake these days?”

“I’m out,” she admitted, scratching the back of her neck while keeping her eyes on anything not Adler. “I don’t know how, I cut it and it was supposed to be enough and I had my alarms set and then they didn’t go off, any of them, and then it was gone and now we have over five thousand six hundred minutes to the Skyplex and there’s no way I’m going to be able to get us there, and something happened to all the air on the ship, and I have to have something so we can make it to the Skyplex, and if they got nothing--” Her free hand was clammy, and she wiped it on the leg of her pants before rubbing her chin. “There’s gotta be something.”

Dorian accessed his cortex reader, directing a search of the pharmacological database. “Tha air?” he stopped, his gaze focusing upon her eyes. “Tell me about tha air.” Something about the remark just didn’t set well. A patient reporting “I couldn’t breathe” would fall right into line and allow him to press on with his notion of easing her withdrawal symptoms. But, *”something happened to all the air on the ship”* spoke to a darker, undiagnosed issue. “What happened tah tha air, Riley?”

“The air,” Riley spat back in an annoyed tone, waving a hand dismissively. “There are too many people and dogs using all the air, and so when the gauge dropped--” Riley furrowed her brow. *Did that happen?* She blinked, fairly certain it had.

Dorian nodded supportively. “We’ll check it,” he assured the pilot. “Ah’ll call tha mechanic...get her tah look inta evahthing.” He removed an oxygen cylinder from storage, before attaching a breather mask and regulator. “Gonna put this on yah,” he said, “tah get a little more oxygen inta yah lungs. Then Ah’ll put together a drug therapy that’ll see yah through tah tha Skyplex.” *Hypoxia,* the medic considered as he placed the mask on his patient. *Explains the cognitive impairment and the equilibrium issues. She does like to button herself up in that cockpit,* he mused as he adjusted the airflow. *That, coupled with the withdrawal symptoms, could just be her perfect storm.* “Now, just rest a minute, and Ah’ll set up a medication.”

Riley greedily drank in the air from the tank, sitting back with less rigidity. “Tell the new mechanic to stay off my bridge,” she said lazily from behind the oxygen mask. She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing to a regular rhythm, bringing a hand to rub her temples.

The pharma database, while illuminating, offered no easy solutions. There were drugs in the same family as tetrahalcynate. Unfortunately, none of them happened to reside in his drug cabinet. Until their arrival at the Skyplex, he’d have to run a modified treatment course with a patient who’d likely be unwilling. However, deep in the black as they were, he was “the only game in town.” Dorian swiveled on his stool. “Riley,” he said, “Ah’m gonna mix up a chemical cocktail that should alleviate yah symptoms, keep yah comfortable, and even offer a little boost. It won’t feel like Mach. You’ll be hungry, thirsty, and at night yah’ll want tah sleep, but it’ll keep yah goin’ til we can secure a prescription.”

Riley peeled the mask off her face and shifted her jaw. ‘Won’t feel like mach’, she internally grumbled. Mach didn’t feel. She wasn’t some junkie looking for a good time.. “So mix it with something that’ll keep me up and we’re in business. I can deal with the eating/drinking thing. It’s just four days. Cào nǐ mā, I don’t care how you fix it - just fix it.”

The medic set to his task. A bag of lactated ringers was warmed to room temperature. To this he injected equal dosages of Trazodone, Librium, and Clonidine. “All tah make yah more comfortable, and tah counteract the withdrawal symptoms,” he said as he pulled a final bottle from the cabinet. “Ah’m adding Dexolocaine, a low dose amphetamine. It’s a stimulant that should keep yah alert...til a time when normal humans go tah bed.”

After a moment’s work, the IV drip was running. “Just relax, and put this back on,” Dorian fixed the mask once again. “Tomorrow Ah’ll have injectable doses ready fah the rest of tha trip. Come see me evah day at this time and we’ll take care of it.”

“I know how to give a shot,” Riley protested from behind the oxygen mask, as she realized that her foot that’d been involuntarily tapping started to slow, and she let her eyes roll back momentarily before the room settled into focus. “I’ve flown without before, “she admitted, making eye contact with Dorian for the first time that evening. “It’s just never been this bad.”

He folded his arms, listening carefully to Riley’s account. “Could be any number of reasons fah that,” Dorian replied. “If that Mach was the same lot as what Ah pumped outta Haddie, it’s pure. Riley,” his tone became earnest, “Ah’m yah medic. Yah carryin’ alotta weight on this boat. Let me take that one off yah shoulders. Ah’ll make certain yah don’t find yahself short while we’re out in tha black. Fah me it’s just one more drug on tha shoppin’ list.”

“And then I have to *ask* you for it?” Riley retorted, but the irritated edge in her voice was lessening, as was the anger she felt bundled up in her chest before Adler’s cocktail started taking hold. She shook her head. “I don’t lock up your liquor, and the El-Vee doesn’t pay for anyone’s vices.”

Dorian laughed, then smiled affectionately as he gazed upon her. “Mah dear,” he chuckled, “Lt. Riley Thorne nevah asks.” He glanced toward the IV. “Ah’m a damned sinner, a man of mah vices, which is exactly why Ah don’t lecture others about wrestlin’ with their own demons. Yah got a key tah the cabinet. Ah’ll keep yah supplied, You keep us in tha air. No more. No less. No more inflight withdrawal.” His gaze landed upon her. “Sound tolerable tah you?”

Riley took in another deep breath of oxygen, contemplating the offer, but couldn’t bring herself to ask the next question on her mind. It was easier to nod and agree. “Tolerable. Oh, and Adler?” -- the words *thank you* were also on the tip of her tongue, he’d maintained professionalism when he could have been -- well -- more Adler about it. So the least she could do was be more Thorne. “If you tell anyone about this, --” She gave him a wry smile and let the comment hang.