“But they weren’t.” Ephraim Dunaway remains beside Noemi’s bed, carefully checking the thin white lacy marks spreading across her shoulder and throat. “This patient’s seriously ill. I didn’t want to waste time.”
“Following established procedures is not a waste of time,” the Tare says, but there’s no emotion behind the words. She walks across the sterile white cube of the examination room toward Abel. “You report no ill health at this time, but Cobweb becomes contagious hours or days before symptoms are apparent. You will require a full exam.”
From her bed, Noemi groans. “No—Abel, don’t—”
“It’s all right,” Abel says. But she’s supposed to be his wife. He should use an endearment. So he chooses one of Humphrey Bogart’s favorites: “Honey.”
With a gesture, the Tare model urges Abel to sit down on the room’s other medical bed. “We should begin,” she says. He takes his place, and when the Tare brings out her light he obediently holds his eyes open wide, like any other patient.
Unlike any other patient, he configures the components in his eyes to project back to the Tare model exactly what she’d expect to see in a healthy human. He has a pulse, though it’s normally undetectable by touch, so a quick increase in his blood pressure is called for as she holds her fingers to his neck. When she goes to measure the blood pressure itself, however, he takes it down to roughly what she’d be expecting. For diagnostic ease, mech veins line the inner arm, just where draws are always taken. His blood will look normal and test negative for viruses; his skin is stronger, but not so much that it draws the Tare’s attention as she takes his sample.
He doesn’t have to do anything with the ears. Those look just like a human’s.
If she were running high-level diagnostic tests, Abel’s masquerade would break down within seconds. But Tare models, intelligent as they are, have all been programmed for efficiency and triage. She won’t waste time performing in-depth tests on what appears to be a completely healthy human male.
“Open your mouth,” the Tare says as she approaches with a swab. Abel does so, although this is the only one of her tests he’ll fail. His DNA is partially artificial, which means it won’t culture at all—though that on its own is most likely to be written off as a storage error. Genetic anomalies will show up, but the single-minded Tare will probably write those off as irrelevant and fail to investigate more deeply.
Noemi stares at him, wide-eyed, so astonished it’s funny. Later he’ll tell her how he accomplished all this. Maybe it will make her laugh. For now she sinks down onto her pillow with a deep sigh of relief. Abel realizes she had been frightened for him—well, for them both, since his exposure would also have threatened her. Nevertheless, it’s pleasant to see her being concerned. No one has been concerned about him in a very long time.
Not since Mansfield… who put considerable energy into making sure Abel couldn’t be detected as a mech if he didn’t so choose. It’s an odd utility to have; no other mechs can do it. Maybe Mansfield was only curious to see if it could be done.
“You’ll have to remain here, under observation,” the Tare says to Abel as she turns back to prepping Noemi’s tests, to see that they’re already laid out for her. She frowns at young Dr. Dunaway, who seems to have violated procedures again. “In twenty-five hours, if your culture is negative and you’ve showed no symptoms, you’ll be sent into T and E.”
“What’s that?” Noemi’s voice has become hoarse.
“Training and evaluation.” Ephraim Dunaway moves a step backward as the Tare finally takes over Noemi’s examination. “Everybody goes through it when they first get to Stronghold. They figure out what you’re good at, let you know what kind of work you’re eligible to do here.”
“What about the children we saw on the tarmac?” Noemi says. “What about them?”
Surprisingly, the Tare answers this one. “If they’re physically fit to live on Stronghold, they may remain. They’re given simpler and lighter work assignments until they’re ready for adult labor.”
Abel doubts many assignments on Stronghold count as simple or light.
Dunaway adds, “Once we’ve cleared him, Abel can go on ahead in a day, and you can follow as soon as you’re well.”
Is Dunaway’s confidence based on Noemi’s condition, or is he faking it to provide comfort to the patient? Probably the latter, Abel thinks.
The Tare concludes her examination with a firm nod. “Cobweb, tertiary stage, not irreversible but serious. Standard antiviral treatments are the only measure available.”
Ephraim Dunaway nods as he pulls out vials of what must be antiviral drugs. Abel takes some comfort in the fact that finally Noemi is receiving meaningful help.
“I should lock this room down for quarantine for both the patient and the exposed individual,” the Tare says.
But Dunaway interjects, “There are other patients you should see to. I’ll take care of locking down the room.” The Tare frowns, obviously confused by another change from standard procedure.
Abel decides that a human husband would ask more questions. “You haven’t told me how long Noemi will take to recover. What is her prognosis?”
“Recovery from Cobweb is not guaranteed,” the Tare reports, as easily as she might recite someone’s blood type.
Ephraim interjects, “Hey. We’ve got a strong young woman here, nowhere near as sick as some Cobweb cases we’ve seen. No need to worry about the worst-case scenario, okay?” He smiles at Noemi and Abel in turn. “I’m going to look after her personally. I promise.”
Abel believes him, but again he senses that Dunaway has… uncertain priorities.
The Tare tilts her head. Abel notes the slight tug-of-war between mech and human. Maybe he should be on the mech’s side, but Ephraim Dunaway—regardless of what other intentions he may have—remains the one who cares whether Noemi lives or dies.
If Abel ever gets the chance to speak with Burton Mansfield again, he’ll ask whether the Tare models couldn’t use a compassion upgrade. A tact upgrade would also be advisable.
Noemi holds out her hand to Abel. She’s acting the part of a loving wife, even as she lies there racked with fever, her skin pale and her gaze unfocused. “You’re staying here?”
“Yes. Right here,” Abel promises. “Right by your side.”