Her eyelids flickered, open and shut, and the glow from the window began to sting her eyes. Yet her mother kept shooting, doing several takes from different angles. Sasha gasped in exasperation, the small sound all she could muster to illustrate her feelings. When she thought about Whelon, she couldn’t stop trembling.
Even though she was afraid her mind was not her own, she craved him, and she knew she had to get to him to save her life. She would find him, touch him, and all would be well. She couldn’t think her way out of this in her current state, but maybe, if she got to Whelon, she could work something out.
The only way to discover more about the Choosing process and the Knowing sickness was to ask the Preor. She considered it a small concession to getting well—to living.
Sasha grit her teeth and put all her effort into getting up, yet she didn’t even manage to raise her head. A horrible wave of nausea gripped her and she rolled to her side, leaning just over the edge of the bed.
“Wait!” her mother cried and grabbed the camera.
Sasha could hardly hear her mother as vomit bubbled up in her throat. She gagged and threw up all over the floor, idly wondering how she was supposed to eat to keep herself alive. She kept vomiting even when nothing was left in her stomach.
She clung to the bed, shivering and waiting for her stomach to decide if it was done.
“I didn’t catch that,” her mother snapped. “Can you do it again?”
Chapter Twelve
Nausea assaulted Whelon as he leaned over to examine a small child, the angle making him feel as if every meal he had ever consumed now desperately tried to escape his stomach. He took a deep breath, held it in his lungs for a moment, and then bent to listen to the boy’s chest.
The young one had a very simple-to-treat lung infection caused by dusty, damp living conditions. This kind of bacterial infection was nonexistent in places that were clean and free of airborne allergens. It was quickly turning into full-blown pneumonia, and he hoped Amryn would arrive soon with supplies from Preor Tower.
Radoo had returned with some food and had a truck traveling to them with more. So far, they had bread, meat, and salad, but Radoo promised soup and barbecue when the delivery truck arrived. From his position inside the rundown home where he’d setup a small clinic, he could hear the happy cries of the children as they tucked into the food.
The woman standing over the boy had her gaze turned down, hands twisted with nerves. As he finished examining the child, he stepped toward her and her attention flicked over him furtively.
“Are you his mother, lady?” Whelon attempted to be as respectful as possible. She may be underfed, dirty, and in a threadbare dress, but she was still a woman—a mother or caregiver, too—and worthy of utmost respect.
She nodded, her face drawn as if she was too tired to even cry any longer.
“Do you have a clean, dry place for the boy to sleep?” Whelon knew that with a suitable place to rest, and good food, the boy would recover on his own. From the way she shook her head and chewed on her lips, he knew she tried her best and was dying inside because she could not provide for her boy.
Whelon had a difficult decision to make. He wanted to send some of these children to Preor Tower or the ship. They would need a few days to get well and the Preor would never turn away children. The Ujal would be appalled to see these conditions and would open their doors to the young ones in a heartbeat as well.
But would they go? Plenty of nasty looks were being thrown around among the expressions of relief. It was obvious some of these people did not trust the Preor, even though they would not refuse their help.
With a sigh, he directed the woman into one of the areas nearby where a few others waited. One of the Preor warriors had raided a nearby secondhand goods store, paying the owner at least three times their worth for a few sofas and a television. They had created a rough waiting area to help him triage the patients, and he was already overwhelmed.
I cannot do this on my own. I need more space, more healers.
The thought was somewhat frantic, driven by the dragon inside him as it grew more anxious by the second. It was as if Sasha was near enough for the beast to smell her, track her. The urgency running through his veins set the sickness in his stomach aflame and left him shaking and weak.
I have to get to her. She will be in worse pain than I am.
He knew a couple of Preor warriors flew over the settlement, searching the surrounding streets for any clue as to Sasha’s location. The rest set up food for the humans while they waited for medical supplies.
In a sudden rush of sound, a mechanical roaring, Whelon breathed a sigh of relief. The shuttle had arrived.
“Healing Master Whelon?” A bright voice enquired from the doorway, and he recognized the male immediately.
“Kyrin. Thank you for attending me.” He welcomed the younger warrior—a field medic with a great potential for healing work. Whelon could not have asked for a better male to assist him.
He turned to greet the younger Preor and took note of the shock etched across his features. Kyrin was a field medic but had never seen battle, never tended serious injuries save those obtained by males in the training rooms. The kind of poverty these humans experienced was alien to him.
Before Whelon could explain the situation, the television in the nearby room increased in volume and a stern voice announced a special bulletin.
“We have breaking news on a situation involving the Preor aliens.”
