“What the hell?” Suddenly, he wanted to be anywhere but this army base. “Do I have a traumatic brain injury or something? Is that why I’m puking and dizzy? What hit me?”
Doctor David folded away his tool and returned it to his pocket.
“No brain injury and nothing hit you. No bleeding or bruising either, which is an excellent sign.”
Why didn’t that sound comforting?
“For what?” The healthy amount of wariness had returned to his tone.
The doctor adjusted his footing and dropped his hands into the pockets of the lab coat. “For adaptation, Mr. Sinclair.”
“A-dap-tay-tay-tion.” He stuttered the word. Oh, Christ, he’d been experimented on? Fucking doctors, and this one deserved to be painted by Liam’s lunch…except he wasn’t nauseous anymore.
Fucking alien medicine.
“I didn’t sign up for that.”
“Yes, you did, Mr. Sinclair.” The doctor’s smile eased across his expression. “Those bees that have been buzzing around your head since your arrival? The flock of birds you hear calling in the near distance? They are neither bees nor birds.”
“What are they?” Hell, did he really want to know?
“Those are the voices of the Urilqii.”
“What?”
“Our people are both telepathic and empathic. That is our preferred communication style.”
“No way.”
Doctor David adopted a scholarly expression.
“It is that talent that gives us such facility with your languages,” he said. “In a clearest sense, language is merely the translation of thought into communicable sounds. We merely tapped into the language center to learn the sounds necessary to deliver our thoughts verbally to you, since it was immediately evident your species doesn’t utilize thought transmission to communicate.”
His tones were rich and weighty. Yeah, lecture mode.
“You expect me to believe that? You guys talk out loud. You’re trying to make me believe this is some bullshit science fiction movie and—” He shut his mouth.
A bullshit science fiction movie was exactly what this was, except for the fact it was real life. Liam was in an alien hospital talking to an alien doctor and discussing “adaptation.” Could things be any more sci-fi Saturday afternoon than that?
“Yes, that’s how we normally communicate.” The mad doctor nodded, as if he hadn’t delivered a mind-altering statement of…something mind-altering.
“Usually in our own cabal, as that is the socially correct thing to do. One doesn’t push into communications that are not of one’s cabal. It’s not done.”
Great. Now he was being lectured on Mrs. Manners’ rulebook, alien style.
“Furthermore,” the doctor continued, “we communicate verbally when other species…er…” He cleared his throat. “When your people are nearby. For reasons of manners, of course, but even that is situational.”
He didn’t know what to say. He was numb from his head to his feet.
Doctor David, however, didn’t require an answer and moved onto his conclusion.
“Of course,” he said, “you and your fellow volunteers will be coached in the proper ways of mind-speak. Accommodation for your newness will be given. A learning curve, so to speak.”
“Thanks.” Indignation surged with a startling suddenness.
“What did you do to me?”
“In reality, very little, Mr. Sinclair. You and a handful of others displayed sensitivity to mind-speak upon the first moment of your arrival. Remember the complaints about the low-flying bug bombers?”
He did.
“You’re telling me those were not bugs, but”—he could barely say the word— “thoughts?”
“Communications, yes,” said the doctor. “The chemicals that infused your body from our equipment did nothing but speed up the process. You were already well on your way to full immersion.”
Steve had used that term as well. Remembering that conversation reminded him of Mike, and he suddenly felt much better about things. Getting into the mind of Gorgeous would be a pleasure, especially if he could share a fantasy or two.
Then Liam remembered a problem he’d almost forgotten.
“So…” He was probably going to sound like a king-sized doofus for asking this question. “If my mind has been expanded, what’s with the closed-window feeling?”
The doctor’s pleased expression dropped away. His mouth parted as he took in a startled breath.
“What?”
“It’s been on my mind since I woke up,” Liam confessed. “I didn’t think it was a problem until just now. I mean, if I’m supposed to be able to mind-speak with the Urilqii here, what’s with a closed window? Because I’m not trained yet?”
Doctor David stood in front of him, his mouth working like a landed fish. “Can you explain what you feel when you say ‘closed window’?”
Liam could’ve sworn “closed window” said it all, but he tried again. “Like, as if someone had pulled down the shades. Where once I could see, now all I get is a blank wall.”
“Of silence?”
He hadn’t checked that part of it, so he did. He pushed against the stillness, for want of a better term, and received…nothing.
“Yep. Stone cold. Like one of those white noise machines.” He couldn’t describe it any other way. “It’s weird, like having a blind spot in my vision.”
“I see.”
And judging by this expression, the doctor wasn’t happy with the news. He closed his mouth, his nostrils flared, and he pressed his lips together into a thin white line. A muscle jumped in his jaw, once, twice.
The man looked pissed.
Uh-oh.
“Look, I’ll get over it.” Liam rushed the promise. “It’s no biggie. Adaptation and all that. Sometimes, maybe, it takes a few days.”
Hell, if he didn’t adapt, would he be stuck with the cost of the procedure? He had volunteered. What had he signed? What had he committed to do? And if he didn’t, had he signed himself into expensive legal obligation?
Doctor David busily tapped information into his space-dude iPad. Liam could have sworn he shrank in size as every second passed in silence.
“Look, I really am sorry.” His voice sounded as timid as he felt, puny and pathetic.
The doctor closed his data unit and glanced up, one side of his mouth edged into a tiny curve. “You have nothing to apologize for, Mr. Sinclair. We’ll handle this.”
He’d spoken the truth, but not all of it. The doctor was holding something back, something he didn’t want Liam to know.
It was probably
