An hour later, I’ve eaten and joined Slag in bed. He took a few bites before his head lolled against the pillow. The doc made a housecall where he dosed us with the chemical the irradiated ions are supposed to bond with. He wasn’t kidding when he said we wouldn’t want to eat. I’m nauseous already, but I do manage to keep down the food I just ate.
~.~
“You’ve had your last treatment,” the doc says after conducting one of his twice-daily med-scans. “Your radiation readings aren’t down to zero, but they’ll dissipate naturally over the next few weeks. You’ll be fine.”
When he pauses, I know the next bit of news isn’t going to be good.
“And Slag?”
“His numbers are reducing. He has the most amazing liver and kidneys I've ever seen. It’s undoubtedly the reason he survived in the mines for so many years. But to be honest they’re really struggling to eliminate such a high load of toxins.
“He was in survival mode for a long time. Like a long-distance runner who keeps pushing until they reach their destination then when they no longer have to keep running they collapse. That is what happened to Slag. I’ll keep giving him treatments, but since my scanners can’t get an accurate read on him, I’m not sure he’ll improve.”
“He’s going to get better. You’re just a pessimist, doc.” I don’t know what the medic’s gadgets say, but I see subtle signs of improvement. Slag follows me with his eyes sometimes and smiles at me. Sometimes he mumbles, which he didn’t do before. I think the doc’s wrong. I’m convinced he’s getting better.
“We’re docking with the gladiator’s ship in a few minutes,” Seneca says, possibly more to change the subject than to remind me why the ship has stopped moving.
During the past week, when I managed to force myself out of our cabin to grab some food and socialize, I learned that these pirates met a ship full of gladiators a while back.
Wrage and Elyse got separated from these same gladiators before they wound up on Rhoid. The two ships are reuniting today. After the ships connect, Wrage and Elyse will fly off with them.
Slag, Allura, and I have chosen to take Thantose up on his generous offer to stay on board the Ataraxia. I like everyone here, and Seneca may be an eternal pessimist, but he’s given Slag and I excellent care.
After heartfelt goodbyes to Wrage and Elyse, I enter our cabin to see Slag wide awake and fully alert for the first time in days.
“K,” he says, his eyes bright and happy to see me.
“Slag!” I hurtle onto the bed and snuggle next to him. “I missed you. Do you hurt?”
He nods.
“But you’re awake. Maybe you’re getting better.”
He nods again.
“Are your thoughts clearer?”
He nods and smiles. “K.”
“You bet your ass, big guy.” I’m full to bursting with relief that he’s awake and trying to communicate.
The next few days are full of emotional ups and downs. Slag is still low on energy and sleepy all the time. He says my full name frequently now and speaks his language in halting little phrases.
When Seneca realized Slag was finally able to talk, he recorded him, then entered it into the Intergalactic Database. It was able to identify the planet he is from, but because it’s so primitive very little is documented about his people or his culture. Unfortunately, there have been enough of his race stolen from their planet that it’s included in most standard translators. This explains why he understands us and we can now understand him.
Watching him emerge from the brain fog he’s been hidden under has been a treat. I’ve always known he’s smart, but this male is really quick-witted. As sick as he is, he’s cracked a few jokes. I laugh harder than I should, they’re not that funny, but I’m just so thrilled he’s thinking clearly.
“Hungry?” I ask as I waltz through our door, my arms full of a tray laden with food.
“Maybe,” he answers, his hand on his stomach making slow circles.
“I had my last treatment days ago and I still get the swirlies from time to time. But you should eat something. I brought broth.”
I pull the chair to his side of the bed, butt my hip next to it, and get ready to feed him as I’ve done since we arrived.
He shakes his head. “No.”
A spike of happiness jolts through me. He’s definitely on the road to recovery if he won’t allow me to feed him anymore.
I tuck in to a mystery meat sandwich. It didn’t take me long to realize that in space every meat is mystery meat. Even as I chew, I can’t force my happy smile off my face. Against astronomical odds, Slag’s getting better!
“Is Slag your real name?” I ask. One of the girls said it means waste that’s thrown away in the mining process. Gross. Its meaning is as ugly as its sound.
“No.”
“Are you attached to it in any way? Because no offense, it’s not the prettiest name I’ve ever heard.”
“No.”
“So, tell me. What did your parents call you?”
“Ah—”
All of a sudden, his face kind of . . . flickers. One moment he’s Slag—green and pebbly—and the next he’s like I’ve always pictured the human incarnation of Helios, the Greek God of the sun. His skin is golden, and he has hair—a long braid of golden-blond hair trailing to his waist. His eyes are the color of the bluest part of a flame. He’s gorgeous.
I keep watching him for long seconds, not wanting the vision to disappear. Finally, I have to blink, and when I look again, he’s passed out on his pillows looking exactly as he’s looked since I met him.
“Doc!” I call into the wrist-comm they equipped me
