Free robert Charrette - Arthur 02 - A King Beneath the Mountain by Robert N. Charrette Page B
Authors: Robert N. Charrette
shout froze him.
"I said get him to the hospital. That is standard procedure. That is what you will do. You may accompany him if you wish."
The doctor gave the window a last glance and went to work on Hasukawa. Nakaguchi turned to one of his aides, Kurita, the security specialist. "See that my orders are carried out."
"Ho!" Kurita said with a sharp bow. It was the sort of precision you saw in old samurai vids and it chilled Pamela. The aide left the observation bay at a run. In seconds he was in the lab with a squad of security men and a gurney. They pulled the doctor away from his resuscitation attempt and loaded Hasukawa onto the gurney. The doctor glared at the window for a second, then ran after the departing security men.
Pamela stared at Nakaguchi. The doctor in the lab was right; by the time they reached the hospital, it would likely be too late to revive Hasukawa. Nakaguchi was condemning him to death.
"You'll be to blame if he dies."
Nakaguchi turned to look at her. "Doctor Hasukawa was an old man. It is unfortunate, but old men die."
Pamela had a sudden realization. "You knew this was going to happen."
Nakaguchi maintained an infuriatingly bland expression.
"Was it something about the corpse? Is that it? Is it some sort of bacteria?"
"First of all, Quetzoucoatl is no corpse. Second of all, there are no bacteria involved. That should be obvious even to someone of your limited vision. We were all exposed to him in his resting place and none of us fell ill. How could you even imagine that bacteria might be the explanation?"
"If it's not a disease, then what's going on?"
Hagen mumbled something so softly that Pamela wasn't sure that the man had actually spoken, although it sounded as if he said, "Evil."
Nakaguchi snorted. "The sleeper awakes."
He had been slow, locked in the sluggishness of sleep. He was still slow, torpid from the time of deep dreams. He could feel the hummingbird lights flitting about him. He wanted their heat, needed it, but he was slow and they so quick, so vital.
What he needed fluttered just out of his sluggish reach, as yet unattainable. The hummingbirds danced near, tantalizing him, then flitted away out of reach. He ached with frustration, thwarted by their confounding speed.
He needed.
He waited.
He hungered.
He waited, preparing himself.
One of the hummingbirds approached him. Slowing its rushing flight, it lingered. He felt its feathery touch upon his paper-dry skin. The touch was enough.
He struck as the viper strikes, uncoiling with unexpected speed.
The little bird crumpled at his touch. His first taste of the warmth tingled, exciting him. Ravenously, he pulled harder until the heat flooded him. He almost heard the hummingbird's cries. He drained it dry. His hunger was barely slaked, but he was stronger than he had been in—
Centuries!
How could it have been so long?
Frightened by what he had done, the hummingbirds dragged the husk of their companion away. They were still too quick for him. The strength he'd gained was greater than any he'd had from the little fires that had sustained him for so long, but he was still weak and slow. Still half-adream.
He knew how to wait.
In time—not so much as before but strangely seemingly longer—they returned. They had armored themselves against him. Foolishly so. They used dead, flimsy stuff that barely covered the beckoning light of themselves.
He took the first to present itself.
The hummingbird sang, a warbling song that had little of intelligence about it, but did occasionally strike a familiar chord. A mistake, it seemed to be saying. He wasn't sure what it was saying; its language was strange.
Had so much time passed that language itself had changed?
What did it matter? The little bird's struggles grew feeble. He felt stronger as the fire infused his veins. His sense of the surroundings grew clearer.
The hummingbird was pleading, promising. What? More than it could deliver certainly.
Was he making a mistake?
"I said get him to the hospital. That is standard procedure. That is what you will do. You may accompany him if you wish."
The doctor gave the window a last glance and went to work on Hasukawa. Nakaguchi turned to one of his aides, Kurita, the security specialist. "See that my orders are carried out."
"Ho!" Kurita said with a sharp bow. It was the sort of precision you saw in old samurai vids and it chilled Pamela. The aide left the observation bay at a run. In seconds he was in the lab with a squad of security men and a gurney. They pulled the doctor away from his resuscitation attempt and loaded Hasukawa onto the gurney. The doctor glared at the window for a second, then ran after the departing security men.
Pamela stared at Nakaguchi. The doctor in the lab was right; by the time they reached the hospital, it would likely be too late to revive Hasukawa. Nakaguchi was condemning him to death.
"You'll be to blame if he dies."
Nakaguchi turned to look at her. "Doctor Hasukawa was an old man. It is unfortunate, but old men die."
Pamela had a sudden realization. "You knew this was going to happen."
Nakaguchi maintained an infuriatingly bland expression.
"Was it something about the corpse? Is that it? Is it some sort of bacteria?"
"First of all, Quetzoucoatl is no corpse. Second of all, there are no bacteria involved. That should be obvious even to someone of your limited vision. We were all exposed to him in his resting place and none of us fell ill. How could you even imagine that bacteria might be the explanation?"
"If it's not a disease, then what's going on?"
Hagen mumbled something so softly that Pamela wasn't sure that the man had actually spoken, although it sounded as if he said, "Evil."
Nakaguchi snorted. "The sleeper awakes."
He had been slow, locked in the sluggishness of sleep. He was still slow, torpid from the time of deep dreams. He could feel the hummingbird lights flitting about him. He wanted their heat, needed it, but he was slow and they so quick, so vital.
What he needed fluttered just out of his sluggish reach, as yet unattainable. The hummingbirds danced near, tantalizing him, then flitted away out of reach. He ached with frustration, thwarted by their confounding speed.
He needed.
He waited.
He hungered.
He waited, preparing himself.
One of the hummingbirds approached him. Slowing its rushing flight, it lingered. He felt its feathery touch upon his paper-dry skin. The touch was enough.
He struck as the viper strikes, uncoiling with unexpected speed.
The little bird crumpled at his touch. His first taste of the warmth tingled, exciting him. Ravenously, he pulled harder until the heat flooded him. He almost heard the hummingbird's cries. He drained it dry. His hunger was barely slaked, but he was stronger than he had been in—
Centuries!
How could it have been so long?
Frightened by what he had done, the hummingbirds dragged the husk of their companion away. They were still too quick for him. The strength he'd gained was greater than any he'd had from the little fires that had sustained him for so long, but he was still weak and slow. Still half-adream.
He knew how to wait.
In time—not so much as before but strangely seemingly longer—they returned. They had armored themselves against him. Foolishly so. They used dead, flimsy stuff that barely covered the beckoning light of themselves.
He took the first to present itself.
The hummingbird sang, a warbling song that had little of intelligence about it, but did occasionally strike a familiar chord. A mistake, it seemed to be saying. He wasn't sure what it was saying; its language was strange.
Had so much time passed that language itself had changed?
What did it matter? The little bird's struggles grew feeble. He felt stronger as the fire infused his veins. His sense of the surroundings grew clearer.
The hummingbird was pleading, promising. What? More than it could deliver certainly.
Was he making a mistake?