Tales from Kalgachia - 38

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Prethil absentmindedly chewed on her pen for a while, and then began to write.

Dear Fifi:

I hope this letter finds you well. I have to spare some worry for you; I find it hard not to concern myself about the effects your position might have on you, having gotten a sense of what it did to your father - though, granted, it was only one of a number of factors at work on him. Busy though you might be, be sure to take care of yourself. Both you and I will be rather cross if I have to come up to Oktavyan to nag at you.

Speaking of your father, he seems to be doing a bit better, incidentally, since your last visit. Not a dramatic reversal, certainly, but no dramatic declines either. From what he's told me of his diagnosis, that's about the best out of the most likely possibilities that could be expected. He's gotten into the habit of sleeping in, though. Can't say I blame him, but it means we tend to have lunch together rather than breakfast.

As for myself, I've had a bit of a lucky break. The medications and physical therapy I was trying around the time of your visit did have a positive impact, but far less of one than I would've liked. It was getting to the point where they were telling me deep brain stimulation might be necessary for any further improvement - which, considering their unfamiliarity with my brain structure, almost certainly would not have turned out well.

However, it occurred to me that biomancy might be able to induce the same effect without sticking an electrode through my skull. I was never an expert biomancer, but dampening synaptic output was something I'd used in my medic days for pain inhibition. I found out through direct experience that using that particular skill on your own brain isn't to be done lightly - knocked myself unconscious the first few times I tried it - but with a certain amount of practice I was able to pick up on the area responsible for the tremors and sort of smooth it out.

In the end, I have to go through a number of meditative sessions each day to keep the tremors under control, but I've gotten to the point where, at least for most of the time that I'm awake, I can use my right hands without them wobbling about. It's even helped my slither a bit, which gives me some hope for future improvement. I'd really like to be able to run again, get back in condition - I damn well miss being fast. Alas, the technique doesn't improve my speech rhythm at all, but I can live with that.

In all honesty, I don't imagine anyone here wants to hear me talk more than I already do anyway. I find it difficult not to pester the staff - about your father's care, of course, because I consider that my absolute right, but also about everyone else's. That's what comes, I suppose, of having been in charge of the medical staff in Turbinaris; I got used to looking over everyone's shoulder, and the instinct hasn't entirely left me. And, too, I find myself starting to feel restless here, which I imagine will only get worse the better I feel. I've been tempted to check myself out, but I feel I should stick to my earlier intention to remain for as long as your father does (provided he doesn't get sick of me).

I look forward to your next reply, or visit, whichever comes first. Let Rubina know I asked after her and Roy. I've never been quite sure how she feels about getting letters directly from me, but she doesn't seem much more comfortable replying to them than she does speaking to me in person, and I'd rather not make things harder for her than they have to be.

Fondest regards,
Prethil

P.S. Would you know how Miss Formicida is doing over in Lepidopterum? Still hanging on to her Lieutenancy? Terribly busy? I've long thought about taking an excursion over there, you know. Considering what I've heard about the role she played in your father's life, it seems appropriate that someday I should visit, have a nice little… discussion with her.

She scanned the letter a few times, then placed it in an envelope addressed to a nondescript post office box number in Oktavyan. The significance of the address had never been explained to her; she didn't know whether the box was reserved for Falcifer's personal correspondence or received government mail as well. She suspected that the Prefects were watching everything that went to it in either case, but she nonetheless took care not to allude too directly to his place among the Perfecti in writing.

Satisfied, she pressed a stamp against the flap, leaving an impression in green ink of a Prethil-esque figure entwined around a staff. Then, humming to herself, she slithered down to get the letter posted.



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The years Prethil had spent in Karymovka Sanatorium, however much they might have begun to wear on her patience, had done a great deal to buttress her health; she was no longer the emaciated thing that had been brought in after being found in the southern foothills of Mt. Octavian. Her slither was still somewhat arrhythmic and careful, and her speech still prone to awkward pauses, but in most other respects she seemed quite normal, to the extent that a four-armed, seven-meter-long snake-woman with a full head of tendrils could be considered normal.

While she had gone so far as to adopt a prominent collar and somewhat narrower sleeves in a mild concession to current Kalgachi fashions - and gathering at the waist, now that her return to a healthy weight made this flattering rather than shocking - her dresses remained largely loose and flowing. It was in one such dress, in various shades of green, that she meandered around the sanatorium's reception area after depositing her letter. This had become a common pastime of hers; it afforded her the opportunity not only for conventional people-watching, seeing the arrival of new patients and the departure of old ones, but also for seeing the expressions on the arrivals' faces when the smiling snake-lady cheerfully welcomed them to the facility.

By the time the clock approached ten, Prethil had begun to get her fill of wide eyes and flummoxed stuttering for the day, and was considering returning to her room for a while before lunch, when another new arrival made his way in. His dress was casual, but not cheap, suggesting a certain amount of prosperity, and his hair and beard, dark but with touches of gray, were short and neat. Blue mottling on his skin and an unusual purplish color to the eyes, both easily missed at first notice, testified to the man's Nezeni heritage. Prethil felt it to be rather an intriguing look.

The man had no apparent injury or physical impairment, but bore the slightly haggard look of one who had been laboring under considerable stress. He had a lengthy conversation with the man behind the desk, accepted a room key, and began to cross the room toward where guides waited to escort visitors to their rooms, his tired gaze sweeping curiously around to take in his surroundings until it reached Prethil.

He stopped dead, blinking. His suitcase slid from his grip and thumped to the floor; he glanced down at it, then remembered to pick it up. Prethil had to stifle a laugh; it was the best reaction she'd gotten all day, but she felt just slightly guilty about the results. She began slithering over to him, though one of the guides arrived first.

"Are you all right, sir?" She glanced up at Prethil. "Ms Nal, we know you like to spend time here, but it's really not the best place to-"

"No no," the man interrupted hastily, "it's fine, really. No harm done." He turned to Prethil. "You... forgive me, but you must be a Singer? Full-blooded?"

"Extremely so... yes." She put on a radiant smile and extended one of her right hands. "Prethil Nal. Doctor Prethil Nal, I... suppose I would still be."

"Doctor Sylvanus Lywibble," the man replied. He took Prethil's hand, and looked at it for a moment before remembering himself and shaking it warmly. "Are you one of the resident doctors here, then?"

"Not in that way. A doctor, yes, but… resident only in the… literal sense; I'm a… long-term patient of sorts."

This seemed to cause Sylvanus flash of worry, but he nodded. "I may be here for a while myself. I've been through rather a lot lately, so I thought a stay at Karymovka might help my nerves."

''The guide cleared her throat. "Doctor, perhaps I should show you to your room."

"Yes, of course. Lovely to meet you, Ms- that is, Doctor Nal, and, er…" He fidgeted nervously. "No doubt you have your own pursuits to attend to, but perhaps, if we cross paths again, we could have a chat?"

Prethil raised an eyebrow. Sylvanus clearly had something on his mind, but whatever it was, he was certainly polite enough about it. She could spare him some time; it wasn't as if she was going anywhere. "I'd be... delighted," she replied. "I usually take a... stroll in the gardens in the... afternoons, so feel free to… catch me there.''

"Excellent," Sylvanus said with relief. "Thank you. I'll see you later."

As Sylvanus followed the guide to his room, Prethil returned to hers, looking thoughtful. She sat herself in front of her mirror, glanced at the hand that Sylvanus had examined and shook, and shrugged at herself. "This ought to be interesting," she murmured.

After a moment's consideration, she looked herself up and down. Prethil had no jewelry or other adornments, but feeling that some preparation was in order, she began restyling her tendrils into a more elaborate arrangement.



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The weather had lately turned cold, and the gardens were not at their best, having already shed a majority of their leaves. Regardless, Sylvanus seemed much more interested in Prethil than in the foliage. He felt moved to explain this early on.

"I don't mean to cause you any discomfort," he said seriously. "I'm a geneticist at the University of Bergburg, you see, and when one's in that field, it's hard to avoid developing a fascination with the Deep Singers. Much of what we do, after all, is following in the footsteps of your people, in our own clumsy way. Seeing one of you in person, is, well, a bit like seeing a coelocanth caught in a net."

Prethil laughed. "That's the… nicest way I've ever been… called a fossil."

Sylvanus blinked, then smiled nervously. "Well, of course, some fossils are far more fascinating than others."

"Oh-ho." She grinned at him. "Aren't you a charmer? ...I ought to tell you, however, that I was a... Woundmender, not a Geneshaper. I was… obviously modded, and I could tell you which ones I got, but not how they were… done."

"Well, it would've been a bit much to ask in any case. Still," he added wistfully, "it helps give me a bit of hope that we can claw back some of the expertise that was lost, even if we can't rely on biomancy to do it. I didn't think any Singers were still around, to be honest."

Prethil sighed. "Oh, there don't seem to be," she said, "except for me. My... circumstances were a little... unique."

"Oh?"

"I'd rather not go into it... just at the moment. Suffice it to say I get left in... storage. I'm... recovering here" She peered at him. "What about you? Hard times in… the world of genetics?"

"Sort of. I'm involved mostly in medical genomics, an amazing field. I've been hitting a few walls in my research lately, but that was bearable by itself." He gave her a somber look. "But one of my colleagues, a very old friend, died last month while doing field work. Torn to shreds by a tee-al."

"Oh," she murmured. "I'm terribly sorry."

"I told him that trying to get samples from a living specimen was a bad idea, asleep or not," he added mournfully. "Especially without KDF support."

"They're mean bastards," she agreed.

"At any rate," Sylvanus continued, "I held together for a week or two, but I started feeling the weight of it all after that - so I wrangled some leave and came here. I thought some therapy and spa time might do the trick." He gave her a faint smile. "Though some friendly conversation certainly doesn't hurt, either."

"No," she agreed, "that it... doesn't. Aside from my son… not many people here are… keen on talking to me."

"Your son is here too? Visiting?"

"Unfortunately… as a patient. A… chronic condition."

"Ah." Sylvanus saw the hint of distress on her face, and floundered around for another topic. "And, er, is your partner still-?"

"No, unfortunately. He… passed away, back when Minarboria... was falling to bits." The look on her face was somber, but it was an improvement. They both remained silent for a moment, and then she suddenly asked, "What about you? Any… family out there?"

"I have a sister, Sepis; she helps manage a farm up around Katarsis. Our mother lives with her." He gave her a sideways glance. Though she was not looking directly at him, he thought she seemed to be waiting for something; clearing his throat, he added, "I tried my hand at marriage about thirty years ago, but it lasted only about seven months - Celestine was a decent woman, but she moved at a different pace than I did. Since then I've been sort of married to my work instead."

Prethil treated him to a winning smile. "Jobs are usually... notoriously... neglectful partners, I've found."

Though the air was bracing, Sylvanus found himself feeling a little warm. "Well," he heard himself say, "at least jobs are usually amenable to, ah, open relationships."

Prethil laughed. Sylvanus smiled foolishly.

They talked in the garden for most of the rest of the afternoon, until the falling temperatures made it uncomfortable to be outside. Making their way back indoors, Sylvanus murmured to Prethil, "If you wouldn't mind, at some point I'd like to carry out an examination on you."

He saw her amused smile, and quickly added, "That is, I meant-"

"Now, now." She waved a hand dismissively, and, grinning, linked one of her arms with his. "We'll see about that, shall we?"