The young Protector and recently Unborn began moving rapidly along the hollow cylinder, lashing out at the bars, clubs, and spikes which were beating and jabbing at it.
“How do you feel?” Conway asked and thought anxiously.
Fine. Very well indeed. This is exhilarating, came the reply. But I am concerned about my parent.
“So are we,” Conway said, and led the way back to the operating frame where Prilicla was clinging to the ceiling directly above the Protector. The fact that the empath was at minimum range indicated both its concern for the patient’s condition and the weakness of the FSOJ’s emotional radiation.
“Life-support team!” Conway called to the beings who were waiting at the other end of the ward. “Get back here! Loosen the restraints on all limbs. Let it move, but not enough to endanger the operating team.”
The suturing of the carapace had still to be completed, and with Thornnastor and him both working on it, that took about ten minutes. During that time there was no movement from the Protector other than the tiny quiverings caused by the blows and jabs being delivered by the life-support machinery. In deference to the patient’s gravely weakened postoperative state, Conway had ordered the equipment to be operated at half-power and that positive pressure ventilation be used to force the FSOJ to breathe pure oxygen. But by the time the remaining sutures were in place and they had conducted a detailed scanner examination of their earlier internal work, there was still no physical response.
Somehow he had to awaken it, get through to its deeply unconscious brain, and there was only one channel of communication open. Pain.
“Step up life-support to full power,” he said, concealing his desperation behind an air of confidence. “Is there any change, Prilicla?”
“No change,” the empath said, trembling in the emotional gale which could only have been coming from Conway.
Suddenly he lost his temper.
“Move, dammit!” he shouted, bringing the edge of his hand down on the inside of the root of the nearest tentacle, which was still lying flaccidly at full extension. The area he struck was pink and relatively soft, because few of the Protector’s natural enemies would have been able to make such a close approach and the tegument there was thin. Even so, it hurt his hand.
“Again, friend Conway,” Prilicla said. “Hit it again, and harder!”
“~… What?” Conway asked.
Prilicla was quivering with excitement now. It said, “I think- no, I’m sure I caught a flicker of awareness just then. Hit it! Hit it again!”
Conway was about to do so when one of Thornnastor’s tentacles curled tightly around his wrist. Ponderously, the Tralthan said, “Repeated misuse of that hand will not enhance the surgical dexterity of those ridiculous DBDG digits, Conway. Allow me.”
The Diagnostician produced one of the dilators and brought it down heavily and accurately on the indicated area. It repeated the blows, varying the frequency and gradually increasing the power as Prilicla called, “Harder! Harder!”
Conway fought back the urge to break into hysterical laughter.
“Little friend,” he said incredulously, “are you trying to be the Federation’s first cruel and sadistic Cinrusskin? You certainly sound as if.. . Why are you running away?”
The empath was ducking and weaving its way between the lighting fixtures as it raced across the ceiling toward the ward entrance. Through the communicator it said, “The Protector is rapidly regaining consciousness and is feeling very angry. Its emotional radiation . . . Well, it is not a nice entity to be near when it is angry, or at any other time.”
The relatively weak structure of the operating frame was demolished as the Protector came fully awake and began striking out in all directions with its tentacles, tail, and armored head. But the life-support machinery enclosing the frame had been designed to take such punishment, as well as hitting back. For a few minutes they stood watching the FSOJ in awed silence until Murchison laughed with evident relief.
“I suppose we can safely say,” she said, “that parent and offspring are doing fine.”
Thornnastor, who had one of his eyes directed at the Rumpus Room, said, “I wouldn’t be too sure. The young one has almost stopped moving.”
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