It was the middle of the third day and Gosset was preparing to take the six of them over to the offices where they’d be assigned workstations and meet the full engineering team, when a security officer stepped in the little classroom and pulled her aside. Their conversation was brief, but it brought visible distress to the senior engineer’s face. Kit knew before she turned back to the classroom that something had happened, and that it had to do with him.
“Kamal?” Gosset said. “Word, please.”
Kit stepped over to the pair of them. The other five were quiet behind him.
“There’s a medical issue,” the security man said. “I can take you to the infirmary.”
“Rohi?” Kit asked.
“It’s your son, sir. I’m afraid he’s been taken to the infirmary. You should come now.”
“Is he all right?” Kit said, but the security man didn’t answer.
Gosset nodded sharply toward the door. The universal gesture for Go. “Don’t worry about missing the walk-through. We’ll get you caught up later.”
“Thank you,” Kit said by reflex. He wasn’t paying attention to her. Something was wrong with Bakari. His heart was bright and fast, and he could feel his pulse in his neck.
He held back the urge to ask the security man what had happened, when it had happened, what was wrong, how they knew it was wrong, what they’d done about it, and the thousand other things the man didn’t know. Instead, he sat in the small electric cart as it zipped through the wide concrete-and-conduit access corridors of the city, and leaned forward as if he could will it to go faster.
The infirmary was mostly underground, but the lights were tuned to a spectrum that mimicked the afternoon sun of Earth. The flowers at the intake station were fake, but they smelled real. The security man walked behind Kit like an apology. Even before Kit reached the reception desk, an older man in a doctor’s coat was striding out toward them. Kit was expected.
“Mr. Kamal,” the doctor said, gesturing toward a pair of pale wooden doors. “This way, please.”
“What happened?” Kit asked.
Instead of answering, the doctor turned to the security man and said, “Thank you very much.” It was polite, but it was a dismissal. Kit had the sense that whatever the conversation was, it would be private. Maybe that was company policy for JBCC. Maybe it was something else.
They pushed through the doors and into the halls of the infirmary. They were wider than standard, wide enough to let two hospital beds pass each other with room for medics at their sides. The floral smell of reception gave way to something harsher.
“Your son is stable,” the doctor said. “The daycare watch reported that he was acting strangely. For a time, he became entirely unresponsive.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Kit said.
“I believe he had a seizure of some kind. My preliminary scans don’t show any congenital abnormalities or tumors, so that’s good. But there was . . . some odd activity in his insular cortex.”
“But he’s okay?”
“He’s fine now,” the doctor said. “We’re going to watch him, and I would like to run a few tests. Just rule out as much as I can.”
“But he’s going to be okay.” Kit didn’t say it as a question. He asserted it as if the universe would take its directions from him.
The doctor stopped, and Kit went on for another two steps before he paused and turned back. The discomfort on the doctor’s face was plain.
“We have a standing order from the Laconian Science Directorate. Any issues or abnormalities that arise among people who were on the Preiss are to be documented and the data sent to Laconia.”
“Because of the thing that happened?” Kit said.
“There are thirteen hundred systems. Laconia doesn’t even have a formal political officer on Nieuwestad,” the doctor said. “If the report back to Dr. Ochida slipped behind my desk? It could be months or years before I noticed. Given who your father is, I thought perhaps . . .”
The doctor inclined his head. He was graying at the temples, and deep wrinkles marked the corners of his eyes and mouth. He was old enough; he might have known the Rocinante before the Transport Union was even formed. He might be part of Naomi Nagata’s underground movement.
“Thank you,” Kit said.
The doctor’s smile was calm and calming. He led Kit to a glass doorway where the privacy setting had turned the clear pane to a gentle frost. Kit slipped in. The soft hum and pop of the medical scanners was like wind in trees. The bed was sized for an adult, and Rohi lay on her side with Bakari snuggled up to her chest. His eyes were closed, and his right hand was curled in a fist under his chin as if he were deep in thought. Her voice was soft and lilting. The cadence she fell into when she was lulling the baby to sleep.