Alien Landscapes 2 by Kevin J. Anderson Read Free Book Online Page B

on his performance for those vital hours.
    Not that he had any doubts. He had been born for this. The prospect was daunting, but he always liked challenges. Upon first entering medical school, Berthold 17 made up his mind to become one of the best doctors ever. The higher the hurdles, the more effort he put into meeting them. He took great satisfaction in a reward that he’d earned . He had painted his own finish line and would never look back over his shoulder until he had crossed it. “Good enough” was not in his vocabulary.
    Berthold 17 hit the books again, studying, studying. It would be a long night. . . .
    Meanwhile, in another campus library in another state, Berthold 18 sat surrounded by legal tomes, equally convinced that he would pass the upcoming bar exam with flying colors.
    #
    They were all dying of ebola-X.
    Berthold 3 could do nothing to save the afflicted villagers, but he forced himself to remain at their sides and comfort the men, women, and children in their final hours. He prayed with them, he listened to them, he comforted them. Not being a doctor, he was unable to do anything else . . . and even the doctors couldn’t do much.
    Ebola-X, a particularly virulent strain of the hemorrhagic plague, had been genetically engineered by a brutal African warlord who, upon being deposed, had unleashed it among his own population. As if their lives weren’t already difficult enough , Berthold 3 thought.
    The villagers had impure drinking water, no electricity, no schools, no sanitation. Thanks to a persistent drought, almost certainly caused by the government and its short-sighted agricultural policies, the locals had lived on the edge of starvation for years. Immune systems and physical strength were at their nadir. When the ebola-X arrived, it mowed down the village population as easily as if it were a jeep full of machine-gun–bearing soldiers. The thought of their situation tugged at his heart strings. How could a person hold so much pain?
    The hot and stifling hospital tent reeked with the stench of sweat, vomited blood, and death. Berthold 3 still heard every gasp, every moan, every death rattle. He sat quietly on a wooden stool, looking at the strained, pain-puckered face of a young mother. He read soothing passages aloud from the Bible, but he didn’t think she could hear him or even understand the flowery English words. But he stayed with her anyway, changing the moist rag from her forehead, holding her shoulders when she needed to roll over and vomit.
    The woman seemed to know she was dying. She had communicated with him about her three children, and Berthold 3 promised to look after them. He brushed her wiry hair, cooling her forehead again. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the children had died two days earlier.
    Exhausted medics moved around him like zombies. They had too little medicine, certainly nothing effective against this epidemic. Berthold 3 tried to take as much busywork from the doctors as possible; he felt a calling to do his part, any part, so long as he helped these people. He had some first-aid training, but the bulk of his schooling had prepared him to be a missionary, not a medic. Perhaps if he’d known ahead of time, Berthold 3 would have learned more practical skills. Even so, he wouldn’t have turned from this obligation. In his heart he wanted to be here, wishing only that he could ease their suffering more effectively.
    The dying woman reached out, her hand extended upward as if trying to grasp the sky. Berthold 3 took it in his own hand, folding his palms around hers and pressing her clenched fist against his chest so that she could feel the beating of his heart. She breathed twice more, arched her back, and then died.
    Berthold 3 said a calm prayer over her, then stood. He had no time to rest, no time to grieve. He dragged his wooden stool over to the cot of the next patient.
    #
    Red tape. Bureaucracy. Incomprehensible forms in triplicate. Revisions to revisions