Unfinished Business

Chapter Five

“I don’t know why you had to come along,” Simon said, sullenly, as the shuttle took flight, River at the stick. “Cap’n ain’t about to let his shuttle go wanderin’ off without some . . . responsible supervision,” Kaylee replied, looking out the window. “Don’t take it personal. He wouldn’t let me take it out alone, either.” They sat in a stony silence as River adjusted her altitude. She wore her ‘piloting’ helmet, with the goggles up, and hadn’t said a word since the other two had entered and strapped in. They were still fighting. Kaylee had found some old friends that she barely knew and had gotten thoroughly drunk, stumbling back to Serenity in the meager hours before dawn, incoherent but unmolested. She had protested mightily when River had shaken her awake this morning, but she had promised she would go with her. In truth she was still a bit drunk. For his part, Simon had taken a few extra shifts in the first aid tent, where he saw to all manner of minor wounds that happen when you mix alcohol, drugs, and heavy equipment together out in the middle of the rugged wilderness – mostly sprains and cuts. He actually enjoyed it more than he thought he would – it was the closest thing to an emergency room he’d seen in a year, and he didn’t have to worry about the Feds coming after him while he practiced medicine. And, of course, the utter lack of paperwork made it professional bliss. He was surprised at the mixed proficiencies of the other two medics on duty – they had extremely strong clinical skills, but their scientific knowledge was lacking more than he was used to in colleagues. One had been a field medic during the war with a mobile surgical hospital, the other had been a commercial corporate transport medic until he had been caught smuggling narcotics, and had to enter the demimonde. Still, Simon learned a lot about ‘space medicine’, as the two talked shop, telling war stories all night. He got to bed significantly earlier than Kaylee, and hadn’t spoken to her much this morning. The icy chill between them had lingered from the moment they set eyes on each other. “Are we there yet?” Kaylee asked, gloomily. “Not far. This moon is only five thousand, six hundred twenty two and three tenths of a mile wide,” River answered with precision. “Great circle route to anywhere isn’t going to take long.” “What kind of name is Buckminster, anyhow?” Kaylee asked, after another few uncomfortable moments passed. “It’s named after Buckminster Fuller, a twentieth century visionary in technology, sociology, economics and human dynamics,” River recited. When Kaylee continued to look blank, River added “And he invented the geodesic dome.” “Oh,” Kaylee said, nodding. “I guess that’s why that big dome is up there, then, huh?” “It’s the phytotron sphere for the University,” River said, nodding towards it. “I read about it this morning. It has the largest collection of flora and fauna genomes outside of the Londinium Royal Biological Preserve. A major source of the moon’s antebellum off-world revenue was selling stock to terraforming companies.” “It’s pretty,” agreed Kaylee, dully. “You read that this morning?” Simon asked. She spared him a withering glance. “Sorry, you used up all the self pity and righteous indignation last night. I had to do something in the can.” “Quan ni ju ji du shu, nien ching duh!” he said disparagingly. “You’re one to talk,” she shot back. “Trying to scare that boy away. He wasn’t afraid of you, you know. He barely realized you were there,” she taunted. “Not surprising, considering he was in such a stupor he barely knew he was there!” “Just because he liked me –” “River, you know exactly why I chased him off,” Simon said intently. “Because your fictitious manhood was threatened by Kaylee’s former lover?” “Because my mei mei, who I love enough to break her out of a secure Alliance research facility, deserves something a little better than a stoned-out oversexed grease monkey on a crappy old freighter!” he exploded. Kaylee turned her head to stare at Simon while he ranted. “He only wanted to . . . he didn’t want to marry me or anything!” River said, “ni shi bai shi!” “Well, that’s worse!” Simon declared. “Why, you want me to marry?” River asked. “ ‘Stoned-out oversexed grease monkey on a crappy old freighter?’” she repeated, icily. “My, wouldn’t that be tragic?” “What?” Simon asked, confused by the unexpected attack on his flank. “Because I’m not going to,” River said, firmly. “I’m a career woman, now.” “Being a pilot on a –” he glanced at Kaylee, “frontier transport ship is not a career for one of the finest minds in the ‘verse!” he declared. “Gee, sorry, my options are a little limited at the moment,” River shot back, snidely. “Besides, I like piloting. It’s applied physics. And it’s fun. Good therapy. Keeps me from violent thoughts,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Like fratricide.” “We weren’t discussing your career options,” Simon said, with exaggerated patience. “We were discussing—” “My sex life,” finished River. “You don’t have a sex life!” “And whose fault is that?” she demanded. “Sha gua! I’m just trying to keep—” “Her virtue under lock and key?” offered Kaylee helpfully. “I’m trying to keep her safe!” Simon said in exasperation. “Is it too much for a big brother to want his mei mei’s . . . formative experiences to be . . .special?” “Don’t you think that’s for her to determine?” Kaylee asked, accusingly. “Who was holdin’ your gorram hand when you got your cherry mislaid? ‘Cause mayhap you Central planets’ folk do things different, but ‘round these parts its generally traditional for a girl to choose her own first love!” “That little punk didn’t measure up,” Simon began. “To whose standards?” River demanded. “Yours?” “Yes! No! Ni jue de wo hen ben ma? I just wanted to keep River, who’s socialization was a little stunted by the hundred-odd brain surgeries and invasive conditioning techniques used on her in her delicate adolescent period, didn’t get taken advantage of by some callous brute who only wanted to use her for sex! Jesus, you’re only seventeen, and still clinically insane, if I might add that into the equation, and I’m in loco parentis!” “You got the loco part right,” muttered Kaylee. “I don’t need a chaperone,” River insisted. “I think if he got rough, I might could handle the situation. I’ve been known to slap a man, before.” “Among other things,” agreed Simon. “Have you considered that, perhaps, I was trying to keep you from getting into a dangerous position? One that might blow whatever cover we’ve managed to build up?” “No, and neither have you, until just this moment,” River accused. “Don’t bother denying it. You just didn’t like the guy.” “Yes! Yes! That’s it exactly!” Simon said. “I didn’t like the guy. Is that a crime?” “No,” River admitted. “But making my decision for me, without consulting me, was rude, obnoxious, and irritating. I am seventeen. In nine days I’ll be eighteen – and you will be relieved of your self-imposed parental responsibilities. Won’t that be a relief?” “Nine days? Until your—” “Legal as a beagle,” River said, with a deep air of satisfaction. “Not that the law really matters right now. But I’m going to be a legal adult – what are you going to do then? Shoot every boy who wants to kiss me?” “His office is on the north side of town,” Simon pointed out. “Like a big Christmas ornament,” Kaylee added, still staring at the sphere.. “I know where to land,” River said, a little sullenly. The doctor’s office was in a small medical complex in an exurb of the city, proper. Despite its distance, it maintained the feel and look of a university campus. River set down on the designated landing stage. While she was shutting down the shuttle, Simon got out and tried to help Kaylee out – which she declined, showing she was quite capable of leaving on her own. “Why the hell did I decide to do it?” Simon muttered to himself. “What, come see this fancy doc?” “No,” Simon said, crossly, “let my parents sleep in on the Saturday she was conceived.”

*

*

*

Doctor Shin looked in River’s eyes with a pen light, grunting at what he saw. Simon knew he couldn’t tell much useful information from doing so, but it was a common physician’s trick to buy time to think. “And this happened when?” “My first . . . operation was just before I turned fifteen,” River answered. “Things started to change after that, there were tests and drugs and questionnaires and trials—” “Right, right, I can imagine,” Shin clucked sympathetically. “Poor girl. You know, they tried to recruit me for that project?” “They did?” Simon asked, intrigued and appalled at the same time. “Yup,” the doctor answered, putting away his light. “Made me an offer they thought I couldn’t refuse. And, intellectually speaking, the work was interesting. But doctors have been working under a specific code of ethical conduct for the last five thousand years, and I didn’t think that it should be chucked aside for the sake of political expediency. There are some things you just don’t do to people.” “I expect that there were enough others who were willing to make the sacrifice. Dr. Mathias, for one.” “God, that man’s an asshole. Was. I read he was found dead in his lab. The cause of death was listed as ‘sudden’.” Shin sighed and took a seat behind his desk. “That usually means either suicide or assassination. And he’s the one who tried to convince me that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” “He was an asshole,” River said quietly. “He had . . . bad things in his head.” Shin chuckled. “I have no doubt. His head WAS a bad thing. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I emigrated. The pressure was just too great – the university, the hospital, even the medical board. Everywhere I went, they were politely encouraging me to cooperate. When I didn’t . . . well, research money dried up, my tenure was mysteriously cancelled – you get the picture.” He looked out the window at the PhytoDome in the distance – still, it dominated the sky. “Best gorram thing that ever happened to me.” “Why?” Kaylee blurted out. Simon almost gave her a withering look, then stopped himself when he realized he was about to ask the same question. “Because I never would have come here, if I hadn’t. Academic research is fun, kids, and in the right places it can be quite lucrative. But my last two years on Isis do you have any idea how many actual patients I saw? Four. Four patients. It took a change in scenery and focus to remember why I got into this business in the first place.” He sighed. “Here, I’m not an honored and renowned physician-scientist,” he continued. “I’m a country doctor, and I see about six hundred patients a year – maybe more. People I actually help. I don’t get high accolades, invitations to state dinners or piles of cash. I do get to see the babies of these folk get the proper immunizations, and I get to see the farmer who got kicked by a mule walk again. And that’s a lot more gratifying than publishing yet another paper that only a hundred people in the ‘verse even understand.” He sighed. “You said you had a full neural scan?” “Yes,” Simon said, feeling around in his pockets for the record. “Took it on Ariel, about six months or so ago.” “Ariel? I thought you folk were fugitives?” he asked, his brow wrinkled in confusion. “We’re very sneaky fugitives,” River supplied with a shudder, remembering the men with the blue hands. “Good to know,” Shin said, taking the record and popping it into the player on his desk. Immediately the holoimager produced a detailed scan of River’s neurology. Shin grunted and refocused the image on half a dozen specific spots around her brain. “You poor girl,” he said after a significant amount of time studying it. “You’ve been horribly maimed. On behalf of the entire medical profession, I offer my sincerest apologies.” He sighed and lit a cigarette. “So . . . what do you think?” Simon asked, when more was not forthcoming. “Like I said, she’s been maimed.” “Care to be more specific?” Shin shrugged. “Let’s see, where to begin? Her amygdala is stripped, like you said. Not gone, not entirely removed, but augmented and biomechanically changed. “The amygdala is sometimes referred to as our ‘reptile brain’ because that’s where our basic ideas about fight, flight, sexual desire, all the ‘baser elements’ developed,” he explained to Kaylee. “Someone decided to re-arrange River’s. “See that superstructure? They’ve been working with something like it for years, as a treatment for some kinds of autism and schizophrenia. Only . . . note how the connection to the reticular nucleus has been augmented? Likely results in increased reflexes. You must be able to pluck flies out of the air, can’t you, sweetie?” River nodded. “The natural connections to the ventral tegmental area, locus ceruleus, and laterodorsal tegmental nucleus have been screwed with, royally. It looks like her natural controls to her production of dopamine, norepinephrine and epinephrine have likewise been overridden, which must make your life hell, sometimes. See, these nanotubules descend all the way down here to the hippocampus? That’s where they augmented your memory – you’re eidetic, aren’t you?” “I remember everything I’ve ever read, watched, or seen,” confirmed River. “You poor, poor girl. I thought so. Over here, in the pink area, that’s where they short-circuited her long-term/short term memory. The basolateral nuclei are . . . hot wired, would be the best analogy. Little River only needs to see something once, and it’s shunted down into her hippocampus with all the magnatude of a childhood trauma.” “What do you mean?” asked Simon, concerned. “We consciously remember stuff long term because of one of two things: repetition or emotional import. You see the same wave combination often enough, you learn it by heart. Or, conversely, if you are seeing a wave combination in conjunction with a profoundly emotional event – say, on the level of getting raped or tortured or watching someone getting beaten or killed – that emotional trauma is burned into your neurons along with the data. You can sometimes impress a memory into your long-term storage by artificially modulating it to that level – that’s what this little device over here does, I’d imagine. For River, everything she sees gets committed to memory, as if it were the most important thing in the world. And the human brain has limits to the amount of such stress it can take before it . . . just breaks.” “Oh, River!” Kaylee said, with new sympathy for her friend. “Oh, it gets worse,” assured Shin. “See this little line here? That makes connections here, here, here and here . . . which would put a control mechanism on what are commonly referred to as ‘Pavlovian associations’, allowing her – or whoever controls her conditioning – to establish specific modes of behavior, likely through key words, phrases, images or other stimulii. If they wanted her to, say, translate Serbo-Croation into Korean, for example, they could manipulate her brain so that it would happen without any serious stress about it – but her responses otherwise would be limited. Or, if they wanted her to have an overtly sexual response to the presence of roses and chocolate together, but not one of them on their own, they could. But it’s a one-way street. If she doesn’t like something, she doesn’t like it forever – she’s established a mode, so to speak, one that would take severe cognative application and counter-conditioning to break. Is there anything she really abhors?” “Jayne,” offered Kaylee. “Guns,” supplied Simon. “River hates guns. Hates seeing them, touching them, hearing them. It can be a . . . problem, in our current situation.” “I’m empathetic – saw enough guns during the occupation here to last me three lifetimes.” “The odd thing is, she can use one very effectively. Without getting into details that could lead to a messy prosecution, she has used firearms in the past, very accurately, and without any visible trauma – and then been just as anti-gun afterwards as she was before.” “She just has a hard time lookin’ at ‘em,” finished Kaylee. “Stands to reason. You said they trained her in combat?” “That was my understanding, yes,” Simon said. “Horrible thing to do to a sweet little girl,” he growled. “But they established a conditioning pattern to the point of building an operational mode. She’d make a wonderful soldier, no doubt. They could over-ride her inhibitory avoidance of danger, condition her to kill quickly and efficiently, and be intimately familiar with weaponry – here’s a test of that: River, what do you know about the Mark Four Luntz Infantry Laser?” “Standard light infantry weapon for Core world Alliance garrisons from 2488 to 2497. Produced by Raytheon-Stevens Corporation and assembled at the Rinaldo lunar facility. Carries a fifty shot magazine, using a chemical reaction to generate initial photonic release, using tenth generation adaptive optics, a dual targeting/firing laser configuration, a geodesic silica lens four point seven five millimeters across to dissipate extreme heat that can build up through continual use. The weapon weighs three point nine kilograms. Its stock is titanium reenforced by carbon fiber overlay. Sights are computerized and can be jacked into the Star Warrior light infantry command and control system to maximize killing capacity during light to heavy combat operations. The beam strikes with the equivalent of twenty eight point eight five nine megajoules of power—” “Yes, thank you River, that’s quite enough,” finished Shin. “Well done. Yes, you would make a perfect soldier, River . . . if you actually liked guns.” “Guns are icky,” she sniffed. “Why wouldn’t she like guns?” Simon asked, intrigued. “You would think her conditioning—” “But she created her own mode that rejects the first one, based on cognative factors. So she can use guns, and is probably pretty good at it, but she’s screaming inside her head every moment she holds one, most likely. Is that the way of it, girlie?” “Yep,” River answered, without emotion. “And the way this part is tied into the cortical nucleus, you have a better nose than a bloodhound – but less control over it.” “Pretty much,” she admitted. “Jayne smells.” “And then things just get crazy. Especially here,” he said, zooming in on one particular set of neurons. “Here, where the lateral amygdalae usually send impulses to the basolateral complexes and to the centromedial nuclei – completely re-engineered. If that isn’t Farnsworth Houk’s work, I’m a big pink fluffy bunny. That’s strange,” he said, altering the scale and color somewhat. “That’s . . .” he glanced up at River. “What am I thinking?” “That you want a ham and cheese sandwhich for lunch, with lettuce and horseradish, but no mustard, on rye bread. That you haven’t had a case this interesting in five years, that your taxes are unfair and overdue, and that you are contemplating an affair with one of your nurses but you love your wife and don’t know if you want to take the risk.” Simon colored at his sister’s frank response, and Kaylee’s eyes got round in disbelief. “Right on all counts,” the doctor confirmed, apparently not bothered by her answer. “I thought so. That’s what they were trying to achieve, of course – everything else here is secondary to that. You’re a telepath, aren’t you my dear.” “Yep,” River said, solemnly. “Those rutting bastards. And, considering the last time something like this was tried, I’m guessing that before all of this surgical shennanigans you were somewhat . . . bright?” “Super genius,” Simon answered. “Two hundred and two IQ, last time she was tested. A twelve on the Corinth Scale.” “That figures,” agreed Shin, taking another drag on his cigarette. “You see, the last public experiments in this direction were done on your basic run-of-the-mill human being. While the surgiacl and biomechanical techniques were perfected, the results were, by all accounts, miserable failures due to the inability of the subjects to maintain their sanity. Very sad . . . and utterly predictable. You can’t monkey with human neurology like it’s a computer. Our brains are designed to work in a particular way, and if you maim part of them . . . well, you go crazy.” “Been there, done that,” River agreed. “No doubt. You are actually more fortunate than those poor bastards. I’m thinking that they were depending upon your superior cognative abilities to develop a bridge around the damage, basically making you ‘out-think’ your mental disability. Of course, the very systems they maimed are the ones that would allow you to cope with that sort of thing, so unless they had a comprehensive program of conditioning—” “They did,” agreed River enthusiastically. “Every night we had to . . .” “That’s fine, dear, don’t dredge up the trauma on my account,” Shin soothed. “I can see where they were going. Any idea what their specific purpose was?” “They were turning her into a telepathic super-assisin,” Simon answered. “Yeah, I can see how this configuration might help with that,” Shin said with a sad sigh. “The amygdala is responsible for . . . call it ‘emotional learning’. Feelings of remorse associated with death, pain and loss, for example. That’s why they cut out this section, from here . . . to here,” he said, stabbing the hologram with the tip of his cigarette. “I dare say you could kill a room full of puppies and not care less,” he pronounced. “But River ain’t like that at all!” Kaylee interjected. “I mean, when she’s . . . y’know, sane and all, she’s the nicest, sweetest person—” “No doubt, no doubt,” agreed Shin with a sigh. “But she’s not getting that through her amygdala. Look, if her amygdalae were merely removed, she would, indeed, be a dispassionate puppy-killing zombie – it even occurs naturally, a rare genetic condition known as Kluver-Bucy syndrome. People with Kluver-Bucy can have their parents and children killed right in front of them, and it affects them no more than a ham sandwich with too much mustard would. “But River doesn’t have Kluver-Bucy. She doesn’t even have traditional autism – usually, in autistic patients, the density of the amygdalar mass is very low. In her it seems to be about twice what normal people get. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t display autistic symptoms . . . but I’d say that she’s picking those thoughts and feelings up from others, allowing them to color and inform her perspective, and integrating them into her higher mind through cognative association as opposed to inherent determination.” “But . . . that means she’s stealing other peoples . . . feelings?” “Not quite, son. She has those feelings herself. They don’t originate in the amygdalae. But her mind is having to make a kind of . . . manual association between them. It’s kind of like the difference between knowing what a Christmas tree is for, but only being excited by it because someone has told you that you should be.” “That’s pretty humped up,” Kaylee pronounced. “You’re absolutely right,” agreed Shin. “That’s probably what spawned her psychosis – one of them, at any rate. You said she was a little more lucid after the revelations about Miranda we were all treated to?” “Yes,” Simon said. “Overall her condition improved, but she still has spells of . . . psychotic behavior,” he said, realizing that his clinical pronouncement might strike River as uncaring and judgemental. “That stands to reason. When she first encountered the memory in some idiot politician’s head, she would have been able, on the one hand, to watch the whole thing with the dispassionate objectivity. Only her cognition recognized the scope of the horror implicit in the deaths of thirty million people and the creation of a cannibalistic human subspecies. Ordinarily, one would deal with that kind of knowledge by shunting it into your amygdala for safe keeping and approaching it from a less personal perspective – only, River’s amygdala doesn’t have that kind of capacity anymore. So the wave of honest, heartfelt emotion she felt overwhelmed her cognative ability to cope, and it set off a kind of positive feedback loop in her head.” “Which means . . .” Kaylee ventured. “It means the girl went batshit nuts,” Shin said with a humorless chuckle. “Only thing she could do, under the circumstances. It was compounded by the sheer audacity of it – hiding an entire world, and the deaths of thirty million people – who would have believed her? Who would have wanted to believe her? It was only after she was able to process this horrible, heavy secret that she was able to start healing, emotionally. That was probably the change you saw in her.” “There was vomit, too,” Kaylee added softly. “Psychosomatic,” Shin said, sympathetically. “Me? I would have defecated under the strain.” “Okay,” Simon said, looking to steer the conversation back towards something more productive. “What should be our next course of action?” “What do you mean?” Shin asked, eyebrows raised. “I mean, how do we start to put her right?” Shin looked from brother to sister, then back again. He was silent for a while. Then he cleared his throat and stubbed out the butt of his cigarette. “Ladies, would you mind waiting outside for a moment, while I consult with my collegue?” River hopped down off of the table as Kaylee stood. “It won’t do any good, you know,” River said to the doctor. “I’ll still hear you,” she said, pointing to her temple. “Humor me, please,” Shin said with a small grin. When they had left, closing the door behind them, Shin let out another sigh, and lit another cigarette. “So,” Simon said, “How do we proceed? I take it from your dismissal that the news is not . . . positive.” “Son, what was your specialty?” he asked, changing the subject. “Trauma surgery,” Simon said, a trace of pride in his voice. “Yeah, that kind of fits. You’re an instant-gratification kind of doctor. ‘To cut is to cure’, and all that stuff. What’s the hardest surgery you’ve ever done?” “Um, that would probably have been when I reattached a little girl’s leg,” he admitted. “Nine hours of work. She regained 95% capacity.” He considered. “I’ve saved plenty of lives, but that was the hardest surgery, by far.” “That is impressive. But, Son, we’re talking about the greatest mystery in the universe, here: the human central nervous system. Next to that, mere physical reattachment is . . . well, like tinkertoys.” “It was a pretty complicated tinkertoy,” Simon said, evenly. “No doubt, no doubt. And no slight accomplishment, I know. Trauma surgeons are geniuses, in their way. But you boys are mere mechanics, honestly. You understand how to stitch the body back together . . . but the brain is a different issue.” “Well, I know,” Simon said defensively. “That’s why I came here. I’m a trauma surgeon trying to do neuropathology in a closet of an infirmary on a beat-up transport ship that gets shot up about once a week. Even studying everything on the cortex I can get my hands on, I’m about three years away from being even remotely qualified for formal study. I need help, Doctor. She needs help,” he pleaded. “All right. I just wanted to preface my advice by showing you that I understand the situation a damn sight better than you do – and you’ve been studying it for months.” “So noted. I’m an ignorant hump, in regards to the CNS. My ego can take it.” “I hope so. Because I think that our course of treatment is going to be the most difficult thing you’ve ever done in medicine.” Simon heaved a great sigh, his shoulders sagging. “Go ahead. What do we do?” “Not a gorram thing,” Shin said, taking a long draw on his cigarette. Simon studied the man for a moment. “What do you mean?” “I mean that your sister – lovely girl, by the way – has been purposefully maimed beyond the ability of modern science to correct. Maybe, if I had access to Core-world level technology, an unlimited time to study and an endless number of qualified experts to consult with, maybe – just maybe – I might be able to restore about ten percent of functionality. If I’m lucky.” “That’s it?” “Son, we’ve been studying the human brain seriously for about six hundred years now. And we still really know only about ten percent of how it works. But the problem just isn’t the brain here, it’s the mind. We’ve been studying the human mind just as long, and we have only the vaguest hint of how it works. Even if you could correct every horrific surgery, you still wouldn’t have what you want. She still wouldn’t be the girl you remember from your youth. She’s had three or four years of hard-core trauma, and that’s going to take a lifetime for her to deal with under the best of circumstances. “So there’s no hope?” Simon said, shoulders sagging. “Oh, not at all. There’s always hope, you know that. But not from surgery. Anything Dr. Houk designed would take a lifetime to understand – the man’s a sadist, but he’s a brilliant sadist. Screwing around with his devices could cause untold-damage. Trying to re-grow the neural tissue of the amygdala, not to mention all the other little alterations, would be futile. Oh, we could get tissue to take, but it would likely be useless to her in any meaningful sense. And it wouldn’t improve her quality of life or functionality one bit, I’d bet. So my advice is to leave her alone, let her brain figure out what to do. It’s a remarkably resiliant instrument. You’re familiar with the Fresnel lens experiment?” Simon nodded. “I did it as an undergraduate. Disconcerting.” “But telling. That’s what the human brain does, when faced with such a challenge. It figures out a way around the problem. Look at the kind of progress she’s made since you busted her out. You said she was delusional and near-catatonic?” “To begin with. She . . . got worse, from time to time. She is doing much better. I thought it was the drugs, but . . .” “Oh, they helped, no doubt about that. You made some bold – even inspired – treatment decisions. I do have some suggestions for changing her cocktail, things that might help a little. And there are mental exercises I can recommend, too. But no more cutting.” “I just . . . we’ve come so far, been through so much,” Simon said in despair. “I thought that if anyone could help . . .” “Nature will help,” replied Shin. “That’s a popular saying around these parts. But in this case, it is true. Let the girl heal. And give her the space she needs to find her own way. One of the hardest things a doctor can do is have the wisdom to know when to leave well enough alone, and the patience to do so. Has she developed any theraputic regimens?” “She’s . . . well, she’s fond of EVAs. She says it’s quiet, and it helps her think.” Shin nodded. “Stands to reason. I imagine that, with her abilities, it can get quite difficult to sort out her thoughts from everyone elses.” “She’s also taken up the harmonica, against my express wishes. She loves to dance. And draw. And . . . well, for the last month or so, she’s been our pilot. I don’t mind telling you, that makes me nervous sometimes.” “Actually, with her reflexes and cognative abilities, she’s probably the best pilot in the Black already. I’d take it as a good sign. I’d even encourage it. But I won’t lie to you: she’s a wild card. She’ll have quirky little issues and bizarre personality idiosyncrices for years to come. I don’t envy you. But you’ve done all you can for her, by now. It’s obvious you love your sister. Try to stop grieving for the little girl you knew, and start getting to know the young woman who’s here, now. And give her plenty of room to chart her own course. I told you it would be difficult.” “And that’s it?” “That’s it,” agreed Shin. “Well . . . so what do I owe you?” Shin laughed. “Muir has a crackerjack national health system. You don’t owe me a bit. But the locals have been known to tip for service. My receptionist will take any homemade preserves, eggs, smoked meats, live chickens, ducks, or other fowl. Larger livestock you’ll have to lead around to the rear,” he said, seriously. “But if it’s whiskey, you can leave it with me, and we’ll toast to River’s continued progress.” “You know,” Simon said, his face breaking out in a grin, “I can see how being a country doctor might be fun, after all.”