The Rowan

The doors into the Level 7 facility whisked apart for her. She was surprised to find people alert to her arrival, pointing directions to the intensive-care facility where Jeff Raven lay.

She paused long enough in the anteroom to let the sanitizing panels purify her. As soon as that procedure was finished, the inner door slid aside. The recovery room was circular, split into ten wedge-shaped cubicles, several of which were curtained with patients already installed.

Against the wall above each section, easily visible to the nursing staff seated at the central hub of the facility, were banks of screens, monitoring the vital signs of the injured.

Jeff was in the fifth cubicle, four medics and a nurse watching his screens, murmuring occasional comments.

Their mental comments over the erratic behavior of his life signs told the Rowan that two despaired of his recovery: Two more were Talents, and one was desperately trying to think of something more to do for Jeff. Her approach was noted and room was made for her at the bedside.

Despite what she had gleaned of Jeff's injuries from his uncle, she was shocked to see him, his tanned face bleached by the powerful surgical lights, his left side showing nearly a dozen wounds in an almost stylized pattern along his upper arm, chest, hip, thigh, and calf where fragments had been removed. But the chest wound was the deepest. She could follow it, through the layers of skin, muscle, and bone, right to his heart and see where the damage had been repaired.

"Asaph, Chief Medic," said the older man. His mind still sorted out alternative treatments but he looked to her for some "miracle".

"They got you here in record time. We've only just come down from the theater." He paused and the Rowan had no need of her Talent to recognize his reluctance to proceed.

"Your prognosis?" He sighed, choosing his words, but the Rowan followed those he discarded and those he used. "He has suffered massive shock and insult. It was touch and go despite the fact they 'ported him directly here. The Admiral sent down two of his best surgeons," and Asaph indicated two of the other medics.

The Rowan's swift probe told her that the naval medics were amazed the man had lived through surgery and didn't give him a chance of survival. Their doubt stiffened the Rowan's purpose.

"Shock can be reduced, and major bodily insult," she said with such confidence and assurance that she surprised herself. But this was Jeff. Jeff Raven, her lover.

"Get him through the next few hours and he could stabilize," Asaph said, somehow taking heart from her positive attitude.

"It'd be a miracle," one of the naval men said, shaking his head.

"There should have been a response by now…" The Rowan ignored him and looked at the two Talents the nurse, whose mind identified herself as Rakella Chadevsky, Jeri's aunt, and the medic, identified as his surgeon brother, Dean.

"Have either of you tried for a response?" "Tried, yes, when he was first brought in…" Dean admitted.

There was not so much as a flicker, Rakella said, and a great deal to be done physically before it was too late. At that, I only just managed to restart the heart!

No delay? the Rowan asked, refusing to panic for that was what Isthia Raven had withheld from her. Hearts can be repaired, replaced if necessary, even in this temporary facility. As long as the brain had not been deprived of oxygen, a heart wound was not as serious as a major head wound would have been for a Talent.

None, Rakella reassured her. I was monitoring his heart closely because of the wound, she gave a tremulous smile, I caught it before the EEc could register it!

Then no-one's tried to reach him on the metamorphic level…

Neither of us know that technique, Dean added.

"Then you're about to learn," the Rowan said, wondering just what Talent medical staff were taught on Deneb, -apart from reviving a faltering heartbeat.

Suppressing the fears which his moribund appearance had raised, the Rowan moved to the bed and placed her hands on Jeff's ankles. The slight chill of the skin was only normal, she told herself, and pressed deeper, feeling the faint shallow pulse at the meridian point. With fingers and mind she could feel the congestion there, as Jeff's system began to close down prior to cessation. She dug her thumbs deep into the soles of his feet, in the solar plexus correlation point, rubbing with a hard, circular motion.

Then she pressed hard on the top of each big toe, again, and again. Then back to the solar plexus reflex. As she pressed again, she heard Rakella's quick inhalation.

There's a response. Whatever it is you're doing got a response!

You've repaired him on the physical level. I will deal with the metamorphic. May I assist you? Rakella asked.

By all means. Copy my manipulations. I admit that I've had few occasions to use such treatment, but it can be quite effective. Any stimulus could make a difference. Right flow, time would have no meaning for him so we use that timelessness to develop a support level strong enough to sustain his life force and restore balance.