Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,25

tempted by the plethora of aromas wafting out of the Botanical Gardens and I promise myself that I'll scale the fence and admire the sleeping flowers later. The hospital is a brightly lit contrast to the dark embrace of the Botanical Gardens, and I find my way into P wing where the burn wards are located.

The scent of the chemicals makes my skin crawl. Western medicine relies on its science too much. If it comes out of a laboratory and cost more than a billion dollars to create, then it must do something. And these products do, but it's not what these patients need. They need to know their skin will heal, that they'll be able to wear clothing without having to worry about how the synthetic fabric is going to irritate their flesh. They need to know their families won't look away when they enter the room; that someone will look past their melted skin and see the person inside. The creams and salves with the trademark names won't do any of those things. The pharmaceuticals will only make the pain go away. For a little while. But it's okay; there's a solution for the pain that persists after the creams have done their work. It has a trademarked name too, and the insurance companies will cover most of it. Maybe in a few years, the patient can talk about weaning themselves off the drugs. Maybe.

There's a handful of people in the lobby, draped across the uncomfortable furniture. They don't know how to keep a vigil for their loved ones, and the fluorescent lights have sucked all the hope out of their jaundiced faces. The staff move efficiently—some of them make eye contact, but most don't. The only reason they look up is to check the hands on the large clock over the nurses' station.

Patient rooms are on the first two floors, and no one shows any interest in me on the ground floor. As soon as the elevator doors open on the second, I lean forward and press the button for four, trying to appear annoyed that the elevator has decided to slow my ascent down.

There are two men in the waiting area, right in front of the elevator. They look like they bought their suits off the same rack, and they both glance up as the elevator doors open. They're good, but they stare a little too long.

I get off on four, and discover there is no place for me to go but back down. There is no waiting area; instead, there's a nursing station right in front of the door, and the single nurse sitting at it has already spotted me. “Can I help you?” she asks.

“Hi,” I say, spontaneously deciding to be the sort of guy who asks for directions. “I'm trying to find a client of mine,” I say. “His name is Morse. I'm with—” I rattle off the long name of Prime Earth's legal team, adding an extra partner for good measure. “They told me he's on the third floor. ‘Get off the elevator and turn right. You can't miss them.' That's what they said.”

“This is the fourth floor,” she says.

“It is?” I glance around, as if I don't quite understand how I managed to arrive where I'm at. “So confusing—kind of like casinos in the US. They want you to come in, but they don't want you to leave.”

The nurse's nametag reads Kelly, and her long brown hair has been clipped back into a loose bun. It hasn't started to escape her efforts at restraining it, which suggests she hasn't been on shift too long. “There are no patient rooms up here,” she says.

I try for charming, recollecting that Callis had always been the ladies' man between the two of us. I've done my fair share of playing the rake over the centuries, but I've fallen out of practice since World War II. “I was just down on the ground floor,” I say, leaning on the counter, “and my client—Morse—wasn't there.”

“He wouldn't be on the third either,” she says. “He's probably on the second floor.” She slides her chair over in front of the computer monitor. “Morse,” she says, tapping the keys. “What was the first name?”

“Thaddeus,” I reply reflexively, recalling the news article I read earlier.

Her eyebrows pull together slightly as she reads the results of her database search. “Who did you say you were with again?” she asks.

I repeat the law firm's name, reducing it to just the first two