The Healer by Michael Blumlein Page B

Vecque.
    â€œWell you don't deserve to be.”
    â€œWell all right.”
    â€œSo do something about it.”
    Her eyes flashed. “Are you blaming me?”
    Blame was strong, he said, unfair, oversimplified.
    â€œI'm being drained,” she reminded him. “If you think it's my fault, I'd say the teacher needs a lesson of his own.”
    It was a standoff, one of many. Vecque usually outlasted him, but on this occasion it was she, not he, who gave in.
    â€œYou say that we're the same,” she said, “but you're leaving out the most important part.”
    â€œWhat? This?” He slapped his frontal boss, the swollen hump of skull that set him apart from every human. For Vecque it was the narrowness of her head. For every tesque it was something. It had never before been a subject of conversation between them because it was a given. They lived with it day in and out; it was not worth mentioning. But now, apparently, it was.
    â€œIt's not the most important,” he said heatedly. “It's superficial. A quirk of nature. Close your eyes, it's gone.”
    She'd touched a nerve, which had not been her intention. Nor was his head, or hers, or any of theirs, the part she meant. Turning her attention to herself, she placed her hand below and to the side of her right breast, atop her os melior, pressing down as if to blot it out, or at the least to stanch its flow.
    â€œBut why?” he asked. “Why is that the most important? Why the one thing that does make us different? Why not all the things that are the same?”
    There was something plaintive in his voice, a cry, a plea for understanding, that gave her pause. It made her feel, strangely, that he was worse off than she was, and her heart went out to him. Her life was destined to be short, but his, she sensed, would be more difficult. He had no shields, and she feared that he would suffer a great deal before he found any.

Every day there were accidents in the mine, mostly minor ones. Mashed fingers, bruised muscles, cuts, sprains. Major accidents happened only rarely. The worst that Payne had seen in his brief career was a broken leg. Which is more or less what he expected when the siren started up. When it didn't stop, he began to think he might be in for something more serious, and he dropped what he was doing and raced outside, then to the adit, where he joined a group of anxious, grim-faced men.
    There had been an explosion. One of the jackleg operators had inadvertently drilled into a pocket of methane gas. The gas had been ignited by an errant spark from a faulty electrical wire. The force of the explosion had thrown the miner back some twenty feet, which had saved his life, because it landed him on the far side of the resulting fireball. His partner had not been so lucky. Word was that he was severely burned.
    Before long a skip appeared, flanked by half a dozen men. Their headlampsbobbed as they trod forward, the lamplights fading as they emerged from the darkness of the adit into the light of day. On the floor of the skip was the injured miner. His hair was singed and his face was burnt. Kneeling beside him, another miner held an oxygen mask to his face.
    The driver brought the skip adjacent to the healing center, where the man was lifted out and carried inside by his companions. Not sure yet what he might need, Payne had them lay him on the healing bed. Rapidly, he checked for a pulse and briefly removed the mask to look for signs of breathing. Where the man's skin wasn't charred, it was gray and dusky. His blistered lips were blue.
    Payne clamped the mask back over his mouth and hurriedly joined him on the bed. Rapidly, he wrapped their arms together, then lay down, closed his eyes, and commenced a healing. He hadn't time to pull the curtain, but the miners who had carried the man inside knew enough to turn their backs. Outside, as news of the accident spread, a crowd grew.
    Payne did absolutely everything he could. He