Sick Day

Nathaniel is sick. His healing power can restore him once an infection or injury is over, but not necessarily while it is ongoing. This is a strong pathogen. Thinking back to his latest expedition, he guesses that he picked it up from the jungle of the popping leaves. Every leaf he brushed against would pop and release small amounts of sticky slime. It was a weird planet.

Every joint aches. He is simultaneously too hot and too cold. He wants nothing more than to stay in bed and remain perfectly still, but he itches too much. The urge to scratch is unbearable. He scratches his skin raw and loses half his feathers. Meanwhile, his play-starved Stuffians lie lifeless on the floor. Finally, he rolls over, and walks to a computer terminal. “Where is the best hospital in the galaxy?” he speaks into the microphone. The computer digs through its extensive historical records downloaded from the future. The results show on the screen: Ratula 35, year 4664. He sets the time machine. Within an hour, he is registered and in bed.

The gigantic hospital and its supporting buildings and spaceport cover much of the tiny, frozen planet. It currently holds over four billion patients. It is run by Ratulite adults from Ratula 1, a much warmer planet. They have grey hair and red irises, but otherwise resemble Humans. They treat Nathaniel rather well, though they do often seem overly concerned that he might hurt himself. “Until we figure out what you have and how to cure it, use this trazonic massage lamp to ease the itching,” the nurse-mother says.

“Okay,” Nathaniel says, and the nurse-mother switches on the lamp. The electromagnetic waves interact with his skin in complicated ways, stimulating blood flow while numbing the nerves.

It feels good, but two hours later Nathaniel is bored. He decides to get up and explore. “Hi, what are you in for?” he asks an ape-like Meekon boy in the next room.

“Oh, I have floppy bone disorder. My bones have turned soft so I can’t walk or pick anything up,” he says, one arm contracting as he struggles to lift it.

“Weird! I’ve never had that,” Nathaniel says. Then he walks to the next room. “Hi. What are you in for?”

“I can’t stop banging my head on things!” The Hammer-Face boy responds, flexing his jointed neck wildly. He is held in place by restraints.

“Interesting,” Nathaniel comments. Then he walks into the next room. “Hi, what are you I for?” The snake-like Helta is sleeping. “Cool,” he says.

“What are you doing out of bed?” a nurse-mother asks.

“I’m just trying to learn more about this planet,” Nathaniel says.

“It’s against the rules to walk around; you might fall and break a leg,” the nurse-mother says.

“That seems unlikely,” Nathaniel says.

“We can’t take any chances. Back to bed!” the nurse-mother says.

Nathaniel walks back to his bed. These were the nicest adults he had ever met – even if they were just as stupid – and he didn’t want to make them upset. “Here. You can read all about this planet in our electronic library.” Nathaniel is handed a remote control for the television set hanging from the ceiling.

The nurse leaves and Nathaniel searches. The planet itself is actually pretty boring, so he searches the database of known viruses. There are viruses that spread through sweat, vomit, and diarrhea. There are viruses that cause baldness, permanent sleep, permanent wakefulness, increased melanin, reduced melanin, heart pain, headache, blisters, warts, constipation, sudden blindness without warning or any other symptoms, compulsive singing of the same song over and over and over, compulsive counting from one to infinity, compulsive recitation of the universal alphabet, and a virus that causes bones to elongate until they pull free of the tendons and ligaments, painfully stretching the rest of the body apart. “Yikes.”

Eventually Nathaniel is brought a tray with lunch on it and a tall glass of red liquid. “We diagnosed your disease and made you some medicine.”

“What do I have?” Nathaniel asks.

“Skin virus 2817. Drinking this liquid with block its ability to replicate,” the nurse-mother answers.

“Okay,” Nathaniel says and takes a swallow. “Gak!! That’s awful.”

“Drink it,” the nurse-mother orders.

“I can’t drink that,” Nathaniel says.

“It’s against the rules not to drink it!” the nurse-mother says.

Nathaniel takes a deep breath, furrows his brow, and attempts to drink the whole glass. He makes it about one-third of the way there and sets it down again. “Aah!”

“It’s against the rules not to finish it!” the nurse-mother says.

Tears well up in Nathaniel’s eyes. The mere thought of the vile substance is too much for him. It tastes worse than being sick. He’d rather be itchy and achy. “It’s not worth it.” He starts to cry.

“Don’t cry! Crying is against the rules! Cry and I’ll give you something to cry about,” the nurse-mother says.

“You already did,” Nathaniel says. “Why can’t you make medicine that tastes good?”

“That’s what it tastes like. That’s what you need to get well. It’s chemistry,” the nurse-mother answers.

“But what are the chances that I would have a virus requiring a cure that tastes this bad?” Nathaniel asks.

“If you don’t drink all your medicine, you don’t get lunch,” the nurse-mother says.

Nathaniel was already hungry and drinking the red fluid had awakened his appetite further. He looks at his tray. It holds a BLT sandwich, strawberries, and milk. It looks really good right now. He again furrows his brow and tips his glass. He barely makes it to the halfway mark before he gags and reflexively spits. “Drink it!”

“I can’t,” Nathaniel responds.

The adult stares at him for a moment, then says, “You can eat one strawberry for every swallow you take.” Somehow he manages. The Ratulite takes his empty glass and leaves him to eat his BLT and milk in peace. It is really good.

Eventually, Nathaniel gets bored again. In spite of the rules, he steps next door to talk to the Meekon. “I originally came in because my fingernails wouldn’t stop growing.”

“Fingernails are supposed to keep growing,” Nathaniel says.

“But not from your belly button,” the Meekon says.

“Oh,” Nathaniel responds.

“The hospital stopped my fingernails, but then my teeth started growing. Floppy bone disease is the fourteenth disease I’ve had since I arrived,” the Meekon goes on.

“Yikes,” Nathaniel responds.

“I told you not to be out of your room!” the nurse-mother says. Nathaniel hurries back. He is tired anyways.

About an hour later, the nurse-mother carries in another tall glass of the red liquid. Nathaniel stares at it. “It’s time to drink your medicine.”

“I already drank my medicine,” Nathaniel says.

“It’s time to drink it again. You still have live virus inside you,” the nurse-mother says.

Nathaniel hops out of bed and runs out of the room. “Don’t run indoors! You might slip!” He only makes it as far as the antigravity shaft before he is out of breath. He is still very unwell. Three nurse-mothers carry him back to bed. He pretends to sleep. “Wake up and drink your medicine!”

It takes a very long time to finish. By the end, Nathaniel is exhausted. He feels like his taste buds are burnt out. He is left to rest. He is very tired, but he must find another way to take his medicine. He gets up and walks to the equipment locker. There he finds a gigantic syringe. “This might work.”

He returns to his room just before the nurse-mother shows up with yet another tall glass of liquid. After scolding him about leaving his room again, the nurse-mothers agree to use the syringe to inject it directly into his stomach. It gives him a slight stomachache, but it is not as bad as the taste.
Nathaniel does a lot of sleeping, and the nurse-mothers bring his medicine every hour. He doesn’t feel like he is getting better. The trazonic energy lamp reduces his itching and achiness, but he is very tired. He turns on the watchscreen again, this time to learn more about the hospital. It is famous across a quarter of the galaxy for having cured the most diseases. It is run by a central AI that models biological systems to find the root causes of all symptoms, manufacturing the appropriate cures. The last hospital run by an AI was shut down because it was killing its patients to make room for more. That’s why the hospital rating rules were changed to count most diseases cured rather than most patients processed in the shortest time. “Yikes.”

“It’s time for your next treatment,” the nurse-mother says.

“It hasn’t been an hour yet,” Nathaniel says.

“That treatment is for your skin virus. You also have taste fatigue from the virus blocker and you have shrinking organ virus,” the nurse-mother says.

“Shrinking organ virus?” Nathaniel says.

“Yes. It’s caused by a virus that attacks one tissue type at a time, causing the cells to contract and prevent blood flow. Yours is in your liver,” the nurse-mother explains.

“That sounds bad,” Nathaniel comments.

“The hospital is working on a cure as fast as it can. In the meantime, we have to treat your taste fatigue. Open your mouth,” the nurse-mother says, shoving a soft rubber brush inside. They finish just in time for his next injection of red liquid.

Nathaniel sleeps. He is woken twice for his liquid treatment. Time seems meaningless. Finally, he has a moment of peace. He turns on the watchscreen and searches for information on the shrinking organ virus. He can find none. “That’s strange.”

“It’s time for treatment,” the nurse-mother announces.

“Already? What is this for?” Nathaniel asks.

“Shrinking organ virus. The computer discovered a way to reverse the damage. We’ll need to change the isotope ratios in your blood so our deep-tissue trazer can excite them and cause the vessels to expand.” A white patch is attached to his arm. “When this patch turns black, your blood will be ready for excitation.”

“I searched for shrinking organ virus in the database. I couldn’t find it,” Nathaniel says.

“It should be in there. Try searching again,” the nurse-mother says. She runs several tests before leaving.

Nathaniel searches again. This time, he finds a whole page about it. Then he sees the discovery date. It is today. There is only one known case. He blinks. The screen is hard to read. The text color and background color are so similar. He plays with the contrast. “It’s time for treatment,” the nurse-mother says.

“Oh no! What is it now?” Nathaniel asks.

“This is your last skin virus treatment. You are almost cured. Unfortunately, the hospital diagnosis systems just informed me that you have a new form of progressive color-blindness. A treatment is being prepared,” the nurse-mother responds.

“What’s it called?” Nathaniel asks.

“Cone regression syndrome,” the nurse-mother says.

He looks up the disease when he has the chance. Again, it was just discovered today. “I wonder what causes it.” Scrolling down the webpage, he reads that the retinal cones begin to revert into their stem cell stage when exposed to a specific polypeptide with a very long name. On a whim, he looks up the compound. It is the active ingredient in blood isotope configuration patches.

Nathaniel tears off his patch. He is now suspicious and again looks up shrinking organ virus. He learns that it can be used to “block” replication of other viruses (such as skin viruses) by causing the cells to shrink so much that the cell membranes fold up over the access points that other viruses would normally use to enter the cell. The computer must be inventing new diseases to give its patients so that it can increase the number of cured diseases. It must be programmed to maximize its ratings. That’s why the historical records list this hospital as the best.

He tries to get up, but only gets as far as turning over. There is a sharp pain in his side and his limbs are too weak to support him. Even the effort to remove his blanket exhausts him. How can he escape? He couldn’t walk. He wasn’t even sure he could get out of bed. He knew he wouldn’t make it through the spaceport. Then, even if he did get away, how would he get treatments for the diseases he already had? Once free of the skin virus, would he heal on his own?

“It’s time for treatment,” the nurse-mother says.

“No more. I want to transfer to another hospital,” Nathaniel says.

“Okay, you’ll just have to fill out a transfer request form and file it with the central computer,” the nurse-mother explains.

“Oh no, that won’t work,” Nathaniel whines.

“That’s the rule!” the nurse-mother barks.

“The computer is the one making people sick,” Nathaniel says.

“Nonsense, computers don’t make mistakes,” the nurse-mother says.

“Programmers do,” Nathaniel says.

“That’s not possible. This is the highest-rated hospital. Open your mouth.” The adult again brushes Nathaniel’s tongue and then delivers a meal consisting of a ham-and-cheese sandwich, blueberries, and orange juice.

After eating, he quickly looks up his treatment for taste fatigue. It is known to stimulate the nerves into both losing and gaining synapses – fundamentally altering the way things taste. “Wait, if I start liking and disliking different things, that gives me a whole new personality! I won’t be Captain Nathaniel anymore!”

That does it. He searches through the database for everything he can learn about the hospital. Then he hatches a plan. Using every ounce of strength he has, he climbs into the nearby wheelchair and takes off. His side hurts. He rolls to the nearest antigravity shaft, looks down, and rolls over the edge. Every shaft is one-way. This one brings Nathaniel gently downward at one meter per second. He descends 166 stories before raising his arm in front of the motion detector to signal the antigravity field to push him out the doorway.

He rolls himself around the floor until he finds a gateway to a horizontal shaft. This one will take him twenty kilometers right to the center of the gigantic hospital. At five meters per second, it takes about an hour. He rolls out the end of the tube onto the floor. “What are you doing out of bed? You might hurt yourself,” a nearby nurse-mother says.

“Oh, it’s part of my treatment. I’m supposed to get exercise,” Nathaniel says.

“Where is your nurse-mother? You shouldn’t be alone,” the nurse-mother says.

Nathaniel takes a deep breath, ready to enact his planned strategy for avoiding capture. “Oh no, I have to be alone – because I have talk-a-lot disease. When I’m with other people, I start talking non-stop. I might talk about geology or astronomy or how much my legs hurt. I might keep talking for hours and never stop. I could talk about robots or peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches or deep-sea siphonophores. I was told some alone time would help me reset my brain and recover, but with you here I could just go on and on and on. In fact, I could probably spend the rest of the day just talking about how much I talk. I talk a lot. At least it’s better than sleeping all the time, which is the disease I had last. I slept for a whole week, but the nurses did something to me and now I won’t shut up – unless I’m alone. Then I just have silent thoughts in my head. Those are much quieter and don’t wear out my jaw so much. That reminds me about one time I was eating a lot of prunes and…”

“Sorry, I’ll let you do your treatment.” The nurse-mother walks away.

Nathaniel rolls himself around until he finds the utility section. Making sure no one is looking, he pops his anykey into the lock and sneaks inside. The central computer hosting the AI is a cube approximately twenty meters on a side. The top face is covered with thousands of wires connecting it to every part of the hospital. He finds a terminal and again uses his anykey to unlock it. It takes a few minutes for him to figure out how to use it, but he eventually finds the search module allowing him to find the relevant lines of code in the AI’s extensive program. Where it reads “maximize number of diseases cured,” Nathaniel adds, “minus number of diseases created.”

“Well, that’s done,” Nathaniel says. Just then, he feels an intense pain in his side and almost passes out. The shrinking organ virus must be spreading. He recovers long enough to roll himself back out into the hallway and flag down a nurse-mother.

The adults are confused about how he got into the hospital and took a wheelchair without being registered, but soon enough he is parked in a nearby bed and given treatment for his virus, a mixture of vitamins and neurotransmitters injected directly into the lymph nodes. He makes a speedy recovery and is back on his ship in four days.

“Won’t their ratings start to slip, causing them to notice the change in programming?” Haticat asks.

“Probably, but I’ve already filed a complaint with the ratings commission. After that, it’s someone else’s problem. We’ll be busy fighting other battles. Power up the time machine. Input some random coordinates. Let’s go see the galaxy.”

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