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Description
* * * * *

Whatever the reason for Silverberg's interest in Gatchel, the friendship lasted through medical school and well into residency.  Anyone who wanted Silverberg and Rokia at a party or in a study group was expected to issue an invitation to Gatchel also. Silverberg's family connections, and his gift for getting along with people, opened doors for Gatchel that otherwise would have remained firmly shut.  Medical school for Gatchel was followed by an offer to a top-notch residency programme. Of course, residency brought its own challenges.  However, Gatchel learned, for the most part, to enjoy his work.  His first year was a whirlwind of confusion and inadequacy, but eventually, piece-by-piece, a system began to emerge from the chaos, and he found he was able to anticipate problems before they happened.  Once the initial panic subsided, he found he enjoyed interacting with his patients.  Night shifts, especially, when the loud noises of daytime trauma were pushed back into the darkness by circles of calm created by lamps next to bedsides and over the nurses' workstations… .  But daylight would come eventually, bringing with it a new round of activity, and bloodshed.

Not that it seemed to disturb Silverberg.  Even in residency, Silverberg retained his poise.  The most heartwrenching cases of injury and illness left him unfazed.  The newly deaf and blinded young mother of three – the now permanently mute and drooling business man – the congenitally quadriplegic eight-year-old boy: these might raise waves of shame and anger in the other residents – but Silverberg himself seemed immune.  Other residents might indulge in sick humour or high-handed moralizing at the expense of the patients: Silverberg never did.  He treated all patients with the same assurance and grave courtesy.

Gatchel remembered that eight-year-old boy in particular.  He was a frequent visitor to Paediatrics.  Reaching his bedside meant navigating a maze of tubes and wires: the gastric tube for his nose, tubes for his IVs, one for his groin.  His IV had dislodged, and after a dozen attempts at re-inserting it, the freshly qualified nurse was on the edge of tears.  It was the new resident's turn.  The boy had held up bravely until that point, but when the looming figure of Gatchel had approached him, needle in hand, the boy had begun to scream. His head had thrashed from side-to-side, and his semi-functional right arm flailed.  Gatchel had reached out and caught his right forearm, delicate as a moth's leg, while the boy moaned and grunted.  Gatchel stood helplessly, shaken, mumbling nonsense in what he had hoped was a soothing voice, trying without success to calm the boy.

Silverberg, passing by, and attracted by the noise, had taken in the situation at a glance.  He had swiftly approached the other side of the bed, and placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Jesus, kid, this is lousy.  Look me in the eye and tell me this isn't lousy," Silverberg's said, his tone friendly.  "But you've been really brave so far.  You're going to get it under control."  The boy stopped flailing, and listened.

"You can do this, buddy," continued Silverberg, "let me take your arm… ." He leaned over and lifted the boy's wrist, smoothly took the needle from Gatchel, then expertly inserted it into the boy's hand.

Gatchel hadn't commented.  A few hours later, though, he had run into Silverberg again on the wards, and had cracked a mildly xenophobic joke to ease his tension and lift his spirits.  Silverberg had calmly corrected him, not with any air of superiority, but firmly, and almost compassionately.  Gatchel hadn't made that mistake again.

Generally speaking, though, disagreements between the two of them were rare.  Gatchel tended to keep his normally confrontational nature in check around Silverberg. Around Silverberg, he found it easy.  He also found it easy to speak openly to Silverberg – without fear of judgement – easier than it had ever been before in his life.  Silverberg himself did not seem to require a confidant.

Except, perhaps, for one evening in May, when they were both sitting outside on the balcony of Silverberg's apartment after dinner.  Gatchel was lounging back, half asleep, with a belly full of pasta and vino verde.  Silverberg, glass of wine in hand, feet propped up on the balcony railing among the geraniums, began to talk.  Not the usual recitation of exotic places and people that Gatchel could only half-visualize.  Instead of his usual smooth cadences, Silverberg's tone was wistful, longing, "… and they live forever, can you imagine?  Living a hundred lifetimes, having to leave everything behind … home … family… your species … but not really caring, because there would always be a new lifetime, new people to look forward to.  And to be strong like that, living in a robot body … there's so much weakness at the hospital … but these people are immortal … flying among the stars ... never alone… ."

"—and you want to do this?" asked Gatchel stupidly, feeling wide awake all of a sudden, wondering if he had dreamt the whole thing.  "How?"

"Interfacing," answered Silverberg calmly. "There are labs on this planet working on it.  It's all being kept quiet, of course.  But I don't want to stay on Earth.  I want to go to Cybertron.  That's where the Sentinels and the Interfaces live.  An interface occurs when a Sentinel or Seeker Transformer joins to an Organic in a psychic link.  From that point on, their souls are forever joined, and they can never be separated – at least, not until one of them dies.  They're more than mortal … together, they're superhuman… ."

"And you want to go to Cybertron to do this!?!" shrieked Gatchel.  Silverberg was clearly deranged, but Gatchel couldn't help being impressed by the magnificent scale of his ambitions.  Currently, the extent of Gatchel's ambitions consisted of getting a fellowship back home, at Southwestern.  Or maybe Baylor.  Providing he passed his pathology practicum on Monday.

Silverberg nodded.  "For years now. I actually met one of the Cybertronian human Interfaces on Elora.  I mean, I saw him from a distance.  He disappeared into the body of his robot partner – just like that – like magic.  And the way that robot could move!  Not like the ridiculous clunk you see in historical footage.  Faster than light and as graceful as smoke.  He and the robot had just fought off an invasion of Nathemic slave traders.  People on the planet talked about them as though they were God.  That's why I got into research in neurocytology and psychic phenomena.  I know one of them is a doctor… ."

"But … but," gaped Gatchel feebly, "How are you going to get to Cybertron? We've had almost no interaction with them for decades.  And what are you going to do once you get there?"

"There's still some back and forth between Earth and Cybertron.  Optimus Prime is interested in keeping the lines of communication open, and Earth wants to keep up with new developments in Cybertronian politics and technology.  Right now, there's a chief residency position opening up in the Organics wing of that massive hospital they have up there, and they want human applicants – Terran applicants, I mean – in particular."

"And you're going to apply?" Gatchel asked weakly, aware that he was not contributing much to the discussion, but not really sure what he could do about it.

"I figure I should be the front-running candidate," answered Silverberg coolly, "especially since that project I've been working on should have gone through the review process by then.  By the way, I've been meaning to ask you to take a look at that.  Your stats background might be helpful, add some polish.  And you might want to consider applying to the Cybertronian chief residency position yourself.  It'll be good practice for you, and it'll get your name out to the kinds of people who should know it.  It's getting pretty dark.  Hand me your plate, will you?"

* * * * *

Gatchel put down the data pad and reached for his coffee.

"Can I have another look at the layout of the model in the program?" he asked Sandi.

"Sure," she nodded.  "It's relatively straightforward point-and-click graphical interface.  We were really more worried about the bootstrapping.  Dr. Silverberg is going to run everything by a professional statistician, but we were hoping you might catch any major problems before we sent it over.  We want to look good!"

Gatchel smiled.  "You really like working here, don't you?"

Sandi nodded again. "It's a great lab.  Everyone gets along.  And the paradigm we're working on … it's mind-blowing.  It'll completely revolutionize the field.  I'm more into the physics' end of things myself, which Dr. Silverberg really appreciates, because he's got a mostly medical background.  He says he's going to put me as third author on the paper."

Gatchel scanned the source code.  Everything looked alright.  Covariance matrices… eigenvalues… everything within normal parameters.  Trust Silverberg.  Gatchel's own data sets invariably contained outliers that no amount of headpounding could explain away.

"Sandi, do you mind if I look at the raw data tables and the medical reports?"

"No problem," she said, and clicked on the desktop, then typed in a password.  "All the medical files are here, identifying information redacted.  Data tables are here.  Ethics submissions are over here.  The latest draft of the manuscript is here… ."

Gatchel started with the project overview in the ethics submission.  He moved onto the medical files. Then onto the raw data.  Then onto the unpublished manuscript.  Then back to the medical reports.  Then back to the raw data.  And again to the manuscript – the results section.  Then back to the raw data.  Then back to the medical reports.

Sandi grew bored.  "Dr. Gatchel, do you need me for this?  Because if you don't, I'm going next door to scan some slides into our database."

Gatchel jerked his head away from the monitor.  "What? Uh, sure, Sandi.  I'm fine right here."

Left alone, he began to flip through the documents in chronological order.  After another twenty minutes or so, he realized that it was hopeless:  there was just too much information.  He hesitated, staring worriedly into space.  Then he pulled out his data traveller.  The sound of Sandi shuffling around came from the next room.  Gatchel stuck his traveller into the computer port and pressed "copy" on the project folders.  Once finished, he removed the traveller and stuck it back into his pocket.  He hesitated again.  Then he inputted commands to clear the computer log of the most recent set of instructions.

Gatchel stood up, pulled on his jacket, and went next door.  Sandi looked up from her desktop.

"Did you get everything you need?" she asked brightly.

"I think so.  You can tell Dr. Silverberg that the statistical output looks just fine.  I'd appreciate it, though, if you could email me a copy of the processed results."

"No problem," said Sandi.  "I'll do that as soon as I've cleared it with Dr. Silverberg.  The other stuff – like the raw data – and the patients' files – they can't leave the lab, though."

"I know," said Gatchel, "thanks, Sandi."

* * * * *

It was late.  Not that the term meant much by Cybertronian standards.  The planet was always locked in gloom.  The only light came from buildings or lamps overhead, or from deep illuminated crevasses, over which hung suspended a tangle of streets and bridges.  But the "day" shift was over; the sleep cycle for most Organics had started hours ago.  On Earth, in North America, it was night.  Gatchel liked this time of day best.  Quiet, and few interruptions.  He had been able to work steadily for several hours.  But he was tired at last, and was heading home.  With any luck he would make it out of the hospital and back to his apartment without anyone making further demands on him.  He stepped off the moving platform, about 50 meters from one of the hospital side-exits, and breathed a sigh of relief.  When –

"Dr. Gatchel, could you wait a moment, please?" called a voice.

Gaychel turned.  Scott, and a large brown robot.  He was surprised.  He knew that the anti-parasitic agents he had proposed had proven effective.  At last report, Parker had regained a measure of sanity, and some control over the psychic link between himself and Scott had been re-established.  Scott had been weaned off the dramapactole and discharged from the hospital.  But Scott wasn't exactly the kind of doctor to work late.  What was he doing here?

"I need to speak to you," said Scott, "this is important.  Do you have a minute?"

"Well, I –" began Gatchel, with as much attitude he could muster through his fatigue.

"Great," interrupted Scott.  "Let's go in here for some privacy." He unceremoniously took a firm hold of Gatchel's arm and, ignoring Gatchel's sputtering, led him into a nearby room that Gatchel hadn't even known existed.  The large brown robot followed silently.

Once inside, Scott closed the door and motioned for Gatchel to take a seat on one of the human-sized benched lining the wall.  Aggravated, Gatchel shook his head, and remained standing.  The robot sat down against the wall and brought his knees up to his chin.  Scott shrugged his shoulders and began to pace back and forth.

"First of all," he said. "I want to thank you for your help in dealing with the K!doutl parasite.  The idea of using one drug to activate the second, antibacterial agent was simple, but very effective.  The choice of reactive esters was also fairly astute, although personally, I wonder if you might have considered…"

"Is this what you dragged me in here for?" asked Gatchel.  "I'm too damn busy for this crap.  Send me an e-mail."

Scott stopped pacing.  "No," he said quietly. "That's not why I wanted to talk to you. I want to talk to you because there has been some bad blood between you and me – between you and us Interfaces, really – and I want to do something about it."

Gatchel suddenly felt very, very tired.  "Where are you going with this?  Because I have no problem with the current situation, as long as you remember that I am head of the Organics wing of this hospital, not you."

"I was reminded today," Scott continued, ignoring him, "I was reminded that the situation isn't easy for you, either.  Earth is something of a hermit planet.  Short-lived population, fairly homogeneous as far as species is concerned, little contact with Cybertron.  It must have been… difficult… for you to have been plunged into such a foreign environment… and intimidating to run a hospital, giving orders to older, more experienced, better educated subordinates…"

Gatchel's slow burn, which had been building over the last few minutes, burst into flame.  "Jesus f-cking wept!" he shouted, spitting in his rage, "is this why you dragged me in here?  To reel off my supposed failings, and throw them in my face? Well you can go to hell, the lot of you Interfaces, I…"

"No, no!" pleaded Scott, waving his hands, "listen.  I came to tell you that I understand.  Ever since I lost my memory – all six thousand years of my life – I've been surrounded by people who know me better than I know them.  I work every day with friends whose faces I don't even recognize.  I'm always at a disadvantage.  I know what it's like."

Gatchel looked at his feet, and said nothing.

"We each have something to offer the other," said Scott. "Can't we put our past problems behind us? Don't you think we'd be better off trying to help each other?  By working together?  Don't you think it would be better that way?"

* * * * *

continued

Part One
Part Three

Description
* * * * *

Whatever the reason for Silverberg's interest in Gatchel, the friendship lasted through medical school and well into residency.  Anyone who wanted Silverberg and Rokia at a party or in a study group was expected to issue an invitation to Gatchel also. Silverberg's family connections, and his gift for getting along with people, opened doors for Gatchel that otherwise would have remained firmly shut.  Medical school for Gatchel was followed by an offer to a top-notch residency programme. Of course, residency brought its own challenges.  However, Gatchel learned, for the most part, to enjoy his work.  His first year was a whirlwind of confusion and inadequacy, but eventually, piece-by-piece, a system began to emerge from the chaos, and he found he was able to anticipate problems before they happened.  Once the initial panic subsided, he found he enjoyed interacting with his patients.  Night shifts, especially, when the loud noises of daytime trauma were pushed back into the darkness by circles of calm created by lamps next to bedsides and over the nurses' workstations… .  But daylight would come eventually, bringing with it a new round of activity, and bloodshed.

Not that it seemed to disturb Silverberg.  Even in residency, Silverberg retained his poise.  The most heartwrenching cases of injury and illness left him unfazed.  The newly deaf and blinded young mother of three – the now permanently mute and drooling business man – the congenitally quadriplegic eight-year-old boy: these might raise waves of shame and anger in the other residents – but Silverberg himself seemed immune.  Other residents might indulge in sick humour or high-handed moralizing at the expense of the patients: Silverberg never did.  He treated all patients with the same assurance and grave courtesy.

Gatchel remembered that eight-year-old boy in particular.  He was a frequent visitor to Paediatrics.  Reaching his bedside meant navigating a maze of tubes and wires: the gastric tube for his nose, tubes for his IVs, one for his groin.  His IV had dislodged, and after a dozen attempts at re-inserting it, the freshly qualified nurse was on the edge of tears.  It was the new resident's turn.  The boy had held up bravely until that point, but when the looming figure of Gatchel had approached him, needle in hand, the boy had begun to scream. His head had thrashed from side-to-side, and his semi-functional right arm flailed.  Gatchel had reached out and caught his right forearm, delicate as a moth's leg, while the boy moaned and grunted.  Gatchel stood helplessly, shaken, mumbling nonsense in what he had hoped was a soothing voice, trying without success to calm the boy.

Silverberg, passing by, and attracted by the noise, had taken in the situation at a glance.  He had swiftly approached the other side of the bed, and placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Jesus, kid, this is lousy.  Look me in the eye and tell me this isn't lousy," Silverberg's said, his tone friendly.  "But you've been really brave so far.  You're going to get it under control."  The boy stopped flailing, and listened.

"You can do this, buddy," continued Silverberg, "let me take your arm… ." He leaned over and lifted the boy's wrist, smoothly took the needle from Gatchel, then expertly inserted it into the boy's hand.

Gatchel hadn't commented.  A few hours later, though, he had run into Silverberg again on the wards, and had cracked a mildly xenophobic joke to ease his tension and lift his spirits.  Silverberg had calmly corrected him, not with any air of superiority, but firmly, and almost compassionately.  Gatchel hadn't made that mistake again.

Generally speaking, though, disagreements between the two of them were rare.  Gatchel tended to keep his normally confrontational nature in check around Silverberg. Around Silverberg, he found it easy.  He also found it easy to speak openly to Silverberg – without fear of judgement – easier than it had ever been before in his life.  Silverberg himself did not seem to require a confidant.

Except, perhaps, for one evening in May, when they were both sitting outside on the balcony of Silverberg's apartment after dinner.  Gatchel was lounging back, half asleep, with a belly full of pasta and vino verde.  Silverberg, glass of wine in hand, feet propped up on the balcony railing among the geraniums, began to talk.  Not the usual recitation of exotic places and people that Gatchel could only half-visualize.  Instead of his usual smooth cadences, Silverberg's tone was wistful, longing, "… and they live forever, can you imagine?  Living a hundred lifetimes, having to leave everything behind … home … family… your species … but not really caring, because there would always be a new lifetime, new people to look forward to.  And to be strong like that, living in a robot body … there's so much weakness at the hospital … but these people are immortal … flying among the stars ... never alone… ."

"—and you want to do this?" asked Gatchel stupidly, feeling wide awake all of a sudden, wondering if he had dreamt the whole thing.  "How?"

"Interfacing," answered Silverberg calmly. "There are labs on this planet working on it.  It's all being kept quiet, of course.  But I don't want to stay on Earth.  I want to go to Cybertron.  That's where the Sentinels and the Interfaces live.  An interface occurs when a Sentinel or Seeker Transformer joins to an Organic in a psychic link.  From that point on, their souls are forever joined, and they can never be separated – at least, not until one of them dies.  They're more than mortal … together, they're superhuman… ."

"And you want to go to Cybertron to do this!?!" shrieked Gatchel.  Silverberg was clearly deranged, but Gatchel couldn't help being impressed by the magnificent scale of his ambitions.  Currently, the extent of Gatchel's ambitions consisted of getting a fellowship back home, at Southwestern.  Or maybe Baylor.  Providing he passed his pathology practicum on Monday.

Silverberg nodded.  "For years now. I actually met one of the Cybertronian human Interfaces on Elora.  I mean, I saw him from a distance.  He disappeared into the body of his robot partner – just like that – like magic.  And the way that robot could move!  Not like the ridiculous clunk you see in historical footage.  Faster than light and as graceful as smoke.  He and the robot had just fought off an invasion of Nathemic slave traders.  People on the planet talked about them as though they were God.  That's why I got into research in neurocytology and psychic phenomena.  I know one of them is a doctor… ."

"But … but," gaped Gatchel feebly, "How are you going to get to Cybertron? We've had almost no interaction with them for decades.  And what are you going to do once you get there?"

"There's still some back and forth between Earth and Cybertron.  Optimus Prime is interested in keeping the lines of communication open, and Earth wants to keep up with new developments in Cybertronian politics and technology.  Right now, there's a chief residency position opening up in the Organics wing of that massive hospital they have up there, and they want human applicants – Terran applicants, I mean – in particular."

"And you're going to apply?" Gatchel asked weakly, aware that he was not contributing much to the discussion, but not really sure what he could do about it.

"I figure I should be the front-running candidate," answered Silverberg coolly, "especially since that project I've been working on should have gone through the review process by then.  By the way, I've been meaning to ask you to take a look at that.  Your stats background might be helpful, add some polish.  And you might want to consider applying to the Cybertronian chief residency position yourself.  It'll be good practice for you, and it'll get your name out to the kinds of people who should know it.  It's getting pretty dark.  Hand me your plate, will you?"

* * * * *

Gatchel put down the data pad and reached for his coffee.

"Can I have another look at the layout of the model in the program?" he asked Sandi.

"Sure," she nodded.  "It's relatively straightforward point-and-click graphical interface.  We were really more worried about the bootstrapping.  Dr. Silverberg is going to run everything by a professional statistician, but we were hoping you might catch any major problems before we sent it over.  We want to look good!"

Gatchel smiled.  "You really like working here, don't you?"

Sandi nodded again. "It's a great lab.  Everyone gets along.  And the paradigm we're working on … it's mind-blowing.  It'll completely revolutionize the field.  I'm more into the physics' end of things myself, which Dr. Silverberg really appreciates, because he's got a mostly medical background.  He says he's going to put me as third author on the paper."

Gatchel scanned the source code.  Everything looked alright.  Covariance matrices… eigenvalues… everything within normal parameters.  Trust Silverberg.  Gatchel's own data sets invariably contained outliers that no amount of headpounding could explain away.

"Sandi, do you mind if I look at the raw data tables and the medical reports?"

"No problem," she said, and clicked on the desktop, then typed in a password.  "All the medical files are here, identifying information redacted.  Data tables are here.  Ethics submissions are over here.  The latest draft of the manuscript is here… ."

Gatchel started with the project overview in the ethics submission.  He moved onto the medical files. Then onto the raw data.  Then onto the unpublished manuscript.  Then back to the medical reports.  Then back to the raw data.  And again to the manuscript – the results section.  Then back to the raw data.  Then back to the medical reports.

Sandi grew bored.  "Dr. Gatchel, do you need me for this?  Because if you don't, I'm going next door to scan some slides into our database."

Gatchel jerked his head away from the monitor.  "What? Uh, sure, Sandi.  I'm fine right here."

Left alone, he began to flip through the documents in chronological order.  After another twenty minutes or so, he realized that it was hopeless:  there was just too much information.  He hesitated, staring worriedly into space.  Then he pulled out his data traveller.  The sound of Sandi shuffling around came from the next room.  Gatchel stuck his traveller into the computer port and pressed "copy" on the project folders.  Once finished, he removed the traveller and stuck it back into his pocket.  He hesitated again.  Then he inputted commands to clear the computer log of the most recent set of instructions.

Gatchel stood up, pulled on his jacket, and went next door.  Sandi looked up from her desktop.

"Did you get everything you need?" she asked brightly.

"I think so.  You can tell Dr. Silverberg that the statistical output looks just fine.  I'd appreciate it, though, if you could email me a copy of the processed results."

"No problem," said Sandi.  "I'll do that as soon as I've cleared it with Dr. Silverberg.  The other stuff – like the raw data – and the patients' files – they can't leave the lab, though."

"I know," said Gatchel, "thanks, Sandi."

* * * * *

It was late.  Not that the term meant much by Cybertronian standards.  The planet was always locked in gloom.  The only light came from buildings or lamps overhead, or from deep illuminated crevasses, over which hung suspended a tangle of streets and bridges.  But the "day" shift was over; the sleep cycle for most Organics had started hours ago.  On Earth, in North America, it was night.  Gatchel liked this time of day best.  Quiet, and few interruptions.  He had been able to work steadily for several hours.  But he was tired at last, and was heading home.  With any luck he would make it out of the hospital and back to his apartment without anyone making further demands on him.  He stepped off the moving platform, about 50 meters from one of the hospital side-exits, and breathed a sigh of relief.  When –

"Dr. Gatchel, could you wait a moment, please?" called a voice.

Gaychel turned.  Scott, and a large brown robot.  He was surprised.  He knew that the anti-parasitic agents he had proposed had proven effective.  At last report, Parker had regained a measure of sanity, and some control over the psychic link between himself and Scott had been re-established.  Scott had been weaned off the dramapactole and discharged from the hospital.  But Scott wasn't exactly the kind of doctor to work late.  What was he doing here?

"I need to speak to you," said Scott, "this is important.  Do you have a minute?"

"Well, I –" began Gatchel, with as much attitude he could muster through his fatigue.

"Great," interrupted Scott.  "Let's go in here for some privacy." He unceremoniously took a firm hold of Gatchel's arm and, ignoring Gatchel's sputtering, led him into a nearby room that Gatchel hadn't even known existed.  The large brown robot followed silently.

Once inside, Scott closed the door and motioned for Gatchel to take a seat on one of the human-sized benched lining the wall.  Aggravated, Gatchel shook his head, and remained standing.  The robot sat down against the wall and brought his knees up to his chin.  Scott shrugged his shoulders and began to pace back and forth.

"First of all," he said. "I want to thank you for your help in dealing with the K!doutl parasite.  The idea of using one drug to activate the second, antibacterial agent was simple, but very effective.  The choice of reactive esters was also fairly astute, although personally, I wonder if you might have considered…"

"Is this what you dragged me in here for?" asked Gatchel.  "I'm too damn busy for this crap.  Send me an e-mail."

Scott stopped pacing.  "No," he said quietly. "That's not why I wanted to talk to you. I want to talk to you because there has been some bad blood between you and me – between you and us Interfaces, really – and I want to do something about it."

Gatchel suddenly felt very, very tired.  "Where are you going with this?  Because I have no problem with the current situation, as long as you remember that I am head of the Organics wing of this hospital, not you."

"I was reminded today," Scott continued, ignoring him, "I was reminded that the situation isn't easy for you, either.  Earth is something of a hermit planet.  Short-lived population, fairly homogeneous as far as species is concerned, little contact with Cybertron.  It must have been… difficult… for you to have been plunged into such a foreign environment… and intimidating to run a hospital, giving orders to older, more experienced, better educated subordinates…"

Gatchel's slow burn, which had been building over the last few minutes, burst into flame.  "Jesus f-cking wept!" he shouted, spitting in his rage, "is this why you dragged me in here?  To reel off my supposed failings, and throw them in my face? Well you can go to hell, the lot of you Interfaces, I…"

"No, no!" pleaded Scott, waving his hands, "listen.  I came to tell you that I understand.  Ever since I lost my memory – all six thousand years of my life – I've been surrounded by people who know me better than I know them.  I work every day with friends whose faces I don't even recognize.  I'm always at a disadvantage.  I know what it's like."

Gatchel looked at his feet, and said nothing.

"We each have something to offer the other," said Scott. "Can't we put our past problems behind us? Don't you think we'd be better off trying to help each other?  By working together?  Don't you think it would be better that way?"

* * * * *

continued

Part One
Part Three