His gaze shifts to Shanley, who clears his
throat, speaks in his comforting, almost feminine physician’s
voice, the kind of voice a doctor shouldhave, the kind that
lends itself to a good bedside manner. Professional and caring and
distant and so damn compassionate, it makes your eyes tear up to
hear it. “Jeremy,” he starts, and that about does it, his name in
that voice, because Conlan’s face crumples like a used tissue and
he struggles not to cry. “I’ve been thinking,” Shanley hurries on,
easily snagging our attention. Even Ellington’s listening. “I’ll
have to get into the colony to study the disease and make sure, but
from what you’ve told me, this sounds like a fairly
straight-forward filovirus. It has all the classic symptoms. Now,
I’m not set up here to do a hemoflush, all that stuff’s back at the
station, but there are alternatives—”
“Like what?” Ellington wants to know.
He laughs, a harsh sound in the close corridor. “You want all of us