Chapter 49: Honest Data

Chapter 49: Chapter 49: Honest Data

Nero had wanted accurate information.

He discovered very quickly that obtaining it required Sebastian to cooperate with the unfamiliar concept of admitting when something hurt.

That was apparently more difficult than beginning an enigma-induced secondary transition.

Sebastian remained on the examination bed while the Sahan team recalibrated every sensor they could around the first set of genuine readings. The bright medical room had become considerably busier, two additional specialists moving between the wall displays and the diagnostic station while Claude stood close enough to Sebastian to catch every tiny change in posture before the man could disguise it.

Nero had returned to his chair near the windows.

He was no longer reading.

The tablet rested across one thigh while he watched Sebastian with enough concentration that the man eventually noticed.

"You’re staring."

"I’m supervising."

"You have no medical qualifications."

"I have twenty-five years of experience being medically inconvenient."

Sebastian’s mouth twitched.

The senior specialist tightened another sensor beneath his ribs.

"Pain?"

"Manageable."

Nero raised a brow.

Claude sighed.

The specialist looked between them. "That wasn’t a number."

Sebastian’s green eyes shifted toward Nero.

Nero smiled pleasantly.

"Try again."

"I dislike you."

"That appears unrelated to your ribs."

Sebastian exhaled through his nose and looked at the physician. "Six."

The monitor altered almost immediately.

His respiratory stress climbed by several points, vascular tension followed, and a second line indicating pheromonal strain rose slowly instead of remaining artificially smooth.

Claude stared at the screen.

"You were calling that manageable?"

"It was manageable."

"That is not what I asked."

Sebastian’s expression suggested that the distinction was offensive.

Nero leaned back slightly.

This was going to require constant vigilance.

The next question concerned the pressure behind Sebastian’s eyes.

He initially described it as mild.

Nero looked at him.

Sebastian looked back.

Neither spoke.

The silence lasted long enough that one of the younger physicians glanced uncertainly between them.

Sebastian finally sighed.

"Moderate."

Claude folded his arms.

"Number."

"Five."

The monitor changed again.

Nero’s mouth curved.

Sebastian noticed.

"Do not look pleased."

"I’m not pleased that you hurt."

"You look pleased."

"I’m pleased that you’re finally telling the truth about it."

"That is considerably more irritating."

"Good. Irritation appears to be one of the few symptoms you report accurately."

Claude made a quiet sound that might have been agreement.

Sebastian shot him a betrayed look.

Nero reached for his tablet while the physicians began another series of measurements.

The realization that Sebastian’s own pheromonal control could alter how conventional equipment interpreted his physiology had removed whatever patience Nero possessed for waiting until someone eventually sourced better equipment through ordinary channels.

He opened the encrypted conversation with his secretary.

Find every available diagnostic platform in Saha that remains functionally inert under active pheromonal influence. Optical, mechanical, shielded electronic, and experimental prototypes—I do not care. If it can measure physiology without interpreting pheromonal regulation as physiological truth, I want it here.

The reply appeared less than a minute later.

How soon?

Nero looked at Sebastian.

The specialist had asked about gland pain.

Sebastian said three.

Claude stared at him.

Nero stared at him.

Sebastian corrected himself to seven.

The graphs immediately proved the second answer considerably more believable.

Nero typed.

Twelve hours maximum.

Three dots appeared.

Idris: That may require moving equipment from the Royal Research Institute.

Nero: Move it.

Idris: Some systems are fixed installations.

Nero: Then bring the parts required to reproduce them here.

There was a longer pause.

Idris: I’ll coordinate with the Institute and Defense Medical Research.

Nero added one final instruction.

Nero: Charter aircraft if necessary. No commercial transport, no standard procurement delays, no waiting for morning authorization. Use my office.

His secretary reacted with a single acknowledgment.

Nero locked the tablet.

Saha had spent decades collecting brilliant physicians, engineers, and researchers precisely because his father considered the sentence that technology does not exist yet an invitation to become financially irresponsible.

Nero had inherited the philosophy.

Sebastian shifted on the examination bed.

Nero looked up immediately.

The man’s fingers had tightened against the mattress again.

"What?"

"Nothing."

The room went quiet.

Sebastian closed his eyes.

"Right. Apparently that word is forbidden now."

Claude stepped closer. "What changed?"

"My chest."

"How?"

"Pressure."

"Pain?"

Sebastian hesitated.

Nero’s expression hardened.

"Sebastian."

"I am thinking."

"You are editing."

Green eyes opened.

"I dislike this immensely."

"So does your monitor."

Sebastian looked toward the wall display.

The values were already attempting to smooth.

He inhaled, visibly stopped himself from forcing the discomfort down, and allowed his shoulders to loosen instead.

The machine alarmed softly.

The physicians moved closer to their screens.

"Pressure is increasing," Sebastian admitted. "Seven. Maybe eight when I breathe deeply."

Nero was out of the chair before he realized he had moved.

The senior specialist raised one hand.

"Do not increase your output yet."

Nero stopped.

His body did not appreciate that instruction.

Neither did his enigma instincts.

Sebastian was hurting, and every part of Nero capable of influencing the situation demanded that he erase the problem immediately.

The specialist watched the data for another fifteen seconds.

"Now increase by two percent."

Nero did.

Sebastian’s reaction was visible this time.

His shoulders dropped and the tight line around his mouth eased.

The monitor followed.

Respiratory strain decreased gradually, his pulse began settling, and the receptor-response graph moved in the direction the physicians had expected earlier.

Claude leaned toward the screen.

"There."

The senior specialist nodded. "That is what we needed."

Sebastian looked tired rather than satisfied.

Nero remained standing beside the bed.

"How much now?"

Sebastian took a careful breath.

"Five."

Nero watched him.

Sebastian’s expression flattened.

"Actually five."

Claude checked the monitor.

"He’s telling the truth."

"How miraculous."

Sebastian looked at Nero. "Sit down."

Nero did not.

"You are looming."

"I’m standing."

"You’re seven foot five. Standing becomes looming automatically."

A few people smiled.

Nero ignored them but stepped half a pace back.

The next hour became an exercise in teaching Sebastian not to turn suffering into an administrative inconvenience.

Headache: six.

Gland pain: seven.

Chest pressure: five after Nero increased support.

Weakness in his legs: worse than he initially admitted.

Nausea: three.

Fatigue: eight, which Sebastian tried to call four before Claude threatened to document him as an unreliable narrator in his own medical file.

That finally made Nero laugh.