Chapter 77: The Trial Protocol

Lia read the trial protocol in two days.

She read it the way she read everything she needed to use: front to back, then back to front for the parts she'd missed or misread, then with the pre-Collapse manual open beside it, cross-referencing. She took notes on scraps of paper that she organized by category. She argued with herself out loud when she hit something that didn't resolve cleanly.

River heard her from the hallway twice: *No, that can't be right, if the dosage is—wait, the body weight conversion—*

She left her to it.

On the morning of the second day Lia came to find River at the south wall, where she'd been doing the morning assessment with Ramos and thinking about Cain's envoy.

"I want to tell you what I know and what I don't know," Lia said.

"Tell me," River said.

---

The protocol had been a late-stage trial. Pre-Collapse, somewhere in the medical infrastructure that had been trying to solve radiation damage before the Collapse made the problem much larger. The results in the trial data were promising—Lia had parsed the statistical notation from the manual's appendix and the numbers meant something.

"The trial showed reversal of early-stage damage in sixty-three percent of subjects," Lia said. "Not just slowing—reversal. Actual cellular repair in the early-stage cases."

River held that.

"Marcus's damage," she said.

"Is not early-stage," Lia said. "I want to be clear about that." She held River's gaze. "The protocol shows less impressive results in the mid-stage cases—forty-one percent improvement, which is meaningful but significantly lower than the early-stage rate." She paused. "And in the advanced cases—Henric would have been advanced—the protocol showed marginal effect."

Marginal.

She held that too.

"Henric had the cache materials available to him," River said.

"Yes," Lia said. "He likely tried some version of what I'm describing. The fact that his damage progressed as far as it did—" She stopped. "Either the protocol didn't work for his stage, or he didn't have the right combination of materials, or he ran out before the treatment had time to—" She shook her head. "I don't know. I can't know. The variables are too many."

"But for Marcus," River said.

"For Marcus," Lia said, "I think we're in the mid-stage range. The treatment will be slower than in the early cases. The reversal—if it happens—won't be complete." She held River's gaze. "But the forty-one percent improvement in the trial cases meant meaningful functional recovery. Not a cure. Meaningful functional recovery."

River looked at her.

"Not a cure," she said.

"No," Lia said. "The damage that exists will not be fully repaired. The treatment, if it works, brings him to a stable place where the progression stops or significantly slows and some function returns. He would—" She paused. "He would still have reduced lung capacity. He would still need maintenance treatment indefinitely." She paused. "But he would have considerably more than six months."

River looked at the south wall.

"Start it," she said.

"I started this morning," Lia said. "While you were here."

---

She told Marcus that evening.

She told him everything Lia had told her—the trial data, the percentages, the distinction between reversal and cure.

He listened without interrupting.

When she finished he was quiet for a moment.

"Forty-one percent," he said.

"In the trial data," she said. "Which is incomplete because the Collapse happened before the trial concluded."

"What happened to the other fifty-nine percent," he said.

"Some progressed to advanced stage," she said. "Some died." She held his gaze. "The data doesn't break down further than that."

He breathed.

"The maintenance treatment," he said. "Indefinitely."

"Yes."

"Which means we need the cache materials to stay available," he said. "Or we need to find another source."

"The Sanctuary," she said.

He looked at her.

"Lia said the pre-Collapse medical research programs—"

"If the research made it to the Sanctuary," he said. "If. A lot of ifs, River."

"Yes," she said. "A lot of ifs." She held his gaze. "Are you asking me to give up on them."

He looked at her.

"No," he said. He almost smiled. "I'm not." He paused. "I'm asking you to understand that I know what this is and isn't." He held her gaze. "The treatment might buy me significant time. It doesn't fix me. I want you to hold that."

"I'm holding it," she said.

"You're hoping it means something it doesn't," he said. Not unkindly.

"I'm allowed to hope," she said.

He breathed. The careful breath—better than yesterday. The first treatment dose had already done something to the quality of it. Not much. But something.

"Forty-one percent," he said. "Those are better odds than I've had before. The odds of getting out of the eastern valley the first winter were—" He stopped. "Never mind. Worse odds."

"The first winter," she said.

He looked at her.

She waited.

He looked at the ceiling.

"Before I found the Station area," he said. "I was on my own for two years. After—" He stopped. "After I left the Riders. I was on my own for two years in the eastern corridor, and the first winter was very hard." He held her gaze. "I survived that. Not because the odds were good. Because I didn't have anything else to do."

She looked at him.

"And now," she said.

He held her gaze.

"Now I have the Station," he said. "That's something else to do."

---

Training Kael was an hour every morning.

She'd set up the space in the southeast corner of the high valley, in the flat area between the wall and the spring. She'd started with the basics—not the fighting, that came later—the body awareness, the falling, the way you learned to absorb and recover before you learned to strike. It was what Marcus had taught her. She did it the same way.

He was good.

Not in the practiced sense—he was twelve and untrained, he was clumsy with the basic exercises in the way all beginners were clumsy—but in the underlying sense. He moved without fear of the ground. He fell and got up with the automatic bounce of someone who didn't hold onto the fall.

"Where did you learn to fall like that," she said, on the third day.

He thought about it. "The farmhouse had a broken step," he said. "I fell down it a lot."

She looked at him.

"That's not the usual answer," she said.

"What's the usual answer," he said.

"People usually say nowhere," she said. "They usually mean they were afraid of falling before they started."

He was quiet for a moment. "I was afraid of lots of things," he said. "The falling felt okay."

She looked at him.

"Okay," she said. "From the top."

---

The envoy came on day nine.

One day earlier than Cain's note had implied.

River was at the south wall when Ramos called it—a single rider on the standard approach road, unhurried, moving at the pace of someone who wasn't trying to hide what they were.

She watched them come.

A woman. Forty-something. Rider gear but officer-grade—the rank showed in the equipment's quality, the way it was worn. She rode alone, which was either confidence or statement.

River looked at Cal, who was at the wall beside her.

"She's senior," he said. "Above Sorel's level."

"Yes," River said.

She thought about what Cain sent when he wanted to communicate at a level above a field officer. Someone who'd read the documentation. Someone who could answer questions.

Or ask them.

"Open the south gate," she said. "Bring her in."

---

Her name was Commander Thale, and she didn't waste time on politeness.

"The documentation your network is distributing," she said, when they were in the main hall with River and Cal and Ramos. "Where did it originate."

River held her gaze.

"That's not how this works," River said.

Thale looked at her.

"You're here because Cain sent you," River said. "Tell me what Cain wants."

A pause. Thale had the contained quality of someone who managed information professionally and wasn't used to the opening move being refused.

"Cain wants to know the scope of the network," Thale said. "How many settlements, what routes, who controls distribution."

"Why," River said.

"Because it affects the Riders' operational picture of this territory," Thale said. "A network of settlements with a documented claim on his organization's origins—that affects how he manages this region."

"Yes," River said. "It does."

Thale looked at her.

"The documentation," Thale said. "It's accurate."

River held her gaze.

"You've read it," River said.

"I've read it," Thale said. "I know what it says. I know where it comes from." She held River's gaze. "I'm not here to dispute the accuracy."

River looked at her.

This was not what she'd expected. She'd expected a threat. A counter-claim. An offer to buy the documentation back.

"What is Cain's position," River said.

"His position," Thale said, "is that the network exists and he has three options: destroy it, absorb it, or acknowledge it and negotiate terms." She held River's gaze. "He's not destroying it."

"Because the agreement—" River said.

"Because it's not worth the cost," Thale said. "Not the cure network. Not while the documentation is distributed." She paused. "He's not acknowledging it publicly—he can't, not without undermining his own command structure. But privately—" She stopped.

River held her gaze.

"He sent you," River said.

"He sent me," Thale said.

River looked at the main hall. At the walls of the Station.

"Parnell," she said. "The tribute suspension."

"Formalized," Thale said. "Parnell, and any settlement that is formally part of the cure distribution network, will have their tribute suspended as long as the network operates and maintains the terms of the original agreement." She held River's gaze. "The terms being that the Station doesn't actively recruit Rider defectors and the network doesn't move weapons or combatants."

River held that.

"The documentation continues," she said.

"The documentation continues," Thale said. "He's not going to try to stop it. It's already out." She paused. "He's not happy about it."

"He's not supposed to be," River said.

Thale looked at her with a quality River hadn't seen yet—something almost like respect and something almost like calculation, both running in parallel.

"You're seventeen years old," Thale said.

"Yes," River said.

Thale held her gaze for another moment.

Then she said: "Cain wants a meeting."

River held still.

"Not here," Thale said. "Not the Station. Neutral ground, small number of people on each side, full protection guarantee." She paused. "He has information for you. About your parents."

The room was very quiet.

River looked at her.

She kept her face exactly where it was.

"What kind of information," River said.

"I don't know the specifics," Thale said. "I know he has it and he wants to use it as a basis for direct conversation." She held River's gaze. "He's not using it as leverage. He specifically told me to tell you it's not leverage. It's—" She paused. "He said it's something you have a right to know."

River held her gaze.

She thought about the outline of her parents. The fire. Her grandmother's hands. The things she'd been told and the things she'd been not-told.

She thought about what it meant that Cain had information about her parents.

She looked at Cal. He was watching her. He wasn't going to say anything—it was her call and he knew it was her call.

She looked at Thale.

"Tell him I'll consider it," she said.

Thale held her gaze.

"That's not a yes," she said.

"No," River said. "It's not."