“Well,” says Dr. Langrishe. “We’ve all been in Alabast for how long now? I see no reason to suspect we haven’t been inoculated against whatever disease has taken these people.”

Ify nearly sneers at the racism she hears in his words. Her fists clench at her side. “Among the patients are several from the icelands of the Caucasus on Old Earth. They are white as well.”

Langrishe turns in his chair to look at Ify, one eyebrow raised, like he has just witnessed a dog trying to assemble a watch. “I was referring, Internist Diallo, to the palliative powers of citizenship.”

Of course you were, Ify says to herself. “With your permission, sirs, I would like to continue treatment of the patients while investigating a potential solution to the epidemic. Before it spreads even further.”

“I have some ideas on that front.” Towne’s voice doesn’t boom, but it reverberates throughout the entire room. Everyone hears it. Ify senses Grace startle behind her. “From my own research, I have noticed a preponderance of cases among recent African migrants. Specifically Nigerians.” His gaze grows sharp, as though he knows Ify is holding within her a secret to mysteries he wishes he could unlock. “There was war in your home country, yes?”

Ify struggles not to show any emotion, any indication that the invocation of where she came from has as much effect on her as it does. “The war has ended, Director Towne.”

“Indeed. But you know as well as I that wounds persist.”

“Psychological trauma does necessitate treatment following the advent of the initial traumatic incident. And untreated, it can result in grave psychological and physiological harm to the patient. Yes, Director. I know this.”

“And I am sure you can imagine the trauma of growing up during war, coming of age during a ceasefire, then having your life adversely impacted when that ceasefire ends.”

Adversely impacted. Director Towne would go for such understatement. Ify knows, however, that there’s no malice in it. Still, resentment builds in her that the director has so directly confronted her about her past. But it takes her a moment to realize his point. When she does, her breath catches. The ceasefire. The ceasefire that Ify played a direct role in ending. The ceasefire she broke by—

“Internist!” This from Langrishe.

Ify snaps out of her trance. “Yes. Yes, sorry. Um.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. Get it together, get it together. Think about what’s in front of you. She raises her head, her eyes cleared, her heart rate slowed. “Yes, Director. I . . . it’s still rather fresh for me. My homeland.” Play into his stereotypes and the racism he thinks is so subtle, she tells herself. “Please. Continue.”

“Well,” continues Langrishe. “What Director Towne was saying was that you would be the perfect candidate for such a mission.”

“Mission?”

Langrishe sighs loudly.