I’d been banged around from day one of my career. I’d been scared, beaten, gassed, abused, tossed out into vacuum, kicked, whipped, crashed into trees, left to freeze in ice or cold mud, cooked in hot Sun/Iota/name your star, starved, sleep deprived and just smashed myself in a hurry to take cover. But in all that time, I had never been seriously injured or wounded in combat. A few close calls had torn at body armor or helmet, but never me. It was frightening.
I triggered Boost again, to deal with the shock and pain. That was good, except it also increased circulation. As I recalled from my medical training, I wouldn’t likely bleed to death for several thousand seconds. Call it a sixty minutes or thirty-five segs. But it hurt like hell, it was making me nauseous from the thought and from the gouts of red running down my arm as if from a small hose. It was a psychological bombshell. I needed some time to recover. And I was seeing splotches in front of my eyes from the injury, exertion, and overuse of Boost. Three times in a row is the safe max. Beyond that you’re looking at a hospital and nanos to repair the damage to the cells caused by overexertion at the mitochondrial level.
I staggered and slowed. He’d got away, dammit, after I had him in hand. I swore through clenched teeth, held up my arm to examine the running crimson river cascading through white, striated and marbled flesh with gray veins and realized I was about to pass out. I was just aware enough to keep the arm atop me to prevent further damage.
I woke up in only a few seconds, but it hurt like a dogfucker. Or maybe that was why I woke up. There was no way to touch the wound or support it to reduce the pain, either—it was almost totally around my forearm, about three centimeters below the elbow. I peeled my shirt off with my left hand. Every time something hit the bare nerves in the wound I went into a paroxysmic cascade of thrashing pain and had to force myself motionless until it subsided. I got the shirt free in a series of intervals, then drew it down my right arm and wrapped it around, then pulled it tight enough for pressure. That hurt even worse. The jolts of pain lanced through me in metallic lightning spikes.
The blood ran right through and kept dripping in slow, surreal trickle-drops.
I limped, wincing, through the corridor. The few people who saw me recoiled in horror. They didn’t offer to help.
I managed to get phone signal once I was near a more habitable area. Silver answered at once.
“I’m cut. Need medical support fast. Moving along Passage Q, outbound.”
“Okay,” she said, apparently frightened. I wondered what my voice sounded like.
The fatigue, nausea, shock and some initial effects from blood loss were getting to me by then. My ears rang and I heard rushing waves. Eyes fuzzy. I couldn’t Boost again. It wouldn’t be safe. I just kept moving, every step causing burning sparks to shoot through my arm, from fingers to behind my eye.
Ahead, I heard warbling sirens, then I saw the cart, then I heard clattering feet as I collapsed and tried not to throw up.
An hour later I was somewhat more intact, sitting in a bed, trying to recline it even more to ease my churning guts. My arm was now blissfully numb, and under the bandages was glued, stitched, grafted and taped back together.
“Ah, you’re awake.”
I hadn’t noticed the nurse. She was probably pretty under all the protective clothing.
“I am. I got cut pretty badly.”
“Yes, but you should recover completely. You’re scheduled for nerve stimulators and regenerative medicine.”
“How long?”
“A week or so, according to the surgeon.”
“That’s a long time.”
“I’ll let them know you’re awake. I’ll also call your wife.”
“Please,” I said. I should have remembered that as the first thing to ask for. I was not fully responsive.
The nurse left. I’d apparently woken as she checked the room, whether by design or accident.
I didn’t wait long, but the woman who came in was obviously a cop, even in casual clothes and a doctor’s coat.
“Mister Ash,” she started. “How are you doing?” She took a seat and leaned over me.
“I’m not in pain at the moment, but I cringe when I think about it. I hope they can finish fixing it soon.”
“Very good. I need to find out how this happened.”
“I don’t know, really,” I said. “I was in the passageway, minding—”
“—your own business,” she finished for me. “IPMOB. We hear that all the time.”
She continued, “Now, you’re allegedly a tourist, you’re smart enough, and yet you decided to visit an area of the station occupied by lowlifes and thugs. I’m happy to keep things secret. Nor are you in any trouble at this point—” nice disclaimer, I thought “—but public safety means I have to find out. I don’t have to say anything to your wife. So level with me. Drugs? Hooker? Trade deal?”
If she was going to give me easy outs, I’d take them.
“Yeah, I was meeting a girl, or I was supposed to. She didn’t show. Instead, this guy cuts me and takes off with my pouch. Ellie’s not sure what I was doing. I told her I went sightseeing and got lost.”
“They got your pouch,” she said, “but not your very expensive commlink.”
“I had a pretty tight grip on it and I’d already called for help.”
“No, you hadn’t,” she said. “Even if the call didn’t connect, the attempt would be archived. It’s not.
“So, what are you doing that you’d try not to report a fight like that the second it happened? Your first call was to your wife, who called medics only, not police.”
“Allright, dammit,” I said. I went for the embarrassed whisper. “I was meeting a man.”
She snorted, leaned back and said, “Is it industrial or political spying?”
“What? I am not a spy!”
“Stow the fake outrage. I’m not impressed.”
“I can tell,” I said, giving in with a smile. “You’re very sleek in that coat. What are you wearing underneath?”
She stood, restraining a disgusted look.
“This conversation is not over. You will not be leaving here without escort and interview,” she said. I could feel the heat.
We’d see about that.
I felt my body from inside. I had legs and balance and the pain was controlled with medication. I could walk. Sooner was better, so I gave her twenty minutes to clear the building. Then I eased myself out of bed, turned off the monitor so it read “Disconnected,” not flatline. A nurse assistant arrived at once, but I said, “I need to walk. It helps me focus. Exercise.”
“I need to check with the doctor before I allow that, sir,” he said.
“Of course,” I said. I extended my good arm, and he took it, so to assist me back to bed.
I dragged for just a moment so he thought I was a little weak. He leaned to lift me.
That’s when I hit him, hard up into the solar plexus. He whuffed and curled up, unable to breathe, and I levered him into the bed. I pinned him with my weak hand and my weight on his throat, snagged a restraint, then another and pulled his limbs out like a starfish. It had to make his guts hurt even worse, but he seemed to understand he wasn’t going to be hurt further, and stopped resisting.
His nose seemed clear enough, so I gagged him with a handful of gloves, then selected a mild tranquilizer that would keep his vitals near normal. I slapped it on his arm.
That left me free to walk out.
It hurt like hell, but I put on a calm face and walked out toward the monitor station.
Ideally, I’d walk past with a nod and they’d not question it. Though if they recognized me and connected that to the monitor I wasn’t using, they might question me. Or if the investigator had said anything to them.
One of the monitors saw me and jumped up.
“Sir, you’re not allowed to be out here,” she said as she came around the counter and through the ratchet turnstile.
“I’m much better and I will follow up with
a private doctor at once,” I said. “I have some important matters to attend to.”
“You can’t do that. You have to stay here.”
“Says who? I have freedom of travel, don’t I?”
She raised herself up and said, “Not under medical supervision, no.”
Perfect.
It’s a cultural thing on Earth. People don’t talk back to authority figures. If you do, you’re either a criminal, or powerful. I did not present as criminal.
The trick is not to threaten with an “attorney.” No one ever believes that.
“Ma’am, I’m a close personal friend of Assemblywoman Vingai, of Quebec. You may recall her campaign has had considerable hassle from right wing corporatists. We’re taking such attacks very seriously, and they will be addressed after the election. I promise you, if I am detained, it will make the news.”
“Sir, I don’t want any trouble, but the investigator said—”
“That ‘investigator’ is a plant by ADM to embarrass the Assemblywoman. You call up the bureau and ask about her. They won’t tell you anything because she’s not on official business.”
“Sir, you’re hurt, and—”
“I’m only slightly hurt due to a private matter of mine. This has no bearing on the assemblywoman. I have a right to free association. Are you questioning our rights?”
I’d twisted the argument from me, to a politician, and implied the investigator was fake. I’d like to pull out an official looking ID in a moment and make them cringe. However, all my possessions were in their custody.
The icing on the cake was invoking Assemblywoman Vingai. She was one of the intellectual property movement, who’d trademarked her name. Just using it without her consent was an invitation to a lawsuit. If I mentioned her loudly and publicly, of course I had to be associated with her. No one wanted the attention arguing with me would bring. The cop might yell at them, or have someone come down and harass administration. The assemblywoman could have an entire agency come down on someone. Trump card. The irony, of course, is that such an act was as “right wing” as was possible.
It’s amazing how definitions change over time and by location. The entire Earth system was “right wing corporatist.” The only question was how much corporatism you wanted. The government controlled the corporations to ensure jobs for rabble and taxes. The consumers paid for both in the end price of goods and services, and paid taxes on top of it. Earth was the epitome of fascism, which they insisted was “democracy.”
“Sir, of course you have the right to leave. If you’ll sign here, and please come back at once if there’s anything else we can do.”
“If I need to, I will. Thank you.”
I signed my print, and made a show of punching a code into her phone. I spoke to Silver, “Ma’am, I expect to be back on task shortly. The hospital did the right thing and released me.”
“Understood. I will send a buggy.”
Great NCO. She and I made a good team.
She met me outside and led me only a short distance as I struggled agonizingly into a fresh suit coat she’d stuffed into her pack. The low G was all that let me stay upright. In an access entrance that didn’t appear to have any cameras, I changed to a vest. She ran the entrance lock with a coder, walked in with a notepad held up to block the camera inside, then we moved a few meters down the passage, out another door and into a maintenance area. She snagged two bump caps and stuck one on my head. With her leading holding the notepad, and nodding preemptively, no one questioned us.
She spoke loudly enough for anyone to hear, “—inspections are quite good here, so it doesn’t look like we’ll need to do much crosschecking. The important thing is—”
We crossed, went down another corridor as she pointed along the ceiling, “—though I think we might have to have a leak test on that line—” with a finger out from her hand holding the pad to minimize camera view.
We slipped through another exit, took several turns in the corridors and disappeared into crowds, through them, changed outfits twice at stores, and I made a point not to favor the damaged arm by giving it light tasks so it looked busy. I did a couple of left-handed hairstyle changes, and put on some makeup. We split then, her going ahead, me leaving through a different store door. I wandered along window shopping at exotic games and gadgets, alert for any apprehension. I could fight with one arm if I had to; I was trained to. It wouldn’t be anyone’s definition of fun, though.
Silver paged me with an intersection location, and I showed up looking different enough it took her a few moments to recognize me. We made a show of discussing business matters and disappeared into a new hotel.
There was a man in the room. Tall, rangy, well-dressed and no-nonsense in demeanor.
“Private doc,” she said. “He’s good at the basics.”
“I’m an EMT and former Special Unit medic,” he said.
“What’s a T Nine?” I asked. I slipped out of the coat, shaking and gasping as I did so, then peeled my shirt. He eased over to help me as he replied.
“A long range HAHO insertion canopy, fitted into a T Seven C or T Ten A container. Your associate already quizzed me.”
“Well, good. Should I lie down?”
“Yes, this is going to hurt. He did a number on you.”
“Yes he did. The ER took care of some of it.” I started to lie down gingerly, then collapsed in a starburst of agony.
He said, “They did a decent job. There isn’t much I can add. I have some neural rebuilding nanos, and a nonnarcotic analgesic that will take the edge off. Start doing gentle exercise for therapy and work your way up. Give it at least a week before you even consider pushups. Knuckles?”
I held out my hand. He frowned and considered, then pulled out some kind of combination. He used an old style needle and shot me in each knuckle in turn as I sweated, gritted my teeth and grunted in pain. Yes, I knew I’d need several treatments for this, but damn, it hurt. It felt as if that needle was being inserted up to my elbow.
Then he pulled out a pressure injector and went to work around my arm. That was only mildly excruciating.
It was a good thing I was lying down. Pain washed through me in waves interspersed with cold sweats. Blotches and colors before my eyes melted with twangy waveforms in my ears.
I heard his tinny voice say, “She said something about your ribs.”
“Previous attack.”
“I hope you’re dishing it out as well as taking it.”
“I hope so, too.”
“They’re healing crooked. Want me to break them?”
“No. Will they hinder me before I’m done with my contract?”
“About five percent, but you’re taking cumulative damage here. Those on one side, the arm on the other. You get degraded and lose capability.”
“Can’t be helped. Am I in danger of another pneumothorax?”
He had an ultrasonic scanner and looked. “No, it’s going to hurt, though. I’ll follow up on the tendons in a couple of days. That’s all for now.”
He stood, and Silver handed him a grand in cash. I presumed that was on top of any down payment. He nodded and left.
“I’m going to sleep now,” I said, and passed out.
CHAPTER 22
I snapped awake, an involuntary stretch of each leg raising my blood pressure and forcing alertness. The stretches were mostly internal; I didn’t move more than a fraction. It hurt when I did. Something was bothering me.
Silver looked worried.
“You were talking in your sleep. Something about Pony Three.”
“Ah,” I said. “Fire support gone bad on Mtali. UN arty blew up a few of their own people and almost zeroed us, too.”
“I heard stuff like that happened,” she said.
“It did. Occasionally our people screwed up, too. The trauma must be acting as a trigger.”
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Pained, but better. How long was I out?” I was too groggy to check th
e time myself.
“Most of a div. I let you sleep.”
“Thanks. But we need to be back on the chase.”
“You’ll work better when rested.”
“So will he.”
“What, then?”
“I’m assuming he’s headed for the surface, on that flight you mentioned. There are a few targets out this way, but most will be there, and anyone in a different jump point will be most easily reached through system, or out and around. Our best interception is from the surface in that case.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked, and I could hear a tremor in her voice.
“No. I don’t see much choice, though.”
“Okay. I’ll book travel.”
“Book us completely separate for this leg. Different terminals. I’ll do my own.”
She nodded. “Got it.”
We’d patterned as couple or companions. We needed to change that.
If she was scared, I was terrified. Logically, I should be safe enough, fifteen Earth years later, looking different, with different ID, some of it official and real and clean, with the common story that we’d all died in the war. Part of me still feared what would happen if I were IDed, and another part was on the precipice of flashbacks to the worst mayhem in human history. Mine.
Then, the local cops were already looking for me under other ID, with prints. We had a limited supply of imitation pads I could wear, but their efficacy was limited and of course, one time per ID, mostly Freehold. After that we’d have to fabricate back stories for new IDs, and try to fake a trail to explain how a person with those prints had gotten through port and bond without leaving them. This was the worst place in the universe for espionage. As I knew. I’d done it before.
That helped a little. Or I told myself it did. I knew it was all rationalization, but it was all I had.
With improved shuttles, the trip insystem would only be six days. I used my arm gently, stifling pain as needed, and tensed up as I reached security. I wasn’t wearing the necklace chip. Silver had programmed a spoof one into my phone, but it wouldn’t look quite right. Even in my chest pocket, it sent a signal, told them I was someone, and that matched the ID I used. It should; it was coded through my own phone using their protocols.