Wounds, Book 1 (6 page)

That’s when Mara scowled. “Where’s your canteen?”

Lense worked at getting air. “I…I lost it.”

“Lost it. How could you…?” Then Mara gave a horsey snort, scrubbed the spout of her canteen with the flat of her hand and thrust the canteen under Lense’s nose. “Here. But don’t get any ideas. You’re worth a lot more alive than you are dead.”

Lense hadn’t argued. The water smelled of a combination of tin and petrochemicals. Probably the stuff was going to make her as sick as a Klingon on fish juice, but it was wet and she gulped it back.

Now, the man—the obvious leader—said, “I see two options: believe you, or kill you. Either way, though, you can’t expect that I’ll just let you walk away.”

“And why not?” Lense thrust out her chin. “Did I come looking for you? No. Your people came after me.”

Mara cut in. “Saad, this is a waste of time. Her family’s got money; they’ve got to be rich. She’s just too well-fed to be from one of the other Outlier tribes.” Mara tossed Lense a narrow-eyed, suspicious look. “All you have to do is look at her to know that she’s got connections. There’s not a scratch on her, no visible prosthetics. I’ll bet that if we strip her down, she won’t have any scars either. No organ transplants, nothing.”

“So you’re talking ransom,” Saad said slowly. His eyes were that shade of brown that’s almost black, and now they clicked over Lense, clearly taking inventory. “Maybe. But look at her skin, Mara. See how pale she is? And that blood.” He pointed at the scratches on Lense’s arms and her crusted knees. “It’s too red. Maybe she’s a mutant that got cast out of the city.”

“Or maybe they’re side effects from new medicines.”

“But maybe not. Mara, if she’s a mutant, no one’s going to pay to get her back, and we can’t trade her for anyone. Then she’s useless.”

Lense didn’t like where this was going. “Excuse me, but I’m not a piece of furniture. How about including me in the decision, all right?”

Mara opened her mouth to say something but Saad silenced her with a look. “You’re right,” he said to Lense. “You’re not a chair. But you could be a deserter, or a spy. Yes.” He stroked his chin between a thumb and forefinger. “The more I think about that one, the better I like it.”

“How is that better?” Mara’s lips twisted into a scowl, and this made her scar jump and wriggle like a fat, purple-blue worm. “If she’s a spy, we can’t let her go back, no matter what’s offered.”

“But if she’s a deserter, she can’t go back either. We win either way. I think this puts her in a rather interesting position and I suspect—” He broke off, and now Lense heard the commotion, too: a gabble of angry voices, shouts, the sounds of footsteps clapping against rock. A moment later, a wiry man with the half-moon of a scar arcing in a scimitar over his neck hurried in and sketched a hasty salute. “What is it?” asked Saad.

“Kornaks.” The wiry man had chocolate-brown spatters on his shirt that looked like dried mud. “Got two of our squads.”

“Squads?” Saad shot Mara a look.

“I don’t think there’s a connection,” said Mara. “No one around where we found her.”

“Unless they’ve come out looking for her,” said Saad. The corners of his mouth tightened. “How many Kornaks?”

“At least fifteen that we saw,” said the wiry man. “We killed nine, but the others kept up a suppressing fire and we had to retreat.”

“No possibility you were followed?”

“None.”

“What about our losses?”

“Five dead. The rest of us made it back, but we’ve got two wounded, both badly. I don’t think we can save either one. Do you want them executed now, or—?”

“
Executed
?” The word was out of Lense’s mouth before she could bite it back. “What are you talking about? Where’s your medic?”

“Shut up.” Mara nudged her with the point of her rifle. “Really.”

“You object,” Saad said, his tone more curious than hostile. “Why?”

Lense weighed the value of keeping her mouth shut, then decided she’d already put her boot in it and if Gold ever saw her again, he’d string her up by her thumbs for that Prime Directive stuff. Only these people would probably kill her anyway and deprive Gold of the pleasure.

So you might as well go down for something useful, not some dumb runabout accident, right?

“Yes,” she said. “I object. Your people get hurt, you fix them up. You don’t automatically decide that someone’s life is worthless just because he’s been wounded. You don’t have that right.”

“Don’t talk to us about right,” said Mara. “You, a Kornak, of all people…”

Lense kept her eyes on Saad. “You don’t have the right.”

“Convince me there’s a better way,” he said.

“What do you mean, better? Why should I have to convince you that it’s better to be humane and better to treat someone even if he ends up dying? Otherwise, you’ll never know whether you might have saved him.” It occurred to her that in triage situations, sorting through who was worse off and who she might save, she
did
let people die. But she couldn’t think about that now.

“Interesting point,” said Saad. “You talk as if you have some sort of training. What type?”

She paused. “I’m a physician.”

“Really?” Both of Saad’s eyebrows went up this time. “Do you have trauma experience? Combat?”

Her thoughts jerked back to the
Lexington
, and the air electric with screams and klaxons and smelling of singed hair and clotted blood, and she thought that, yeah, she had plenty of experience and some to spare. “Yes,” she said, wondering for a second if that meant she’d cinched her own execution as a Kornak spy or soldier or terrorist, or whatever and whoever the hell a Kornak really was. “But even if I didn’t, even if I had only a passing acquaintance with using antiseptic and old-fashioned bandages, you don’t execute people who get hurt doing their job. You don’t throw people away like garbage. You people, you’re out here, running around with those,”—she gestured toward Mara’s rifle, an antique with a long barrel and a gas suppressor—“you get shot at and you don’t have a medic, anyone with training?”

“Our medic is dead,” said Mara. Her face was twisted with rage and nearly the color of a fresh bruise. “I have some training but not enough, and it wouldn’t matter anyway. We barely have supplies to treat minor injuries, much less major ones. Anyway, why should a Kornak worry her head about one more dead Jabari? The only thing you’d care about was that you couldn’t harvest him—”

“You shouldn’t do this,” Lense said to Saad. “I don’t care what your customs are. You’re their leader, not their judge and executioner.” When he said nothing, she said, “For crying out loud, let me look at him! What can it cost you? You’ve already said you’re not going to let me go. If I’m a spy, what more can I learn to compromise you than I have already? Maybe I can
help
this man! At least let me try.”

He stared down for a very long time, though it was probably only a few seconds. Then he turned to Mara, and there must have been something in the set of his face because she huffed out an exasperated snort and said, “Wonderful. I’ll get whatever supplies we’ve got.”

“Good,” said Saad mildly, but Mara had already stalked out, ducking into an adjacent tunnel. Saad turned back to Lense. “All right. I will let you examine these men.” He wrapped a hand around her left bicep, and his grip was firm. “And let us see whether or not you can buy back your life.”

Chapter
8

“O
h, this is just perfect.” Enraged, Kahayn dodged around the security director and made for the gurney. The suited figure was still writhing, but she couldn’t see who or what was inside. The faceplate, which she assumed was clear, was shiny with a thick layer of soot that had an astringent smell and smeared like oil when she touched her finger to it.

Cursing, Kahayn snatched up a large square of gauze. “Give me a hand here,” she said to the tech as she leaned down hard on the patient’s right arm and started scrubbing at the faceplate, “grab that other arm, get it out of my way. The rest of you, I need a crash cart, stat, and get me an ET tube. As soon as I get this clear, I want this guy wired for sound. Call anesthesia, get them down here, we’re probably going to intubate.”

“Stand down, Colonel!” said Blate. His bullish face was a mottled purple. “That’s an order!”

“You don’t outrank me, Blate.” Kahayn threw the nurses a look. “Go.”

This seemed to be all the nurses were waiting for; they moved fast, one nurse racing off for the crash cart, and the other whirling toward a wall-mounted comm.

“Arin.” Kahayn craned her head over her shoulder. “Did you check for explosives?”

“Colonel Kahayn!” Blate, again. “You are ordered—!”

“Shut up, Blate.” Kahayn tossed aside one stained gauze and wadded up another.
Residue’s sticky like tar, like he’s been in a chemical fire, maybe a fuel depot that went up—but this suit, I’ve never seen anything like it. “
Arin, what about it, is he packed? What about contamination?”

“No.” Arin came alive. Taking the distance in three loping strides, he relieved the tech, leaning down hard on the patient’s arm. “Get me restraints,” he ordered, and then to Kahayn: “No explosives, and the suit’s not radioactive as far as we can tell.”

“What about scanners?”

“Colonel,” said Blate.

“Scanners are a nonstarter,” said Arin. The tech returned with brown leather restraints and Arin got busy belting down the patient’s left arm. “The suit’s impervious, maybe lead-lined. We can’t see anything.” Arin threw a restraint around the patient’s left leg as the tech took the right. Then Arin crowded next to Kahayn, threaded leather through a buckle and cinched down the right arm, tight, midway up the patient’s forearm. “Can’t call up anything on tomography, either.”

“We’ve got to get this suit off.”

“Yeah, but those lights, the ones going to red on his wrist, they bug me.”

“You’re thinking countdown?”

“Maybe.” Arin peered at Kahayn over his glasses. “No way to be sure, right? Except we crack it and hope we don’t go boom?”

“That is precisely why you must release this intruder to me,” said Blate.

“Forget it, Blate. Write me up.” She grabbed another gauze. The patient’s faceplate was smeary, but she caught a glimpse of a face.
Almost there
. “Better yet, arrest me. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week.”

“This isn’t funny, Colonel.”

“Blate, you idiot! You think the Jabari or an Outlier have the technical know-how for a suit like this? And this junk, this crud on his suit and faceplate, this is for
real
! This isn’t just charcoal smeared on for effect to trick a couple of your sentries. This guy’s been toasted; he’s been in some kind of fire, and…” She gasped, peered more closely at the faceplate then, cursing, fumbled up a pair of gloves and snapped them on. “Forget this, forget this, I need hands here!”

“Idit!” Arin said. “What about a bomb?”

“No, it’s the
suit
! Don’t you get it, Arin?” Frantic now, she was running her gloved fingers along the lip of the helmet searching for a catch, a way to get this thing off! “He’s been in a fire! This is a protective suit, and that means he’s had air, but look at the lights! He’s got no air! That’s what they mean! He’s out of
air
! Let go, let’s go, let’s get him out of this thing now now
now
!”

She’d found two nibs, felt them give when she pressed down, and gave the helmet a twist. Then she heard a hiss, barely a sigh of escaping air and a suck of suction, a wet sound eerily like the sound of a primate’s cranial cap being pulled away. And then she heard the man’s tortured, agonized wheezes; saw the open mouth and flare of bloodied nostrils as he worked hard trying to pull in air; and then the smell hit her, metallic and very strong.

“My God, there’s blood everywhere. Arin, get a tube down him and bring up the tomos,” and then she and the tech were tugging at the neck of the suit, fumbling with catches, peeling the suit away, jerking them free of the restraints. She registered the clothes underneath, a uniform of some kind and an odd piece of gold jewelry on his left chest, but then she couldn’t think anymore about it because the nurse rumbled in with the crash cart. Whipping around, Kahayn tossed the tech a set of scissors. “Cut his shirt and trousers away, I want these clothes off; I’m going to throw in a CVP line; we need some access, let’s go, let’s
go
!”

“No!” It was Blate, just behind, and then she heard the unmistakable metallic snick of metal on metal. “Stand down, Colonel!
Now
!”

The room went so quiet that Kahayn could hear the slow drip-drip of blood from the helmet and the man in his death throes—and he was dying, he would die, there was no question because there was all that impossibly bright red blood, and the bulge of his jugulars and pink foam that frothed his lips. She saw the tech, who stood with his scissors caught in mid-snip; her gaze clicked to Arin, who’d gloved and stood, frozen, with an endotracheal tube in one hand, and in the other, a shiny metal laryngoscope with its curved blade out and locked into position. And then Kahayn turned, knowing already what she’d see.

She was right, but that was no consolation. Because there was Blate, of course, and there were his soldiers.

And there were three rifles centered on her chest, aiming right for her heart.

Chapter
9

S
aad’s men lay on rough pallets of torn linen. One had multiple abdominal wounds; his green shirt was soaked through to a dull rust; and he moaned in deep guttural groans that were as regular as a basso foghorn. He was clammy to the touch, and his skin was very cold.

Losing blood fast; probably a lake in there; what have I done, what was I thinking?
Lense knew in an instant that she couldn’t help him, and she’d been a fool to think she could.
Operate here? In a cave? No anesthesia, no way to keep a sterile field, no tricorder to help with diagnosis, and his anatomy’s probably so different; I can’t do it, I can’t help, and if I can’t help, they’re going to kill me….