The king of the race with a dead male in his arms wasn’t stopped for a nanosecond.
He paused at the landing as the last door lock was sprung. Looking into the camera, he said, “Get a gurney and a sheet first.”
“We’re coming right now, my lord,” said a tinny voice.
No more than a second later, two nurses opened the door, one turning a sheet into a privacy curtain while the other rolled a gurney right up to the bottom of the stairs. With strong and gentle arms, Wrath laid out the civilian as carefully as if the male had been alive and had every bone in his body fractured; then the nurse who’d handled the gurney flapped another sheet out of its folded square. Wrath stopped her before she draped the body.
“I do that,” he said, taking it from her.
She gave the thing over to him with a bow.
Speaking sacred words in the Old Language, Wrath turned the humble cotton sheath into a proper death shroud. After he was done praying for the male’s soul and wishing it a free and easy carry unto the Fade, he and the nurses had a moment of silence before the body was draped.
“We don’t have ID on him,” Wrath said quietly as he smoothed out the edge of the sheet. “Do either of you recognize his clothes? The watch? Anything?”
Both nurses shook their heads, and one murmured, “We’ll put him in the morgue and wait. It’s all we can do. His family will come looking for him.”
Wrath hung back and watched as the body was rolled away. For no particular reason, he noticed the wheel on the front right wiggled as it went along, like it was new on the job and worried about its performance…although this was not because he saw the thing clearly, but rather from the soft whistle of its miscalibration.
Out of whack. Not pulling its weight.
Wrath could so relate.
This fucking war with the Lessening Society had gone on too long, and even with all the power he had and all the resolve in his heart, his race wasn’t winning: Holding steady against your enemy was just a case of losing by increments, because innocents kept dying.
He turned around toward the stairs and smelled the fear and awe of the two females sitting in the plastic chairs of the waiting area. With a mad shuffle, they got to their feet and bowed to him, the deference resounding in his gut like a kick in the balls. Here he was delivering the latest, but far from the last, casualty in the fight, and these two still paid him respect.
He bowed back to them, but couldn’t marshal any words. The only vocabulary he had at the moment was full of George Carlin’s best, and all of it was directed at himself.
The nurse who’d been on shield duty finished folding up the sheet she’d used. “My lord, perhaps you would have a moment to see Havers. He should be out of surgery in about fifteen minutes? It appears you are wounded.”
“I have to get back to the-” He stopped himself before the word field slipped out. “I’ve got to get going. Please let me know about that male’s family, okay? I want to meet with them.”
She bowed at the waist and waited, because she wanted to kiss the massive black diamond that rested on the middle finger of his right hand.
Wrath squeezed his weak eyes shut and held out what she was seeking to pay homage to.
Her fingers were cool and light on his flesh, her breath and her lips the barest of brushes. And yet he felt flayed.
As she righted herself, she said with reverence, “Fare thee well this night, my lord.”
“And you with your hours as well, loyal subject.”
He wheeled around and jogged up the stairs, needing more oxygen than there was in the clinic. Just as he hit the final door, he ran into a nurse who was coming in as fast as he was busting out. The impact knocked her black shoulder bag off, and he barely caught her before she hit the ground along with it.
“Oh, fuck,” he barked, dropping to his knees to get her stuff. “Sorry.”
“My lord!” She bowed deeply to him and then obviously realized he was picking up her things. “You mustn’t do that. Please, let me-”
“No, it’s my fault.”
He shoved what seemed to be a skirt and a sweater back into the bag and then nearly cracked her with a head butt as he shot to his feet.
He grabbed onto her arm once more. “Shit, sorry. Again-”
“I’m fine-honest.”
Her bag changed hands in a messy scramble, going from someone who was in a rush to someone who was flustered.
“You got it?” he said, ready to start begging the Scribe Virgin to get outside.
“Ah, yes, but…” Her tone shifted from reverent to medical. “You’re bleeding, my lord.”
He ignored the comment and took his hand away from her experimentally. Relieved that she stood steady on her feet, he bade her good night and farewell in the Old Language.