Rogue(101)

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 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 gotten 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.

“Mr. 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?”