Rogue(103)

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 for 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.