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Authors: Catherine E. McLean
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lied. “How can I interfere? I’m confined to this room.”
Nick backed into the shadows. “Be sure you stay put. Let me and mine handle this.”
“Sure,” Deacon replied. “No problem.”
Nick soundlessly exited up into the air vent.
****
Marlee glanced at the clock on the wall of her repair bay. It took her twenty minutes to fix the PicPak, setting a new record to replace a multi-system micro pulley unit. But best of all, it was the last job for the day. She was free to head home, maybe treat herself to a relaxing sauna.
Marlee’s sleeve comband pinged. RUMMY flashed on the screen, then the call ended.
“Rummy” was the contingent code she’d given Henry if he was trapped in sickbay and his situation was more dire than dire.
She grabbed and pocketed two hand-sized welders. Then she took a wand welder, a ten-five, and slapped it against the hook-and-loop patches of her coveralls, which held it snugly in place. She jogged to the nearest maintenance lift and rode it to sickbay. When the lift doors opened, she found herself at the deck’s center hub, a few steps from the entrance to sickbay.
No one was in sight, and the admission and nurses’ kiosk weren’t manned.
Henry, or someone, was always on duty, every hour of every day. So where was everyone?
She listened for voices.
None.
She tugged her earlobe to amplify sounds. All she heard was the shush and whup-whup of medical machinery and the wheezy sounds of other devices, all coming from the far side’s treatment center. She warily entered sickbay, glanced at the blank screens of the kiosk, and headed for the treatment rooms.
When she passed the CMO’s office, with its door open, she looked inside. On the floor, two bodies lay on their sides, facing each other. Both wore medical uniforms.
Were they dead?
Tamping down her rising fears, she dashed into the office, halted between the bodies, and dropped to one knee. Checking for vital signs, she was relieved both men, one the CMO and the other a male nurse, were breathing quietly, their pulses steady.
She upped her vision to look for a reason why they were unconscious. Spotting a dot of blood near the top of the male nurse’s blue pants, Marlee used her optics to magnify the area. The serrated edges of the ring impressed on the cloth around that dot of blood could have come from only one thing—Henry’s Gatling-gun hyposprayer. A quick scan of the CMO revealed a ring-spot on his buttocks. Both men had been tranquilized.
She returned her sight to normal and left. Fearing the unknown, and with her pulse quickening with each step she took, she proceeded to the other side of the hall to the row of treatment rooms. She peeked in the first. No one. She went to the next room. No one.
In room five, she discovered three Guardians laying on their backs, out cold. The three looked like they’d been dragged into the room after being rendered unconscious.
Woodridge didn’t strike her as big enough or strong enough to handle these men. Did Woodridge have an accomplice?
Skom, what if she did?
A noose of anxiety tightened about Marlee’s throat. She willed herself not to panic. Think, woman, think!
But no thoughts came, no ideas. Then above the noise of the machinery in the next room came the murmur of a woman’s voice, the tone one of emphatic defiance…and, was that a man’s voice replying?
She reached up to activate her hearing implant and stopped. With so much machinery noise, if she enhanced the sounds, she might damage her auditory canal.
Another fragment of speech—a man’s voice—the words even and entreating. Definitely not Henry’s voice.
Skom, where was Henry?
Heart pounding with sledgehammer ferocity and every sense heightened, she tiptoed to room six. Once beside the door, she squatted, took a fortifying breath, and peered around the doorjamb.
The first thing she saw was Henry, his Gatling-style hyposprayer aimed at Deacon’s left thigh.
Deacon, wearing hospital pajamas, had
Nick backed into the shadows. “Be sure you stay put. Let me and mine handle this.”
“Sure,” Deacon replied. “No problem.”
Nick soundlessly exited up into the air vent.
****
Marlee glanced at the clock on the wall of her repair bay. It took her twenty minutes to fix the PicPak, setting a new record to replace a multi-system micro pulley unit. But best of all, it was the last job for the day. She was free to head home, maybe treat herself to a relaxing sauna.
Marlee’s sleeve comband pinged. RUMMY flashed on the screen, then the call ended.
“Rummy” was the contingent code she’d given Henry if he was trapped in sickbay and his situation was more dire than dire.
She grabbed and pocketed two hand-sized welders. Then she took a wand welder, a ten-five, and slapped it against the hook-and-loop patches of her coveralls, which held it snugly in place. She jogged to the nearest maintenance lift and rode it to sickbay. When the lift doors opened, she found herself at the deck’s center hub, a few steps from the entrance to sickbay.
No one was in sight, and the admission and nurses’ kiosk weren’t manned.
Henry, or someone, was always on duty, every hour of every day. So where was everyone?
She listened for voices.
None.
She tugged her earlobe to amplify sounds. All she heard was the shush and whup-whup of medical machinery and the wheezy sounds of other devices, all coming from the far side’s treatment center. She warily entered sickbay, glanced at the blank screens of the kiosk, and headed for the treatment rooms.
When she passed the CMO’s office, with its door open, she looked inside. On the floor, two bodies lay on their sides, facing each other. Both wore medical uniforms.
Were they dead?
Tamping down her rising fears, she dashed into the office, halted between the bodies, and dropped to one knee. Checking for vital signs, she was relieved both men, one the CMO and the other a male nurse, were breathing quietly, their pulses steady.
She upped her vision to look for a reason why they were unconscious. Spotting a dot of blood near the top of the male nurse’s blue pants, Marlee used her optics to magnify the area. The serrated edges of the ring impressed on the cloth around that dot of blood could have come from only one thing—Henry’s Gatling-gun hyposprayer. A quick scan of the CMO revealed a ring-spot on his buttocks. Both men had been tranquilized.
She returned her sight to normal and left. Fearing the unknown, and with her pulse quickening with each step she took, she proceeded to the other side of the hall to the row of treatment rooms. She peeked in the first. No one. She went to the next room. No one.
In room five, she discovered three Guardians laying on their backs, out cold. The three looked like they’d been dragged into the room after being rendered unconscious.
Woodridge didn’t strike her as big enough or strong enough to handle these men. Did Woodridge have an accomplice?
Skom, what if she did?
A noose of anxiety tightened about Marlee’s throat. She willed herself not to panic. Think, woman, think!
But no thoughts came, no ideas. Then above the noise of the machinery in the next room came the murmur of a woman’s voice, the tone one of emphatic defiance…and, was that a man’s voice replying?
She reached up to activate her hearing implant and stopped. With so much machinery noise, if she enhanced the sounds, she might damage her auditory canal.
Another fragment of speech—a man’s voice—the words even and entreating. Definitely not Henry’s voice.
Skom, where was Henry?
Heart pounding with sledgehammer ferocity and every sense heightened, she tiptoed to room six. Once beside the door, she squatted, took a fortifying breath, and peered around the doorjamb.
The first thing she saw was Henry, his Gatling-style hyposprayer aimed at Deacon’s left thigh.
Deacon, wearing hospital pajamas, had
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