Doctor Bonoman to you.” He still looked unconvinced, so I continued, “And I have a patient about to go into surgery. Do you want a call to your commanding officer regarding your active role in a patient’s death? As you well know, most of the people in this facility are here because they are either important, or related to someone important, so unless you want to end up guarding one of the polar caps as your next assignment because a senator’s cousin didn’t get timely treatment, I suggest you cut the schoolyard butt-grabbing and allow me to be about my business.”
He was contemplatively speechless.
Just then a voice piped in over a loudspeaker. The nurse at the front desk looked confused for a second, but returned to her magazine as Sabra’s becoming-familiar tone rang out through the ward, “We need Doctor Bonoman to Frolonoscopy, room three-thirteen STAT!”
I grabbed the guard by the arm, “My God man, it may already be too late.”
The guard turned as pale as the taupe on the side of the building, and he pushed the others out of the way. “Good luck, Doctor.”
“Good luck to you ,” I said as I ran into a waiting elevator in the back of the lobby.
Once the doors had closed I lifted the cuff to my mouth, “You know, we make a pretty good team.” The statement made me a little sad, and maybe a little hopeful. I had a team once, but they were gone. I didn’t think I would feel that sense of trust again.
Sabra didn’t say anything in response to the accolade. She simple stated, “Rayce, go to the top floor. You’ll find Starshine Wyld checked in as S. Worther.”
On the top floor, I ducked into one of the locker rooms and found a white coat that actually fit. I put it on, ready to continue, but I had to stop. I was getting lightheaded again. The familiar hospital smells caused my nausea to kick back in as my brain seemed to reprocess and connect the scent of the sterile environment I woke up in, to that horrid odor of my friends’ burning flesh after the blast. I was weak, and my stomach sick. I perched against the wall trying to stable myself, desperately not wanting to eject what little remained of my last military lunch.
“What’s happening to me?” I asked Sabra trying not to sound panicked.
“The NX-8 is wearing off,” She said. “According to a report it would have more than just physical benefits, but emotional and psychological as well. The readings I’m taking through the cuff show you’re in a state of shock associated with a traumatic stress attack. If you were still in your warsuit, you would be fine right now.”
I spoke heavy words in between deep breaths, “Couldn’t. Had to blend in.”
Sabra was nice, but she had her sharper side as well. She piped back through the cuff, “Oh. Because, a vomiting mass of a man found writhing in the middle of the hallway floor will be so much more inconspicuous.”
I flipped the cuff to off just as Sabra started another jab. I wiped away beads of sweat from my forehead, and I pressed my face to the cold wall. I closed my eyes and took long, deep breaths. I focused on the sound of air passing my lips, rolling onto the wall, and away from me. I tried to imagine I was free on the wind, far away from having had my perfect life stolen by harsh truth. After a few minutes, I found some control. Nausea still tickled the back of my throat, but I was okay.
Another press of the button turned the cuff on. “Okay, I’m back. Sorry about that.”
Silence.
“Sabra?”
Nothing.
“Come on Sabra, I had to have a second to collect myself. Don’t give me the silent treatment.”
She did not respond.
“Great, a computer with hurt feelings,” I mumbled. What do you buy a plane to say I’m sorry I hung up on you?
Nobody questioned my disguise as I made my through the ward. I found a board with a list of patient’s names. Sure enough, I saw her alias “Worther” written next to a room number. I did my best to
He was contemplatively speechless.
Just then a voice piped in over a loudspeaker. The nurse at the front desk looked confused for a second, but returned to her magazine as Sabra’s becoming-familiar tone rang out through the ward, “We need Doctor Bonoman to Frolonoscopy, room three-thirteen STAT!”
I grabbed the guard by the arm, “My God man, it may already be too late.”
The guard turned as pale as the taupe on the side of the building, and he pushed the others out of the way. “Good luck, Doctor.”
“Good luck to you ,” I said as I ran into a waiting elevator in the back of the lobby.
Once the doors had closed I lifted the cuff to my mouth, “You know, we make a pretty good team.” The statement made me a little sad, and maybe a little hopeful. I had a team once, but they were gone. I didn’t think I would feel that sense of trust again.
Sabra didn’t say anything in response to the accolade. She simple stated, “Rayce, go to the top floor. You’ll find Starshine Wyld checked in as S. Worther.”
On the top floor, I ducked into one of the locker rooms and found a white coat that actually fit. I put it on, ready to continue, but I had to stop. I was getting lightheaded again. The familiar hospital smells caused my nausea to kick back in as my brain seemed to reprocess and connect the scent of the sterile environment I woke up in, to that horrid odor of my friends’ burning flesh after the blast. I was weak, and my stomach sick. I perched against the wall trying to stable myself, desperately not wanting to eject what little remained of my last military lunch.
“What’s happening to me?” I asked Sabra trying not to sound panicked.
“The NX-8 is wearing off,” She said. “According to a report it would have more than just physical benefits, but emotional and psychological as well. The readings I’m taking through the cuff show you’re in a state of shock associated with a traumatic stress attack. If you were still in your warsuit, you would be fine right now.”
I spoke heavy words in between deep breaths, “Couldn’t. Had to blend in.”
Sabra was nice, but she had her sharper side as well. She piped back through the cuff, “Oh. Because, a vomiting mass of a man found writhing in the middle of the hallway floor will be so much more inconspicuous.”
I flipped the cuff to off just as Sabra started another jab. I wiped away beads of sweat from my forehead, and I pressed my face to the cold wall. I closed my eyes and took long, deep breaths. I focused on the sound of air passing my lips, rolling onto the wall, and away from me. I tried to imagine I was free on the wind, far away from having had my perfect life stolen by harsh truth. After a few minutes, I found some control. Nausea still tickled the back of my throat, but I was okay.
Another press of the button turned the cuff on. “Okay, I’m back. Sorry about that.”
Silence.
“Sabra?”
Nothing.
“Come on Sabra, I had to have a second to collect myself. Don’t give me the silent treatment.”
She did not respond.
“Great, a computer with hurt feelings,” I mumbled. What do you buy a plane to say I’m sorry I hung up on you?
Nobody questioned my disguise as I made my through the ward. I found a board with a list of patient’s names. Sure enough, I saw her alias “Worther” written next to a room number. I did my best to
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