Egan breathed a silent sigh of relief at the change of subject. "You
know it has what are called discs?" At his nod, she went on. "Good.
According to the medevac doctor, a sharp blow to her back has caused
one of those discs to swell and 'float,' or pop out of position from
time to time. The swelling may subside, but if it does not--which is
most likely--Captain Cortin will be in constant pain. Either way, when
the disc pops, she will be in agony to match anything a third-stage
Inquisitor can do."
"I gathered from the briefing that you plan to try surgery. What're
her odds?"
"Not good," Egan admitted. "I can't be sure until I examine her
myself, but we have had little success in correcting a floating disc.
There is an alternative procedure, spinal fusion--essentially welding
part of the spine together so the disc can't pop. She will still hurt,
and it will limit her mobility somewhat; the only advantage is that
she'll be spared the agony of the disc moving out of place."
"That sounds like grounds for a disability discharge." Odeon sipped
his coffee and made a face, trying to lighten his mood a bit. He
wasn't that fond of coffee to begin with, and this certainly wasn't the
best he'd had. "Do hospital coffee shops have to boil this stuff?"
"You get used to it," Egan said. "Yes, that is grounds for discharge,
and at full pay. I will have to examine her myself, as I said, but if
Dr. Franklin says it's a floating disc, that's exactly what it is.
I'll send her discharge recommendation in to Enforcement HQ first thing
tomorrow."
"No, Doctor, you'll give it to me for endorsement." Odeon saw her
beginning objection, and raised a hand to forestall it. "She doesn't
want a discharge; my endorsement will request a waiver. And she won't
want her mobility limited, since it would hamper her in her work. So
no spinal fusion, we'll just have to hope that other operation you
mentioned works."
Egan frowned, concern for her patient overcoming her apprehension.
"You're a harsh man, Captain Odeon, even harsher than I expected from
one of your profession. Do you know what you're condemning her to?"
"I know what you just told me, yes. But I also know the last thing she
asked me was to help her stay in. I am her advocate, Doctor; until
you release her, my word goes."
"Unfortunately, it does," Egan said with a sigh. "But then she can
countermand your orders."
Odeon half-bowed in his seat. "That's right, Doctor, and I hope to God
she does. I don't want to see her hurting, but she asked me not to let
her get kicked out while she couldn't defend herself. I'm doing for
her what she would do for me if our positions were reversed."
Egan looked at him for several moments, silent, then she nodded. She
was beginning to understand, she thought. His grim harshness was real,
but it concealed equally real concern for the woman he represented.
"As you say, Captain. Be sure Captain Cortin will have the best care I
can give her."
This time Odeon stood to bow and answer, formally. "My thanks, Doctor
Egan. When may I see her?"
"Tomorrow afternoon," Egan replied. "I have her scheduled for
surgery--whichever procedure you decided on--at 0800. I assure you she
will be given only those drugs which are absolutely necessary."
"My thanks again, Doctor." Odeon gave her a sketchy salute. "If
you'll excuse me, I have to pick up some forms." At her nod he left,
grateful for her last assurance. It was almost a hundred years since
the Final War--not the nuclear holocaust the prewars had dreaded; there
had been only a few atomics used, and most of those were relatively
clean neutron bombs. The primary weapons had been biological; it was
their devastation that had wiped out over fifty percent of the
Kingdoms' population, and the passage of time hadn't removed the
remainder's sudden overwhelming aversion to "unnatural substances"
imposed on the body. Drugs were used, sparingly, by doctors--and not
so sparingly by Enforcement Service Inquisitors.
* * * * *
The next morning Odeon woke at dawn as he usually did, but instead of
rising at once, he rolled onto his back and laced hands behind his head.
Joanie. She hadn't been beautiful when he first met her, so she never
had been. That suited him well enough; he didn't like the prewar
standard of beauty that still prevailed in many places. Beauties were
too fragile, didn't have the strength of a real woman the way Joanie
did. Tall skinniness was fine in a paid-woman, but Joanie's
compactness was better. Stronger and more suitable for an Enforcement
officer or a mother, anyway-- He pushed that thought aside. Joanie
might be able to stay in Enforcement, but she'd never be a mother.
He tried to remember her as she had been, 165 centimeters and maybe 59
kilos, mostly muscle, of vigorous womanhood. But it'd hurt to see her
lying broken and bloody on the hospital floor, her short dark hair
stiff with drying blood; he couldn't get that image out of his mind, so
he made himself study it instead, trying to bring out anything he
hadn't consciously noted then.
There wasn't much. The hospital hadn't been all that different from
other Brothers of Freedom raid points, except in being a hospital, its
occupants even more helpless than most. The only oddity was that they
hadn't made sure of the woman they'd marked. Possibly Rascal and his
locals had arrived before they were able to.
Odeon grinned wolfishly at that thought. Joanie was alive, and she
wanted revenge. That kind of personal motivation wasn't really
necessary, but in going after terrorists like the Brothers it didn't
hurt; some of the things necessary in anti-terrorist sweeps were hard
to stomach. And the Brothers were the worst of the terrorists, as well
as the most wide-spread; they had units in every one of the Systems,
while most groups were restricted to one or two.
He was getting off the subject, though, he told himself sternly. He was
here to protect Joanie's interests, not worry about the Brothers. And
if he was going to do that, it might be a good idea to get up.
He glanced at the clock, then almost tangled himself in the sheets in
his hurry to get out of bed. It was almost six-thirty! If he didn't
get a move on, he'd be late for seven o'clock Mass!
He made it, though with barely a minute to spare, and he found peace as
usual in the familiar liturgy. There were still times he wished his
call had been to the priesthood--he'd been raised in a monastery, by
the White Fathers, after his parents died--but for the most part, he no
longer missed the life too badly. The Fathers had comforted him when
it became clear that his vocation was military rather than religious;
enforcing civil order, they'd reminded him, was as important to human
welfare as ministering to spiritual needs. And when he'd been
commissioned, directly into Special Operations, several of them had
been at the Academy to congratulate him.
As he went forward to take Communion, Odeon found his thoughts going to
Joanie. He shouldn't be thinking about her, not now . . . but he
couldn't concentrate on the Sacrament properly, even as he accepted and
swallowed the Host. Well, the Fathers had taught him that if he
couldn't, despite his best efforts, maybe he wasn't supposed to--and it
wouldn't be the first time something had resolved itself this way.
Returning to his place in the small chapel, he said a brief prayer to
the Blessed Virgin as the Compassionate Mother for guidance. Surely,
she would help the only officer of her sex in this dangerous vocation!
* * * * *
He was feeling better when he entered Egan's office half an hour after
Mass was over. He hadn't found a solution, but he had become sure that
one would make itself known; he'd just have to find it.
Egan wasn't there; she was already in surgery. But she'd left word
that he could use her office while he waited, and he appreciated her
thoughtfulness. An Enforcement officer in a civilian hospital waiting
room tended to make patients and visitors nervous; a Special Ops
officer tended to make the staff nervous as well, which bothered him.
And a desk was far more convenient for doing paperwork than a lap.
Odeon sighed as he picked up the form she'd left for him. It was her
recommendation for Joanie's discharge, as promised, and it made no
bones about the seriousness of her injuries, or about the resulting
sterility and constant pain.
Frowning, Odeon read it again--and realized that here was at least part
of his solution. Joanie was sterile, which meant she was eligible for
Special Ops!
Granted that he didn't like either the fact or what had caused it, she
was eligible, and he was positive that--given the cause--she would want
to apply, which could very well give her a bit of an edge staying in.
And he was equally positive that she'd be as outstanding in Special Ops
as she had been in regular Enforcement work. He endorsed the discharge
recommendation with a combined request, for waiver and transfer to
Special Ops, then decided to tackle some paperwork he'd gotten behind
on.
It was several hours before Egan returned to her office, obviously
fatigued, and collapsed into an armchair. Despite his anxiety, Odeon
took time to get her a cup of coffee and let her drink some before he
asked tensely, "How did it go?"
"Better than I expected," Egan said, taking her desk back. "The
operation was as successful as any I've performed." She raised a hand
cautioningly. "That doesn't mean it's good; it isn't. It's just as
good as it can be. She'll be in the pain I told you about, and the
disc is still subject to popping, but it could've been far worse."
Egan rubbed her eyes before going on. "Otherwise, I would say she
will have a complete recovery, with no more than the usual scars.
Except that she refused skin grafts for the brands on her hands."
"Mmm." Odeon frowned, thought for a moment, then smiled slowly. "I
hadn't expected that, but it fits."
"Fits how?" Egan asked in near-exasperation. "I cannot for the life of
me imagine why she would want to live with such reminders, as well as
the pain."
"Not live with them," Odeon corrected. "You're thinking like a doctor,
of course, but she's not one--she's an Enforcement officer who wants
revenge. I'd say she intends to kill Brothers with them. And I'm
trying to get her in a position to do just that."
Egan stared at him, appalled by the pleased anticipation in his soft
voice and pale eyes. She'd known all her life that Enforcement
people--especially those in Special Operations--were killers, but this
was the first time that knowledge had actually frightened her. "Yes
. . . is there anything else?"
"Only one." Odeon retrieved his briefcase, preparing to leave. He
hadn't intended to disturb the doctor, but if she had any acquaintance
with Enforcement at all, and was that easily upset, she should have
known better than to ask such a question. "When can I see her?"
"Tomorrow morning, if you want to speak to her instead of just see her.
You know the kind of equipment that will be hooked up to her?"
Odeon chuckled. "It's been hooked up to me more than once, Doctor. It
doesn't bother me." It was enough for now to know his Joanie was doing
as well as humanly possible. "Thank you for your efforts."