As Cortin recovered and the pain in her body eased to what Egan assured
her was the best she could expect without further surgery, the burns on
her hands took top priority, as she'd expected, on her list of personal
grievances against the Brothers. Any trooper they--or most terrorist
groups, for that matter--captured, was certain to be brutally beaten,
and usually raped. Coming out alive was the best one could hope for,
and she'd managed that. The experience would leave psychological as
well as physical scars, she was certain, but like all officers and any
enlisted personnel who wanted it, she'd gone through extensive training
and conditioning of both types in case she were subjected to terrorist
captivity and mistreatment, and she was confident the experience
wouldn't have any lasting effect on her. Except, probably, the desire
for revenge; that, she had no doubt, would last until she'd personally
done justice on her attackers. Especially Brother Lawrence Shannon.
She knew, from helping other victims, that rape normally demolished a
woman's desire for sex, sometimes permanently. In her case it hadn't;
she wanted Mike as much as ever, and would have been glad to enjoy
Major Illyanov, given the chance. It was a bitter irony that her
training had left her with the desire, while the attack had robbed her
of all capability. And it still seemed so pointless, when they'd been
in the process of killing her!
Still, terrorists weren't known for reasonable behavior, or they
wouldn't be terrorists. She'd simply have to live with the fact, she
told herself grimly, of having the desire and not being able to do
anything about it.
Bad as that was, though, it wasn't the worst. Nothing had prepared her
for the Brothers burning their Hell-marks into her flesh; that was a
totally unexpected violation! She wasn't being reasonable in keeping
them, and she knew it; the reasonable thing would have been--was!--to
have them covered with grafts. Much as they revolted her, though, the
idea of having them removed still felt wrong. And Major Illyanov did
think they'd be useful--so she'd settle for gloves.
As soon as she was free of the medical plumbing, she started
exercising. The first day, she confined herself to her room, when no
one else was there, to spare herself the embarrassment of being seen
unfit in public--but the room was too small for decent exercise, and
she was in a hurry to get back to duty and the practical side of her
training.
The next morning, too impatient to wait for visiting hours and Mike's
help, she found a hospital robe in the closet. It was too big, but it
didn't drag the ground and sleeves could be rolled up, so she put it
on. That gave her her first honest laugh since the attack when she
looked at herself in the mirror, but the robe did cover the hospital
gown's open back, so she felt decently enough dressed to go out into
the corridor.
When she opened the door, she was astonished to find a pair of
troopers, obviously on guard. One of them, a sergeant she remembered
meeting briefly several years ago, looked startled to see her.
"Captain Cortin! Is anything wrong, ma'am?"
"Nothing but a strong desire to recover enough to get out of here," she
said, smiling at his grimace of agreement. "A mere captain doesn't
rate an honor guard, and I haven't done anything to be arrested for, so
how come you two're standing post?"
The sergeant--his name was Kennard, she remembered--chuckled.
"Scuttlebutt says you're still on the Brothers' wipe list. Colonel
Nguyen has people like Corporal Redden here assigned officially, and
some of us figure they could use a little unofficial help."
"Um." Cortin gestured acquiescence, bemused. "I don't really think I
need protection, but I have to admit it's reassuring having you around.
Is there anything in your orders that says I can't go for a walk in the
corridor?"
"Not a thing, ma'am," Redden replied immediately. "The detail I'm on
is just to stay with you and keep you safe. Though Dr. Egan seems to
think you'll be safe enough since it'll be a week or so before you're
up to anything even a little strenuous--like going for a walk."
"Dr. Egan's a civilian," Cortin said, appreciating the men's
sympathetic expressions. "You may have to catch me if I overdo,
though."
"No problem," Kennard said.
"Good. Shall we go, then?"
* * * * *
The day Cortin could get to the far end of the hospital building and
back without having to stop for rest, she got Mike to have her
discharged--over Egan's protests--and help her move into the VOQ.
That evening after supper, Odeon went to her room. He'd been
increasingly worried about her lack of apparent emotion; he'd seen
others like that go into an abrupt withdrawal and become extremely
depressed, sometimes even suicidal. Her interest in interrogation and
desire for revenge would both help, but he was determined to give her a
better reason to live.
When they were both settled comfortably with cups of her favorite herb
tea, he grinned at her. "I meant to mention this earlier--you look a
lot better in uniform than you did in a hospital gown!"
"I feel a lot better, too. Hospitals are all right, I suppose, but I'm
a lot more comfortable in quarters. Not to mention wearing a gun."
"Of course you are," Odeon said, chuckling. In hospital was the only
time an Enforcement trooper, officer or enlisted, was completely
unarmed; even in bed, they always had a weapon within easy reach.
"Going to Mass tomorrow?"
"Why, is it Sunday?"
"No." Odeon chuckled again; it was easy to lose track of time in a
hospital! "That was yesterday; I just thought you might want to join
me. I talked to the Academy chaplain, and he's going to offer a
special Mass of Thanksgiving for your recovery."
Cortin stared at her tea, turning the cup in her gloved hands. "That's
a little premature," she said at last. "And I'm not at all sure it's
something I'm thankful for. It might've been better if you'd been just
a few minutes later."
She meant it--and that was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "You
shouldn't feel that way, Joanie. God had a reason for keeping you
alive; you've got to believe that."
"Why?" Cortin asked tiredly. She'd spent quite a few hours thinking
about that, when she should've been sleeping but the pain wouldn't let
sleep come and nothing seemed to matter except an end to her torment.
"I'm no saint, but I've never done anything really terrible, either.
Certainly nothing bad enough to deserve this living Hell."
That was true, Odeon thought. Still--"We can't hope to understand His
reasons for what He does," he said. "We can only accept. Offer the
pain to Him, Joanie. Come to Mass with me tomorrow, dedicate yourself
to Him, and ask Him what He wants of your life."
He looked so hopeful she couldn't refuse him. "All right, Mike. I'll
go with you, and I'll try to do what you say. Just don't expect too
much."
"I'll settle for anything that'll help you." Odeon smiled at her,
raising his cup. "To your recovery."
"Thanks--are you going out tonight?"