The doctor hesitated, clearly unwilling to tell her, but honesty was
too deeply ingrained in Sandemans for her to avoid it. "They said your
thakur's chief representative here had hired them to ambush you, do ...
what they did, and worse, then leave you to die of your injuries and
exposure."
Dana swallowed past the lump that had appeared in her throat. That fit
in all too well with her earlier feeling that they hadn't just been
criminals. One starting to call his leader what sounded like "Cap,"
their avoidance of names, the leader's expertise with the baton . . .
"Were they carrying any ID?"
"No."
And that fit the theory she was starting to evolve, too. They sounded
like a mercenary commando team--but her thakur wouldn't do such a
thing! He wouldn't set her up for a particularly unpleasant death
. . . would he? Suddenly she wasn't sure. One of the less pleasant things
she had done for him was to set up a--well, not a frame, the man had
been guilty--but a trap for someone who had gotten in Jason's way. It
had, indirectly, led to the man's death . . .
"I'm disturbing you," the doctor said. "And that is something you do
not need. A tranquilizer, if you permit, would help."
Dana felt a brief flash of amusement at a doctor asking permission for
a treatment--but this was Sandeman, where medical treatment was kept as
unintrusive and respectful as possible even with an unconscious
patient, and never went beyond that permitted by a conscious one. She
nodded. "I think I'd like that, Doctor. Thank you."
"None needed." The doctor went to a wall cabinet, prepared an
injector, and used it, then left as her patient fell asleep again.
Dana didn't recognize the w'woman who was in her room the next time she
woke, but she didn't have time to ask for an introduction; she saw her
thakur sitting beside her bed, scanning a tape.
Monitors apparently alerted the w'woman; she turned to Jason. "Your
'na is waking, Mr. Jason. If you wish to speak to her alone, I can
monitor from outside."
"You needn't bother, Nurse," Jason said, putting down the tape-viewer
and standing to look down at Dana, his expression mildly regretful.
"It's too bad we had to be rescued early, thakur-na. I did try to give
you a heroic death; sorry it didn't work out."
"Thakur?" Dana didn't want to believe what she was hearing, even
though she'd half-suspected it. "I don't understand. Have I done
something wrong?"
"No, at least nothing you could help," Jason said calmly. "You've
simply outlived your usefulness. I thought I owed you the satisfaction
of a trip here, then the belief that you were dying to save me; you
were worth that much effort. Still, the fact remains: I wish you to
leave me. I no longer need you."
Dana was stunned by the cold finality in his voice. He knew what he
was saying, too, what he was doing--he was condemning her with an
Imperial English paraphrase of the High War words that were a thakur's
way of telling his 'na, "Thou hast dishonored me."
But maybe he didn't know exactly what that meant. "Thakur--what am I
supposed to do?"
Jason shrugged. "That's up to you. Whatever a Sandeman 'na does when
@'s no use any more, I suppose. Mentally you've always been more
Sandeman than Terran anyway . . . yes, that would be best. Imitate
your Sandeman idols again." He started to turn away.
"Yes, Thakur." Dana went as cold as his voice had been, wishing she
had died back in the mountains, never had to hear this.
"Mister Jason!" the w'woman snapped.