Fracture Lines (The Glass Complex Book 2) (8 page)

“Frek,” said Kirby. “I was going to mention you had a king-sized croacher on your neck. Okay, we’ll prepare a schedule. It’ll be ready this afternoon for your review. We’ll commence tomorrow. Do we include you?”

“Absolutely. I want to be fitter than the rest of you, as a matter of principle.”

“Sounds like a good challenge, sir,” Kirby said. The two new corporals smiled.

A circuit of the empty docking bay was a quarter klick, and on the first run, Sergeant Kirby set a modest pace. The two corporals took their places on either side of the recruits. Steg followed some three yards behind the last man, positioned to check for strengths and weaknesses in the runners. They ran sixteen circuits of the docking bay, followed by a rest of fifteen minutes. The sergeant followed the break with a series of exercises targeting cardio and muscle strength, which took thirty minutes. Again, he rested the group. This sequence was repeated, twice more. The men were exhausted at the end of the third set of exercises.

“A passable effort,” the sergeant said as he reviewed the exhausted recruits, “for beginners. We’re going to increase the pace and distance this afternoon, after your mess break. I promise, by the time we finish with you, you’ll be fitter than you’ve ever been. In a week we’ll adjust gravity to 1.5, to add to your stress. I want you back here in two hours. Dismissed.”

“Good work, Sergeant,” Steg said, after the men departed. “I agree with your physical program. Remember to plan some combat exercises. We’ll have more to do, of course, to build a reliable fighting force. I want you to meet with
Wasp
’s armorers and find out when we can get the men fitted. When they have their armor, we can drive them harder.”

As an ambush, it was effective. Steg stepped around a corner of one of the starship’s long corridors and was confronted by six of the rejected prisoners armed with knives and heavy metal bars. One man had a projectile weapon, an old handgun, unsuitable for use on board a starship. He held the weapon against the temple of one of the female crew, who appeared to be terror-stricken. Steg didn’t know her name or duties, although he’d seen her in the mess arranging refreshments for on-duty bridge officers.

Rippin, his arms bandaged, was standing in back of the small group. He nudged his immediate companion and said, “That’s frekin’ him. He’s the one I want you to kill. Do it, now.”

“All right,” Steg said. “I want you to release this girl, disarm, and return to your cabin.” While he understood the possible futility of his instruction, he had no alternatives. “Go, now.”

Monty whispered in his ear. “I’m disconnecting gravity in your section of the corridor and switching off the lights. Ten seconds and counting, from now.”

Steg braced himself, grabbing hold of a stanchion as Monty cut the gravity and extinguished the lights. Steg used the sudden release of gravity to launch an attack. He tackled the armed man who, startled by his sudden weightlessness, lost his grip on the hostage. Steg grappled with the man, struggling to gain control of the handgun. He was confident the hostage had escaped in the confusion. Meantime, as Steg was fighting his attackers, Monty synchronized resumption of gravity and lights with the arrival of an armed squad of troopers, who charged along the corridor.

The prisoner was stronger, probably a heavyworlder, and Steg was unable to gain the upper hand. When gravity resumed, they both tumbled to the floor of the corridor, and Steg lost his grip on the firearm. Someone, in the melee, fired the gun. He heard an explosion and felt a crushing blow to the back of his head. He collapsed, unconscious.

Underlying the strong odor of medical disinfectant was a more subtle trace of a familiar perfume. It reminded Steg of something or someone far away, a memory that he was unable to trace, yet he knew was wrapped in sadness. His head was throbbing again. Someone had hit him. Another someone, he thought, had shot him. Steg opened his eyes. He was on a hard bunk in the starship’s medical unit, and a nurse was taping a pad to his right temple. At least, he thought she was a nurse; her clinical uniform certainly gave that impression. When she finished her task and stood back, he raised his head and looked around the room. Three nurses solemnly regarded him.

“We think you’ll survive—it’s a small crease,” commented the nurse who had applied the pad. “You have a nasty bump on the back of your skull; it’ll go away after a day or two.”

“You seem to be collecting scars,” the second nurse said. “Although this one will not be as bad.” The first nurse was wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. She was tiny, almost elfin, and her figure was lithe, even sensuous. He was not misled; he suspected her apparent softness disguised a hidden strength. Her hair was black, cut short, and brushed away from her eyes. He looked again. The three nurses were almost identical in appearance.

A synapse triggered.

“Fain,” Steg whispered. “Fain. You’re all Fain.”

Fain was a planet known for its female humanoid constructs. Their origins were mythical, disguised in rumors. Visitors were allowed on Fain only to make a purchase, and they were few. He knew each Fain was designed to give pleasure, to care for her Fain-master. The most terrible of tortures for a Fain was to be alone, deserted by her contracted master. Something was out of line, he thought; these did not appear to be contracted Fain, dependent on a humanoid alien—typically Terran— male.

He waved the nurse away and sat up. The room spun, and he gripped the side of the treatment bed until it settled down. The third nurse, who seemed to be the senior of the three, picked up a scalpel. Her purposeful move belied any innocence in her intent. The second nurse placed a restraining hand on her arm. He recognized the threat; he knew Fain protected their own against any who would abuse them.

“Why do you say Fain?” asked the second nurse.

“I—I have some memories—of a Fain.” He felt pain. It was not physical.

“I thought you’d lost your memories,” challenged the third nurse.

“I had, yes, although they’ve been returning in larger batches, and I’m also experiencing additional flashbacks.”

“Where did you meet this Fain?” Again, it was the third nurse.

“On a mining planet. Her Fain-master had been assassinated, and his killer was hunting her. She and I, we formed an alliance, I think.”

“And what happened to her? Where is she?”

“She—she was killed. I’ve a memory of carrying her—her body.” Images flashed through his mind of a struggle down into hidden regions of a city, level after level, and then carrying a still, tiny body to the surface on a faraway planet. “I—I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Who killed her? Was it you?” asked the third nurse. She held the scalpel in her right hand. It was poised for action, and Steg realized she knew how to use the blade. Perhaps not only as a surgical instrument.

“No. I rescued her.” His memories were growing more definite. “There was someone, a corporate security chief; I can’t remember his name. He caught up with us and shot her. It was revenge. She hated him. He had killed her master. She—her name was Milnaret, Milnaret of Fain. She asked me to call her Millie.” Memories were starting to link; another neural network was building, strengthening. His confidence was growing that he would soon have all his memories, and soon his recollections would be complete.

The third nurse dropped the scalpel onto a tray with a clatter. “Very well. As far as I can determine, you’re telling the truth.” She turned her attention away from monitoring screens above his bed.

Steg realized he was hooked up to various devices. The first nurse began disconnecting him, removing sensor after sensor.

“We were checking in case your new head wound was more serious,” explained the second nurse.

“It was convenient you were still connected,” the third nurse said. “Our equipment provides an effective lie detector. Fortunately for you, you passed.”

“Can you remember anything more?” the first nurse asked. “We would like to know about one of ours.”

“No. It’s flashes of scenes. Some are—personal.” His face colored. “I won’t tell you those.”

The three nurses laughed; it was a mutual expression of sympathetic humor. The first nurse finished removing and storing sensor leads while her companions tidied the small surgery unit.

“Do you know what happened? How long was I unconscious?” Steg asked. “I’ve no idea how I got here.”

“You’ve been here about twelve hours.” It was the third nurse. Steg thought he would get dizzy, switching his attention from nurse to nurse.

“Monty alerted your Sergeant Kirby, and he and a squad of your men rescued you. It was professional, I understand. They were seconds too late. We think you were hit across the head from behind and shot. The shot may have been accidental, in the confusion,” the first nurse said.

“Did their hostage escape?”

“Oh, yes. She’s safe. She’ll want to thank you,” she replied.

“What happened to the prisoners?”

“Rippin’s dead. So is the man who shot you,” the first nurse continued. “The others? They were beaten. No bones broken, though. The colonel’s returned the survivors to the planet. The shuttle has returned, and we’ve got all our supplies. I understand the colonel’s been waiting for delivery of a munitions order, and it’s now loaded. We’re scheduled to depart orbit in an hour or so.”

Steg addressed his question to all three nurses. “Do you know everything that happens on
Wasp
?”

“Captain, there are fifteen of us—Fain—on board. Individuals, independent, intelligent. A rare event for Fain to be independent, as I’m sure you’re aware. We’ve a wide variety of duties. We, not only us three, but all Fain on board, are qualified nurses. Four of us are trained up to field surgeon level. It’s our task to keep you alive if you’re injured in action. Remember also, the starship carries a lot of men. We’re free Fain. I’ll let you fill in the blanks,” said the first nurse, with a smile.

Steg colored again, and the three nurses giggled at his discomfort. He asked, “Can you tell me your names?”

“I’m Tessa.” She indicated the second nurse. “Allow me to introduce Sara.” She pointed to the third nurse. “The lady who was holding the scalpel is Stacia.”

Steg nodded to each Fain in turn as she was introduced. “Would you have used it?” he asked Stacia.

“Oh, yes, if you had harmed one of ours. Without hesitation.”

“I’ll remember,” he replied. “I thought you had to be contracted to a man? Millie explained it to me.”

“Not when we can support each other. As I said, there are fifteen of us, and we are trained to be free, to accept life without a Fain-master.” Her reply was matter of fact, although Steg had never heard of free Fain.

“I suspect there are some stories—”

“One day, when we know you better.”

“He simply appeared,” exclaimed the nurse, barely controlling her agitation. “The gurney delivered him to our ICU.”

The Alutan Advocate-General’s Senior Representative, Ser Mason, paused his note taking and looked her in the eye. “You acted promptly, providing assistance.” It was an observation, almost praise. The small amount of warmth in his voice did not assuage the tension in the room.

The gloomy interview room with its dull gray walls added to her discomfort. Two men—from the regional office of the Advocate-General, she had been told—occupied the chairs opposite her, across the table, which was of heavy metal, paint peeling, and bolted to the floor.

“We are trained—we are all trained to react quickly to emergency situations with our patients.” She smiled hesitantly.

“Yet he wasn’t a patient.”

“He was—his details were in the ICU database. Our unit had been reserved, and we were on alert. He was injured, dying, perhaps.”

“And he didn’t speak to you?”

“I think he moaned with pain. He was unconscious all the time.”

“What injuries did he have?”

“He appeared to have been burned, blasted, somehow, on his head and shoulder. Left hand side. Some of the burns were severe. It was though he had been heavily impacted—with almost deadly force—on the side of his head. He was concussed, and the ICU diagnostic identified brain swelling.” She paused for a moment and then rushed her words. “He was carrying a sword, and I think the hilt must have partly protected his head where he had been blasted.”

“A sword? Do you know where it is?”

“It was with his belongings, in the unit. Dr. Yi said to store it with his uniform.”

The questioner made another note. “She did? When was that?”

“When we prepped him for immersion.”

“Did you or Dr. Yi know this man?”

The room was suddenly still. She drew a breath. “No, not at all. I told you—I told the others—those military—ImpSec—people—I had never seen him before. We treated him the same as we would any patient.”

The Advocate-General’s Senior Representative turned to his companion, whom the nurse assumed was the junior of the two men. “Ser Brest, any questions?”

The younger man stared at the nurse. She shuddered inwardly. His eyes were cold, his demeanor not threatening but accusing, as if he had found her guilty of some unstated and unknown serious crime.

He spoke. “Do you actually think we are all idiots?” His voice was almost venomous.

“Wh—what? I have told you—”

“A pack of lies. That’s all we have been told, by you, by the entire medical staff, here. This stranger, unknown to you all, a uniformed officer, dramatically appears, injured, magically delivered by a gurney, and you all rush around to care for him.” Brest stopped, seeming to restrain himself from expressing more anger.

She rushed her words, almost crying. “It’s true. He was delivered by the gurney. Of course we would care for him. It’s what our hospital ship does, you know.” A tiny glimmer of rebellion struggled to surface from under the waves of her fear.

Senior Representative Mason checked his notes and then continued as though his companion had not spoken. “How was this man dressed? What was he wearing and what did he carry in addition to this sword?”