"You did well today, Karen," Sandra complimented her. Which was true—to a point. She'd followed orders and done her job, stitching wounds in her professional, economical way. She'd done exactly what she was told to do—but no more. All the while her face was slack, her eyes dead, as if her body ran on autopilot but she wasn't really there. Sandra saw that the expression was still the same. She sighed.
"Get cleaned up and go to the forward berthing space with Jamie Miller to check on Seaman Davis. I have an idea I'd like to try." Ensign Theimer didn't respond. She didn't move. "Karen?" Worried, Sandra dried her hands and looked in the other nurse's eyes. For a moment she saw no recognition, no spark of human consciousness. "Karen!" she shouted and shook her roughly by the shoulders. "Karen, speak to me!"
Huge, shiny tears welled up in the empty eyes and when she blinked, they gushed down her face—and somehow she'd returned from wherever she'd been hiding. Her large, glistening, haunted eyes desperately searched Sandra's, but didn't see what they'd hoped. She closed them again, and a piteous moan escaped her lips.
"I want to go home!"
Sandra went to her knees, embracing the younger woman as tight as she could.
"Oh, God, me too, me too!"
The tears came then, like rivers, from both of them. For a long moment, Sandra held her while Karen sobbed and sobbed. Finally, when it seemed she'd exhausted herself, Sandra drew back and put her palm on Karen's face. "Me too," she whispered again, "but I don't think we can. For some reason, here we are and we've got to deal with that. I need you, girl. God, I can't do this alone! The ship needs you, and so do these men. We both have to be strong—to hold up."
"But it's so hard!"
"I know. Believe me, I know! I nearly lost it myself today. But don't you see? We can't! We don't have that . . . luxury. Too many people are counting on us, and we're all they've got. We can't let them down—we can't let ourselves down." She wiped the bloody hair from Karen's eyes with a gentle, tearful smile. "You okay?" Miserably, Karen nodded, and Sandra squeezed her filthy hands. "I'm glad you're back—don't leave me again. I'm the first woman chief surgeon on a United States warship. I'll mark you AWOL!"
Karen snorted a wet, almost hysterical laugh, but nodded.
"Good. Now get cleaned up and check on Seaman Davis. We don't want these goons to think we're weak sisters." She watched while Karen, still sniffling, washed her hands and then left the compartment. As soon as she was gone, Sandra felt the tension flow out of her and she put her face in her hands. "I want to go home too," she repeated, whispering, almost surrendering to sobs herself.
She still had to talk to Matt. It would probably be a long talk, and all she really wanted was to curl up in her bunk and fall into a dreamless sleep. She shook her head, wet one of the dingy washrags, and wiped the grime and tears from her face. Standing in front of the noisy little fan with her eyes closed, she let the tepid breeze dry her and tried to pretend it was refreshing. After a moment, she ruefully realized that she was fooling herself. She ran a brush through her sweat-tangled hair and stepped through the curtain.
Seated in the wardroom talking in quiet tones were the captain, Bradford, Gray, Dowden, Shinya, and Sergeant Alden, who seemed relieved that his charge had returned to his custody. The Marine was getting around better every day, but the idea of his climbing up and down ships, given the consequences of a fall, was ridiculous. He took his "escort" duty seriously, though, and he'd been disappointed when his request to accompany them to the Lemurian ship was denied.
They stood and greeted her with strained smiles, and Lieutenant Shinya nodded politely. They couldn't have avoided overhearing Karen's sobs, or indeed much of the women's conversation. Sandra realized with a start that Matt's "smile" seemed even more troubled than the others'. As soon as they resumed their seats, Juan appeared at her elbow and poured a cup of weak coffee (he'd begun to conserve) that she'd have mistaken for tea if not for the smell. Ordinarily, in meetings like these, Juan would have excused himself, but ever since the Squall, he often lingered, and Matt didn't send him away. He figured it was easier to inform the crew through the grapevine than make announcements every day. Besides, Juan would be careful what he passed on.
"I trust you're well?" asked Bradford. "Mr. Shinya told us your efforts were tireless."
Sandra smiled wanly. "Not tireless," she said. "It's been a tough"—she paused and looked reflective—"but interesting day. I think we were a help, once I figured out when to leave well enough alone, and we learned a lot."
The others nodded solemnly.
"True," said Matt, "but I wish you hadn't stayed behind."
"I wasn't alone. Lieutenant Shinya was there."
Matt glanced at the Japanese officer speculatively but nodded.
"As were several armed men," Tamatsu said. "She was in no danger. Your gunner's mate . . . Silva? He is a formidable man. If the lieutenant had been threatened in any way, I believe he would have contrived to destroy their ship around us, by himself."
Gray grunted. "Silva!" he muttered. "He's part of what I was worried about." Everyone, including Tamatsu, laughed at that.
"Well," said Matt, "you must be starving. Juan? Pass the word for sandwiches, if you please." The Filipino bowed his head and whispered through the wardroom curtain. There was no telling who was on the other side, but he returned to his place against the hull with the expression of one who fully expected the task to be performed.
"While we're waiting, tell us what happened when you went to see this Keje again," Matt suggested. "Lieutenant Shinya said you should be the one to speak, but I'd like to hear what you both have to say."
Sandra nodded. "He was weak from his wounds, but not debilitated, I think. Their medicine's not nearly as primitive as I expected. They have no concept of germ theory, but their infection rate is low. They clean wounds with hot water for no other reason I could see than that it just makes sense to do so. They hold cleanliness in high regard." She glanced down at her uniform blouse and wrinkled her nose to the sound of sympathetic chuckles. "They also apply a kind of salve to wounds that must be antibacterial in some way, in addition to being a local analgesic. I asked for a sample and they gave me a whole jar. There's no telling if it'll be helpful to humans, and I don't know what it's made of yet, but I want to try some on Seaman Davis, with your permission. His fever just won't go away. He's still in danger of losing his leg, at least."
Bradford nodded enthusiastically, but Matt regarded her thoughtfully. Gray looked downright dubious. "I know they believe in the stuff—nearly everybody over there had some smeared on 'em, but do we know it actually works?"
Sandra held out her hands palm up. "The only evidence I have after so short a time is their absolute faith and certainty. Many of their wounds were bites, you know, and some who were bitten far worse than Davis were treated with the stuff and considered lightly injured."
Matt scratched his ear. "Does it have the same effect on the Grik? I mean, have they used any on the Grik wounded and if so, do they think it'll work?"
Sandra glanced down at her hands, clasped on the table. When she looked back up, her expression was hooded. "There were no Grik wounded, Captain."
"But . . . that's impossible!" interrupted the Australian. "They can't all have died! It's imperative I see one alive!"