She gave a grudging half nod. “All right, maybe I did say some things I shouldn’t have—”
“No need to apologize. I was ignoring you anyway.” He waved his glass toward the empty chair across the table from him. “Have a seat, Dr. Khan.”
His invitation took her off guard. She looked around the commissary, as if trying to decide how the other staffers might react to her getting cozy with the outcast, then faced him again. “Thank you, no,” she said stiffly.
“Suit yourself. How about a drink?” Instead of waiting for an answer, he flagged the waitress down as she trotted by.
“I’d like one more bottle of this fine whiskey and a glass for the lady, please,” he told her.
The waitress looked uncomfortable, biting her lip and staring at her feet. “You’ve already had three whole quatriliters, sir,” she pointed out diplomatically.
A hopeful look. “Wouldn’t you prefer some coffee or something?”
Marchey smiled at her, touched by her concern. “Do I look drunk?” he asked gently. “Act drunk?”
“No,” she admitted.
He chuckled and gave her a wink. “Well, actually I am. The thing is, being drunk is something I happen to be exceptionally good at. In my expert medical opinion I’m not nearly drunk enough. So please help me continue this great work. All right?”
She ducked her head in acceptance. “All right.”
“Thank you.” When she hurried off he turned his attention back to Dr. Khan. “Please pardon the interruption. Now what’s on your mind?”
“You’re an alcoholic,” she said accusingly.
He emptied the bottle into his glass. “I suppose I am.” He took a drink. “What of it? Want lessons?”
Her upper lip curled in distaste. “You’re disgusting.”
His eyebrows lifted in mock shock. “I do believe that was an insult!” Then he shook his head sadly. “Not much of one, though. Surely a surgeon of your caliber can do a better job of drawing blood than that.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but bit it back because the waitress had returned. Khan stood there, the muscles in her jaw twitching with repressed anger as a glass was placed on the table before her and the empty bottle traded for a fresh one.
She watched the waitress beat a hasty retreat, then scowled at Marchey. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re a drunk,” she informed him in a low hard voice. “It’s probably the only way you can live with yourself.”
“Maybe so.” He shrugged. “What would you suggest as an alternative? Suicide?” A faint pang of sorrow surfaced, sank back into quiescence. “Some of my friends have been driven to just that, you know. Me, I prefer to drown myself one glass at a time. It’s really quite pleasant. You should try it.”
“You really don’t care what you are, do you?”
Another shrug. “I’m reconciled to it.” He put down his empty glass and cracked open the new bottle. “I’m reconciled to a lot of things, like the rude, rotten treatment I get from people like you in places like this. But I do my duty and go where I’m needed. Whether you or I or anybody else likes it doesn’t enter into the matter. I run your gauntlet. I do what needs to be done. I leave.” He poured an amber splash into his glass. “That and happy hour are usually the best part.”
Dr. Khan watched sourly as he drained his glass and filled it yet again. On days when he operated it always took a lot more to reach the place he liked to live. Some of that came from the D-Tox he’d taken that morning. Instead of starting with half a tank he had to work his way up from dead empty.
But he could really feel the whiskey now. By the time he finished this bottle he’d be ready to find his way back to his room, have a final nightcap, and pass out. Tomorrow morning he’d reclaim his ship and once again be gone, on his way to somewhere else he could do this all over again. And again. And again.
Even this conversation was nothing new. Once or twice a year someone took his presence personally enough to want to take a whack at him. He knew if he ignored her she’d go away eventually. The Dead Horse Defense. Her whip arm would get tired sooner or later.
But maybe if he took a swipe back at her, then the next time a Bergmann Surgeon was sent here she’d leave the poor bastard alone. It wasn’t like he had anything else to do while he killed this last jug.
He turned his flat, sunken gray eyes on her. “I’ll tell you one thing I’m not reconciled to,” he said in a soft, passionless voice. “That’s the waste of my skills. In a good month I might get the chance to help three patients. Three patients. By all rights I should be on staff in a place like this and treating that many a day. But thanks to narrow-minded prigs like you, my dear Dr. Khan, I’m not.”
He picked up the bottle and offered it to her.
“Maybe you ought to take this, sweetheart. Drink to forget that today I gave a patient help you couldn’t begin to provide. Drink to forget that I could do the same thing tomorrow for another patient if you hadn’t helped make it impossible for me to stay. Drink to forget that you’re putting your own petty prejudices ahead of the well-being of your patients, and forcing me to waste skills that make your best surgical technique look like something done with fucking hatchets and meat cleavers.”
Khan ignored the bottle in his hand. “Are you through?” she asked, grinding the words out between her clenched teeth.
“Almost.” Marchey slouched back in his chair and took a long drink straight out of the jug. “You can choose between accepting what I can do, or only using me when MedArm forces you to. My only choice is between doing what little I’m allowed to do or quitting. I took the Healer’s Oath, and quitting isn’t a part of it. So I get by. How I get by is none of your goddamned business, and since it’s you forcing me to live like this, I suggest that you stuff your sanctimonious attitude up your tight judgemental ass and leave me the fuck alone.”
He grinned at her. “Now I’m done.”
Dr. Khan uncrossed her arms and leaned toward him, resting the knuckles of her clenched hands on the table. “You dare talk about the Healer’s Oath,” she spat. “At least I’m willing to treat anyone who needs help, as it demands. Not like you.”
Marchey stared back at her. “I treat whoever MedArm has the Institute send me to treat.”
She nodded, her face taking on the look of a prosecutor who has extracted the damning confession she sought. “Yes, your kind do, don’t you?”
She straightened up, pointing an accusing finger at him. “If I was letting myself be used the way you are, I’d probably drink, too.” Her mouth twitched into a harsh smile. “If anybody ought to stuff their sanctimonious attitude up their ass it’s you. We’re not stupid. We know what’s going on.”
She turned on her heel and stalked away. Marchey watched her, scowling and wondering what he’d missed. We’re not stupid. We know what’s going on. What the hell was that supposed to mean? He could always call her back and ask…
He took another swig from the bottle in his hand, the sweet whiskey dissolving the question like a clot dosed with hemaflux. For all he knew she was convinced that the Bergmanns got their abilities from human sacrifice or a pact with Satan. Some of the more fanatic Christian and Islamic sects did.
He sighed and closed his eyes. Damn being out around people like her. The talk of choice, and his treating only those people MedArm assigned…
He opened his eyes. Another ghost from the past began to materialize across the table from him. He probably could have banished the shade, but let her be. She was one of his few good memories.