“Get out while you can.”
His words seemed nonsensical. “What?”
“The cyborg experiment, Dr. Calvin. Get out while you can.”
Susan tried to disengage politely. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.” She attempted to walk around him.
But the man stepped directly into her path. “Goldman and Peters and USR. They’re tricking you. They’re creating cyborgs from mental patients.”
Susan had no idea how this man knew about the nanorobot experiment, but she remembered the first-day admonitions about talking to protestors and revealing details of experiments, as well as her father’s overstated but understandable concerns about the Society for Humanity. Worried this could spark into something violent, Susan moved forcefully leftward. “You’re way off base. Our only goal as doctors is to help the sick and injured become healthy again. Nothing else.”
The man moved with Susan, but she managed a quick spin that opened the way, then ran into the sanctity of the building.
Just what I need this morning. Morons leaping to horrific conclusions from bits of misinformation. Susan already battled a tough mood. The excitement of her first week had waned, and she desperately wanted some time to herself. She had returned to Manhattan to spend time with her father; yet she had barely managed a significant conversation. She had the best boyfriend of her life, and she had already broken their second date. She drew some solace from realizing Remington understood and shared the rigors of her schedule. I love my chosen life; I just need some time off. Susan knew she would get her wish tomorrow, but only after she had dedicated another full day and night to Manhattan Hasbro.
Rounds went swiftly, as even Dr. Bainbridge had Sunday plans. Susan finished out the morning with the little tasks that would keep the patients on par until the new week started. Things coasted on the weekends. No new treatments or approaches were considered; no procedures or meetings that could wait until Monday were conducted. Once the morning frivolities ended, the unit worked on autopilot and the nurses would not bother Susan with details unless they affected her own patients.
Monterey’s current nurse, Saranne, caught Susan daydreaming at a palm-pross. “Monterey is asking for you.”
Susan sat up. “Asking? As in . . . asking?”
Saranne smiled. “As in speaking your name with a question mark at the end.”
Susan nodded. “Well, I can hardly pass that up, can I?”
“You cannot,” Saranne agreed, gesturing toward the staffing room exit. “She’s at the door to her room.”
Susan found the girl exactly where Saranne had said, surprised to find Sharicka standing beside her. “Dr. Susan,” the younger girl said, “Monterey wants to see Nate again. Can I go with you?”
Susan forestalled Sharicka with a raised hand. “If Monterey wants something, she will have to ask me herself.” She turned her gaze directly on Monterey, her brows rising in slow increments.
Monterey was up to the challenge. “I want to see Nate again.”
Susan noted with satisfaction she had used a full sentence, and it surprised and pleased her when Monterey continued.
“You promised you would take me today.”
“I did.” Susan could barely contain her joy. Monterey is talking. The realization of another success filled her with more warm pride than she expected. She tried to remain professional but could not help remembering how long Monterey had suffered, how little hope anyone had had for her until Susan had come on service. The idea she might save Sharicka as well overwhelmed her. Pride goeth before a fall, Susan reminded herself, but she could not shake the feeling of satisfaction that assailed her. I’m great at this. I really am. “And I will. Can you walk this time?”
Monterey nodded vigorously.
Sharicka looked longingly at Susan. She seemed afraid to open her mouth again.
Susan had already set things up with Nate the previous evening, and he had promised to make himself available in the charting room. She felt certain he would not mind adding another child. “Of course you may come with us. As long as your nurse gives us permission.”
“He will! He will!” Sharicka said excitedly.
Susan knew she was right. Shaden had already proven himself the young girl’s staunchest supporter. “All right, then. You two get ready. I’ll let the nurses know where we’re going, get Shaden’s permission, and meet you here at” — Susan looked at her Vox — “exactly eleven oh eight hours.”
Sharicka got into the game, examining her bare arm with the same intensity Susan had her Vox. “Should we sinkonize?”
Impressed a four-year-old could come so close to correctly pronouncing “synchronize,” Susan rewarded her efforts by joining in. She consulted her Vox again. “It’s exactly eleven oh five and forty seconds.”
“Check.” Sharicka pretended to fine-tune a Vox, though such was unnecessary as they all self-adjusted to the world clock. She must have gotten the whole synchronicity routine from an old show or movie.
Monterey giggled at the interaction.
Susan turned and marched off, trying to appear as competent as an old-time spy whose very life might depend on how well she “sinkonized” with her partners.
When they came back together, Saranne keyed the three through the massive, confining doors of the PIPU and out into the main portion of the hospital. The girls remained silent as they walked with Susan, focused on anything and everything. Sharicka paid so much attention to the key locks that old fears resurfaced and Susan worried the little girl might attempt escape. She made a vow to keep a close eye on the child, to never once let Sharicka out of her sight or beyond a few steps. She felt certain she could outrun the chunky preschooler, so long as she did not give Sharicka too large a head start.
Both girls studied the walls of the regular part of the hospital, nudging each other and pointing to some of the more colorful or unusual paintings. People flowed through the corridors singly or in small groups, discussing everything from family members to duties, from hopes to sadness, from lunch to vomit. Gurneys rumbled past with clipped IV lines and personal charting screens that appeared blank to anyone who might glance at them from the hallway and required passwords to read. At last, the three arrived at the charting room. Susan had discussed bringing Monterey back sometime this late morning or early afternoon, and Nate had promised to do his best to be there when they arrived.
When Susan opened the door, N8-C was sitting in one of the plush chairs tapping away at a palm-pross. As they entered, he looked up and smiled. Susan wondered idly if he found the softer chairs more comfortable or if he simply emulated the things he saw humans do. The very thought struck her as odd. Usually, she found herself forgetting his origins, thinking of him as just another colleague/friend, like Kendall or Stony. “Good morning, Nate,” she called as she ushered her charges inside and closed the door.
Nate rose to meet them. “Good morning, Susan. Good morning, Monterey.” He gave Sharicka a quizzical look. “Hello, little girl I’ve never met.”
Sharicka dashed forward, took his hand, and shook it. “I’m Sharicka. Nice to meet you, Nate.”
Monterey waited until Sharicka had finished before sliding in and capturing Nate in an embrace.
Nate hugged Monterey back, but his gaze found Susan.
Susan just smiled and waited.
Monterey held on longer than would be considered appropriate in most situations, and Sharicka nudged the other girl’s arm with an elbow. “Let go, now. You don’t want to break him.”