She tried, but couldn’t remember anyone to think of—person meant someone like her, like the man leaning over the medbox. Suddenly a cascade of faces appeared on the screen. Her father, her mother, her brother, her uncle, Cousin Stella, Aunt Gracie Lane, Gaspard, the Commandant, Mandy Rocher…
“Ah…” the man said.
The faces combined in scenes, in actions. Then a white streak blanked out everything for an instant, as if lightning had fired inside her head, and she was abruptly completely awake, oriented, rememoried, and very, very frightened.
She knew what that was. That was a memory module insertion. Someone had her memories on a mod, and they’d just reloaded her brain.
Which meant her brain had been… at least stuck in off and at worst completely gorked.
And she knew why.
“That idiot!” she said, meaning Skeldon.
“It was a stupid thing to do,” the man agreed. “I gather you didn’t know about it.”
“No, I didn’t know about it.” Residual fear made her cranky. “I told them—”
“We know that much—it was on your recorder. What I’m asking is, did you know he had that crush on you?”
“No,” Ky said. Then, less willingly, “Not exactly. I knew he was too grateful that we took them aboard, but I thought he’d go for Mehar in the end.”
“The end wasn’t long enough,” the man said. “Here’s the situation: you were knocked cold and got a bullet in the arm. The bullet was no problem; the stray needle we took out of your ankle was no problem either. But the head injury was bad enough that we did a pattern extraction and replacement once we’d stopped the bleeding and controlled swelling.”
“You’re… the mercenaries. Mackensee Military Assistance Corporation?”
“Yes. And you’re aboard the Victor, our command ship for this operation, because your ship lacked the right medical facilities.”
“My people?” Ky asked, trying to sit up. The medbox restraints held her back.
“They’re all right so far,” the man said. “Now—before you exit the medbox—I need to do some final tests of function. Just lie quietly and answer my questions.”
She couldn’t do anything else… The medbox restraints held her and even if she got her arms loose, she didn’t know how to unlatch a medbox from inside.
“I’m projecting a visual chart above you, and what do you see on line ten?”
Ky read off the symbols. After that came a color vision test, and a test of depth perception, and then pictures of her crew, to see if facial recognition was working. It was.
Finally he unlatched the box, removed the restraints, and helped her sit up. For a moment, she felt dizzy and nauseated, but it passed, and she was simply there, inside a warship’s surgery, sitting on the opened case of a medbox in a row of medboxes, wearing a pale blue shift with MMAC PROPERTY stamped on it. Across the wide compartment was another row of medboxes, six with their status lights on, and down the middle a row of operating tables, shrouded in the hoods that kept them sterile until needed.
“It’s—as big as a hospital,” Ky said. She had not really thought about how much medical treatment a mercenary force might need. For that matter, she hadn’t seen this part of a Slotter Key warship, either.
His lips twitched. “War isn’t a pretty business. We have thirty medboxes, ten operating sets, five regen tanks—and that’s active. We have the stored capacity for field hospitals as well. Now—ready to stand up?”
Ky pushed off the edge of the medbox. Her knees felt rubbery, but she was able to stand.
“Immobilization does that—nothing we’ve come up with prevents at least temporary weakness. Now—I’m sure you’ve got your own medical personnel back home; I’m giving you a cube with details of the treatment you received here, some of which they may want if you need other treatment within the next standard year. Slotter Key does use standard calendar units, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Ky said. She focused on the “back home.” If they were giving her medical reports for the doctors back home, surely that meant they weren’t intending to kill her…
“Your arm and ankle responded well to the regen tank treatments; you should however do fifteen minutes a day of rehab exercise—the details are on the cube—to regain strength at the maximum rate. Your C-spine injury may cause you some difficulty as you get older; I would advise you to consult your medical personnel about a regen treatment when your neural recovery is complete. We’ve got it stabilized, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a little soft-tissue damage which we couldn’t regen because of the primary brain injury.”
“C-spine injury?” Ky said.
“Yes. Luckily, Sergeant Pitt knew enough not to move you until the medics got there. But it’s perfectly stable now.”
Ky resisted the sudden urge to put her hands up and feel around her neck. It didn’t hurt—nothing hurt, really, but the knowledge that she’d been knocked silly and taken off the ship like a bundle of rags… she, the captain, who was supposed to ensure the safety of her ship and her people.
“When can I get back to my ship?” she asked.
“I don’t know—after the major talks to you, probably. It’s up to command, not to me. You’re fit for duty, as is. Well, once you get clothes on. I’m afraid your uniform is… pretty much gone. Just a moment.” He walked to the far side of the compartment; Ky leaned against the medbox she’d come out of and wondered about the six others with lights on. That was easier than wondering what she was going to do now.
The man came back with a neatly folded bundle; for the first time she noticed what must be a nametag stenciled on his tunic. Dubois.
“Your ship’s sent over a clean uniform. You’ll want to change, and any moment now you’re going to want to use the toilet.”
She did, she realized.
“Right through there: you can also shower, if you like, though the medbox does a sonic clean every four hours. When you’re dressed, come out and you’ll be escorted to the major’s office.”
He did not tell her not to try to escape. She could figure that out for herself, and clearly he knew it. Ky took the bundle and retreated through the door marked STAFF ONLY. Inside she found three shower cubicles, deep sinks, and a row of toilets. Sonic cleaning or no, she wanted a shower and shampoo, and the brisk water washed away another layer of confusion.
When she combed her hair at the mirror above the sinks, she could see nothing of what had happened. Her arm had a puckery scar that looked old, well-healed, but no soreness, even when she raised it high overhead. Her ankle’s scar was smaller, hardly visible. Her hair seemed shorter. She put on her uniform—the alternate one her mother had insisted she buy; it was annoying even now that her mother had been right—thankful that whoever had sent it had included underwear. When she’d pulled on the soft-soled ship boots, she felt much more like herself.
“I meant to tell you,” the medic said, “we don’t extend regen to cosmetic results, but that scar on your arm will respond to about two hours of regen, if you ever want to get rid of it.”
“It’s fine,” Ky said. “Thank you.” She was annoyed with herself that she hadn’t thanked him before.
“Quite all right. It was orders, after all.”
“Thank you anyway,” Ky said firmly. She was in the right about this, at least. “Clearly you—and others in this place—saved my life.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, shrugging as if the thanks made him uncomfortable. “Corporal Conas will take you to see the major,” the man said.
Corporal Conas was waiting, armed. Ky wondered what they thought she could do, that they needed to give her an armed escort, but she walked forward when he gestured.
The major—Harris, his name was—sat behind a desk in a tiny office so bare and tidy that Ky wondered if it was a real working office, or just a place chosen to interview hapless civilians. He did not smile but introduced himself.
“Captain Vatta, we have a problem.”
She knew she had a problem, but not any problem they shared.