The Alembic Plot Part 2

The next morning Odeon woke at dawn as he usually did, but instead of rising at once, he rolled onto his back and laced hands behind his head.

Joanie. She hadn't been beautiful when he first met her, so she never had been. That suited him well enough; he didn't like the prewar standard of beauty that still prevailed in many places. Beauties were too fragile, didn't have the strength of a real woman the way Joanie did. Tall skinniness was fine in a paid-woman, but Joanie's compactness was better. Stronger and more suitable for an Enforcement officer or a mother, anyway-- He pushed that thought aside. Joanie might be able to stay in Enforcement, but she'd never be a mother.

He tried to remember her as she had been, 165 centimeters and maybe 59 kilos, mostly muscle, of vigorous womanhood. But it'd hurt to see her lying broken and b.l.o.o.d.y on the hospital floor, her short dark hair stiff with drying blood; he couldn't get that image out of his mind, so he made himself study it instead, trying to bring out anything he hadn't consciously noted then.

There wasn't much. The hospital hadn't been all that different from other Brothers of Freedom raid points, except in being a hospital, its occupants even more helpless than most. The only oddity was that they hadn't made sure of the woman they'd marked. Possibly Rascal and his locals had arrived before they were able to.

Odeon grinned wolfishly at that thought. Joanie was alive, and she wanted revenge. That kind of personal motivation wasn't really necessary, but in going after terrorists like the Brothers it didn't hurt; some of the things necessary in anti-terrorist sweeps were hard to stomach. And the Brothers were the worst of the terrorists, as well as the most wide-spread; they had units in every one of the Systems, while most groups were restricted to one or two.

He was getting off the subject, though, he told himself sternly. He was here to protect Joanie's interests, not worry about the Brothers. And if he was going to do that, it might be a good idea to get up.

He glanced at the clock, then almost tangled himself in the sheets in his hurry to get out of bed. It was almost six-thirty! If he didn't get a move on, he'd be late for seven o'clock Ma.s.s!

He made it, though with barely a minute to spare, and he found peace as usual in the familiar liturgy. There were still times he wished his call had been to the priesthood--he'd been raised in a monastery, by the White Fathers, after his parents died--but for the most part, he no longer missed the life too badly. The Fathers had comforted him when it became clear that his vocation was military rather than religious; enforcing civil order, they'd reminded him, was as important to human welfare as ministering to spiritual needs. And when he'd been commissioned, directly into Special Operations, several of them had been at the Academy to congratulate him.

As he went forward to take Communion, Odeon found his thoughts going to Joanie. He shouldn't be thinking about her, not now . . . but he couldn't concentrate on the Sacrament properly, even as he accepted and swallowed the Host. Well, the Fathers had taught him that if he couldn't, despite his best efforts, maybe he wasn't supposed to--and it wouldn't be the first time something had resolved itself this way.

Returning to his place in the small chapel, he said a brief prayer to the Blessed Virgin as the Compa.s.sionate Mother for guidance. Surely, she would help the only officer of her s.e.x in this dangerous vocation!

He was feeling better when he entered Egan's office half an hour after Ma.s.s was over. He hadn't found a solution, but he had become sure that one would make itself known; he'd just have to find it.

Egan wasn't there; she was already in surgery. But she'd left word that he could use her office while he waited, and he appreciated her thoughtfulness. An Enforcement officer in a civilian hospital waiting room tended to make patients and visitors nervous; a Special Ops officer tended to make the staff nervous as well, which bothered him.

And a desk was far more convenient for doing paperwork than a lap.

Odeon sighed as he picked up the form she'd left for him. It was her recommendation for Joanie's discharge, as promised, and it made no bones about the seriousness of her injuries, or about the resulting sterility and constant pain.

Frowning, Odeon read it again--and realized that here was at least part of his solution. Joanie was sterile, which meant she was eligible for Special Ops!

Granted that he didn't like either the fact or what had caused it, she was eligible, and he was positive that--given the cause--she would want to apply, which could very well give her a bit of an edge staying in.

And he was equally positive that she'd be as outstanding in Special Ops as she had been in regular Enforcement work. He endorsed the discharge recommendation with a combined request, for waiver and transfer to Special Ops, then decided to tackle some paperwork he'd gotten behind on.

It was several hours before Egan returned to her office, obviously fatigued, and collapsed into an armchair. Despite his anxiety, Odeon took time to get her a cup of coffee and let her drink some before he asked tensely, "How did it go?"

"Better than I expected," Egan said, taking her desk back. "The operation was as successful as any I've performed." She raised a hand cautioningly. "That doesn't mean it's good; it isn't. It's just as good as it can be. She'll be in the pain I told you about, and the disc is still subject to popping, but it could've been far worse."

Egan rubbed her eyes before going on. "Otherwise, I would say she will have a complete recovery, with no more than the usual scars.

Except that she refused skin grafts for the brands on her hands."

"Mmm." Odeon frowned, thought for a moment, then smiled slowly. "I hadn't expected that, but it fits."

"Fits how?" Egan asked in near-exasperation. "I cannot for the life of me imagine why she would want to live with such reminders, as well as the pain."

"Not live with them," Odeon corrected. "You're thinking like a doctor, of course, but she's not one--she's an Enforcement officer who wants revenge. I'd say she intends to kill Brothers with them. And I'm trying to get her in a position to do just that."

Egan stared at him, appalled by the pleased antic.i.p.ation in his soft voice and pale eyes. She'd known all her life that Enforcement people--especially those in Special Operations--were killers, but this was the first time that knowledge had actually frightened her. "Yes . . . is there anything else?"

"Only one." Odeon retrieved his briefcase, preparing to leave. He hadn't intended to disturb the doctor, but if she had any acquaintance with Enforcement at all, and was that easily upset, she should have known better than to ask such a question. "When can I see her?"

"Tomorrow morning, if you want to speak to her instead of just see her.

You know the kind of equipment that will be hooked up to her?"

Odeon chuckled. "It's been hooked up to me more than once, Doctor. It doesn't bother me." It was enough for now to know his Joanie was doing as well as humanly possible. "Thank you for your efforts."

To meet Lawrence Shannon: 1a. Raid Master

2. Hospital

St. Thomas, Thursday, 20 June 2571

Odeon was still perplexed by the previous afternoon's odd meeting when he got to Joanie's room the morning after her surgery. The door was open, but he tapped on it and called her name anyway.

"Mike!" Cortin hoped he could hear the welcome she tried to put in her voice. "Come in, please!" She watched him approach, holding back tears. Mike had been her ideal since the day she'd met him, and she'd done her best to live up to his example of cool, impartial professionalism. He was an outstanding officer, an exemplary son of the Church; he certainly wouldn't come apart, so she had to conceal her anguish. She couldn't forfeit his respect for her by collapsing, even though the Brothers had maimed and perhaps crippled her.

He entered, smiling as he saw her. Her head and hands were bandaged, along with most of one arm; her face had half a dozen cuts and bruises not worth bandaging; and her ribs had undoubtedly been strapped tight under her hospital gown, but-- "You're looking a lot better than you were the last time I saw you. How do you feel?"

"Right now, I mostly don't. They've got me so heavily doped up it's a miracle I'm awake and coherent. At least I hope I am. Coherent, that is; I know I'm awake."

"You sound fine to me," Odeon a.s.sured her. He leaned over, kissed her forehead. "Ready for my report?"

"Not until you do better than that," she said. "I know you can, and as far as I can tell, my mouth is all right."

"As good as ever, but I don't hug people with broken ribs." He kissed her as thoroughly as he thought possible without hurting her, then pulled up a chair to sit beside the bed.

Her first question gave him an unpleasant shock. "Have you put me in for Special Ops?"

"What?" he said, trying to stall. Dammit, she wasn't supposed to know she was eligible yet!

Cortin sighed. "I don't need a doctor to know I've been spayed, Mike.

The incision in my belly, after what the Brothers did to me, makes it obvious I'll never have a family. It was unlikely before; now it's simply impossible. You can thank G.o.d I'm on sedatives right now, or I'd probably be a raving maniac. So answer the question."

"I have, yes. I found out day before yesterday that you'd be eligible, took the paperwork to Headquarters yesterday as soon as Doctor Egan told me you'd made it through the surgery with a reasonably good prognosis, and started to walk it through." He paused, frowning.

"And?"

"I don't know," Odeon said slowly. "Personnel didn't seem too interested in doing anything about the waiver request at first, until I raised my voice a bit." He chuckled briefly. "It seems office workers are more than a little apprehensive about an upset Special Ops man. At any rate, once I convinced them to do more than glance at the forms, I was very politely escorted to a private office--which is where it gets odd. Joanie, there was a colonel of His Majesty's Own there!"

"His Majesty's Own!" Cortin said, impressed. "So what happened?"

"Not much--which is what bothers me." Odeon frowned. "He took the forms, read them, nodded once, and told me not to tell anyone including you about the meeting. I asked what was going on, told him I had to tell you something--but the only thing he'd say was that it was a cla.s.sified project, that you'd be given serious consideration, and that he'd be in touch as soon as the decision was made. Typical bureaucrat talk--but the oddest thing is that I believe him."

"Did he give you any idea of when?"

Odeon shook his head. "No--but I'd guess not more than a few days.

Full colonels don't work for long in bare-bones offices without even carpeting."