So a corpsman slid the curtain aside.
And Kris swallowed the first five things she tried to say.
Jack's dress uniform was in shreds on the floor. No, on closer examination, it was in distinct pieces. Apparently, whoever designed armored dress uniforms made allowances for taking them apart after heavy use.
But that wasn't what held Kris's eyes.
Jack was splayed out in some kind of traction. His back, his neck, and his skull were surrounded by things that held him. It looked like he was being eaten by a huge metal spider.
They had stripped him down to the bare nothing, revealing a back and butt that was a sickly gray in the few places it wasn't livid black and blue. His minimum modesty was preserved by a towel someone had thrown over the vitals.
Kris finally emitted something like a gasp.
''Does he need all that?'' she whispered.
''Most likely not,'' the doc said, stepping away from Jack. ''But you ever met a doc who don't like to play with all his toys when he gets a chance. Especially when someone else is picking up the tab.'' The doc had gray eyes that sparkled and white hair that gave him the look of a father everyone could use. Only the lines around his eyes showed worry. At the moment, those lines were etched deeply as he took in Jack.
''I can't look all that bad,'' Jack insisted feebly. ''You sound like I'm dying or something.''
''More like the something,'' Abby put in. ''I don't think the doc here would let you out of his care that easily.''
''He ain't nearly tortured enough,'' the corpsman put in through a smile.
''So much for your performance rating,'' the doc grumbled, but with too much smile to make the threat real. Then he turned to Kris and took her still-stockinged leg in hand and turned it gingerly. The creases around his eyes failed to soften.
''Corpsman, you keep an eye on what that jarhead claims is his brain,'' Doc said without looking back at Jack. ''If that meatloaf starts to swell any little bit, I want to know about it before it happens. You hear?''
''Loud and clear, Your Godhood,'' said the unconcerned medic.
''Now, Your Highness, let's see what you've done to your perfectly usable collection of flesh and bones.''
''It's been in better shape,'' Kris agreed.
The doc struggled to pull one dart from where it had buried its point in the spider silk. ''Nasty little thing. And it does like where it's at. Captain, quit holding up the wall and bring your strong right arm over here. Nobody's going to commit assault and mayhem in my clinic. I won't allow it. Already writ the prescription agin' it.''
Captain DeVar came over from where he'd established himself, able to observe both casualties and keep a weather eye on the entrance to both the emergency room and, through the window in the door, the clinic's front door.
''Grab a pair of pliers and see how much work it is for you to pry one of those darts loose. Pull it straight out.''
Even the Marine ended up grunting from the effort as the first dart came out.
''That's just the way it is. My second wife always complained that I had those strong surgeon hands for cutting someone open, but hand me a jar of pickles and forget it. Officially, young lady, I'm declaring you a jar of pickles.''
''Or olives,'' Abby added dryly.
''With very nice stuffing,'' the doc said, not letting a mere maid get in the last word.
''Would you two quit it,'' Jack said. ''I'm in enough pain without you trying to get me laughing.''
''Ain't you heard, laughter's great medicine,'' Doc insisted.
''Not just now it isn't,'' Jack and Kris said in harmony.
''Patients,'' the doc spat. ''Don't know why we let them in the door.'' But for someone who didn't seem to have much use for patients, the doc was very reluctant to let them out of his sight. ''Commander Malhoney will just have to find someone else to drink with tonight,'' he said when he was done with Kris.
''You two look fine, but then, I've buried a few patents who were, or claimed they were when they walked out on this old sawbone. So settle in, get comfortable, and get ready to pay attention to my whole collection of horrific patient stories.''
Kris had better things to do with her time. She'd had about enough of playing target in somebody's shooting gallery. It was time for a Longknife to take charge of her own life. Start kicking butt and taking names.
Maybe it was the lame stories. Or maybe it was something she got poked with. But Kris was asleep before Doc finished his third one.
Interlude 2
Grant von Schrader smashed the Close button. The latest report on the afternoon's happenings vanished. ''Is that little idiot back yet?'' he demanded of his supervisory computer.
''If by ‘little idiot' you mean Ms. Victoria Smythe-Peterwald,'' his computer answered dutifully, ''she has just returned. Should I ask her to come to your office?''
''For the duration of her stay you may assume that ‘little idiot' means only Ms. Victoria, and yes, you may tell her that I want her here right now.''
Grant returned to his overview of the situation while he waited. He did not like what he was watching. Unlike most news stories that were reported once and stayed the same, this evening's events were changing. Growing. Couldn't anyone shut up those two old biddies!
No, that was not the problem. Why were those two still getting face time? Why hadn't those two's ramblings been buried?
Ms. Victoria entered, looking very smug. He would have to stomp on that…hard.
''I see you missed that Longknife bitch again.'' That should cut Vicky off at the knees.
Instead of penitent, the little twit shrugged diffidently. ''She may still be alive, but it was close. Very close. She has to know that next time it will be closer. And sooner or later, she dies. Kris Longknife will die. Let her think of that in her hospital bed tonight''
''There will not be another time. Not on my planet.''
Victoria plopped herself into one of the padded guest chairs around his discussion table. ''Oh, Uncle Grantie, you sound upset. Is something bothering you?''
Grant detested being reduced to ''Uncle Grantie.'' He took an extra moment to get a firm handle on his temper, then another second to examine exactly how he should approach this offspring of his boss's loins. He was supposed to be teaching her. So he called up his best educational tone.
''The initial news reports blamed the incident at the Spring Charity Art Extravaganza on a gas-line explosion.''
''Good. Some newsie used his imagination,'' Victoria purred.
''Unfortunately, whoever you hired for this hit didn't use his imagination,'' Grant shot back. ''A nice bomb would have left little enough to challenge that bit of creative reporting.''
All that got from Victoria were raised eyebrows.
''Your man used an auto-gun that left plenty of bullets in victims, and pieces of the gun in the wreckage.''
''And your police can't handle a little problem like that,'' Vicky said, shaking her head. Suddenly, the discovery of her poor planning was his fault.
He made a mental grab for his temper, caught it barely by his fingernails, and stuffed it back in his hip pocket.
''Reporters can get the scoops we lay out for them. Police reports can be ‘corrected.' Unfortunately, Ms. Broadmore and Mrs. Whitebread say they saw the gun and all the shooting and they're talking a lot and it's all off story.''
''Can't you have them popped?''
''They are major players on Eden. They die later,'' Grant snapped, cutting that line of thought off at the root.
''Heart attacks?'' Vicky said, arching an eyebrow.
''Not fast enough today. And all of your solutions involve risk for minor gains when fifteen years of work is our main concern. Hasn't your father mentioned the benefit of staying focused on the prize and not being distracted by mere glitter?''
''Longknife's death is not mere glitter.''
''It is right now.''
''Well, if you hadn't sent poor Vennie packing, he might have done a better job for me.''