She scanned the side of his head where the bump was, and the medical AS decided he wasn't concussed. "But I'll get a human doctor to examine the image when we've one free," she told him. "Just to be on the safe side."
"Thanks."
"It'll be a while. They're a bit busy right now." She laid him on his side and pulled the grubby T-shirt over his head.
"Sorry."
"Don't be. You didn't start it. Did you?"
"No. But I should have realized it was inevitable."
She started squirting some kind of cool cleaning liquid on his lump. Lawrence grunted at the sharp sting.
"Any fool could have told you that."
"I'm not just any fool, I'm supposed to be in charge."
"In charge, huh?" A gauze napkin was dabbed on his skin, soaking up the excess liquid.
"Yeah, I know. Listen, I don't suppose you've got anything for my headache, have you?"
"Headache or hangover?"
"Both. And they really don't like sharing space."
"Not surprised. Hold that." She took his hand and pressed it against the napkin. He could just see her shoes as she walked over to a wall cabinet.
"Anyone badly hurt?" he asked.
"Us or you?"
"Just anyone."
"Three deep stab wounds. One emergency regenerative procedure, a girl's face was cut up—"
"Aw shit."
"—several broken bones. And that electrocution weapon of yours has left a lot of people very shaky. Nobody dead, though. I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies." She handed him a couple of purple capsules and a glass of water. "Take these."
He swallowed them automatically. Only afterward did he realize how trusting he'd been. Strategic security policy was quite strict on receiving externalmedical assistance, especially in nonlethal situations.
The curtain was shoved back, and Captain Bryant stormed in. He was in full uniform, the light mauve fabric showing up his anger-heated skin. "There you are, Newton."
"Excuse me," the nurse said. "I'm treating this man."
"He's cured." Bryant held the curtain open for her. "That will be all."
She gave him an indignant look and walked out.
"Would you care to explain, Sergeant?"
"Sir?"
"What the hell happened tonight? I let you out for a quiet drink and the next thing I know you're restaging Santa Chico."
"There was some kind of argument. About a girl, I think. It sprang from that."
"Then it damn well shouldn't have sprang. For God's sake, you're supposed to stop this kind of thing."
"I wasn't actually there, sir. Otherwise I would have."
"You should have been there. You're their sergeant. I depend on you to keep order."
"We were off duty."
"Don't even start pulling that one on me. There's a damn sight more to your job than official duties, and you know it. And if you don't, you shouldn't have those stripes."
"Sir," Lawrence grunted with extreme petulance. If he hadn't been so unstable he would have said fuck it and simply smacked Bryant one.
"Now where is Jones?'
"Sir?"
"Jones Johnson. Remember him?"
"I thought he'd gone back to barracks."
"He hasn't reported in, and the police didn't take him into custody with the rest of you. Where is he?"
"I don't know, sir. Have you checked the hospital?"
"Of course I have."
Lawrence rubbed at his eyes. The capsules seemed to be having some effect. At least the nausea was fading. But he felt desperately tired. "Officially he doesn't have to report back until oh-six-hundred hours, sir."
"Don't play it smart with me, Sergeant, you don't have the IQ to pull it off. Jones is the only person unaccounted for, and he's under my command. Have you any idea how badly all this reflects on me? After this total debacle, I don't want further loose ends. Do you understand that?"
"What I'm saying, sir, is that if he got out from the fight before the police arrived, then he's probably with a girl."
"He'd better be. I want you to take that shambles you call a platoon back to barracks right away. You're on double house duties, and any breakages from the Junk Buoy will be met out of your pay. I shall also be loading an official reprimand onto your record. Now get your act together, Newton."
The curtain was tugged back forcefully as the captain strode out.
Lawrence gave his invisible back the finger, then groaned in misery as he sank back down onto the examination table.
* * *
Jones Johnson woke to a hot ache in his wrists and back. Despite that, he was alarmingly cold.
Not surprising. He was naked, spread-eagled with his wrists fastened in some kind of manacles that hung from an oval frame. Ankles, too, were held fast against the base of the frame. The rest of the room was empty. As far as he could see, it didn't even have a window, just a plain wooden door on his left. The walls were whitewashed concrete, the floor some kind of spongy black matting.
Instinctively he tugged at the manacles. Whoever had built this frame knew what he was doing. His freedom of movement was very limited.
The worst thing about it was, he simply could not remember how he'd got here. There had been some kind of fight in the Junk Buoy. He'd seen a knife flash. Combined with a chair?
What the fuck happened after that?
His brief struggle with the manacles left him panting. There was the dull throbbing on his forehead that indicated a big bruise.
"Hey!" he shouted. "Hey, can you guys hear me? Anyone there? Hey."
He watched the door for a while, expecting someone to come see what the commotion was about. Nothing.
It's a brothel, he told himself, an S and M joint, that's all. I took a hit in the fight, and those turds Karl and Lewis paid for this. Some dominatrix will arrive any minute and start hitting my ass with a cane. The bastards. "Hey, come on, guys, this isn't funny anymore."
Still nothing happened. He couldn't hear any traffic sounds, any voices.
Bastards.
He needed to pee, too. God damn!
And who would have thought that Memu Bay had a cathouse that specialized in this kind of stuff. He stopped that train of thought straightaway.
Some time later the door opened.
"About fucking time," Jones yelled. "Come on, get me out of here."