“Pipe down!” Broben growled.
Dr. Manday was now looking at her own miniature version of the transparent device in Wennda’s hand. “Your man was brought in with a punctured left lung,” she said, “a fractured upper rib, severed ligaments in the left shoulder, shrapnel and lacerations along the left side of the head and upper left torso, shattered zygomatic arch and sclerotic puncture resulting in loss of vision in the left eye, critical exsanguination—”
“Can you do anything for him?” Farley asked quickly. He didn’t think the crew needed to hear the gory details.
“He’s in a regen tank right now,” said Manday. “Vitals are stable, tissue’s taking, hemo and O2 are up. I sampled his lung tissue and I’m printing up some more for him, should be ready in about an hour. I won’t know about the eye until later tonight. I pulled metal fragments from every wound site. Was he near some kind of explosion?”
Farley’s mouth pressed tight. He hated this more than any other facet of the war. Human bodies weren’t made to be thrown into that chaos like bugs in a woodchipper. “Yes, ma’am, he was,” he said. “I’m sure you’re doing everything you can for him.”
“I can’t do more and I wouldn’t do less,” she nearly chanted. “It will still be a few days before I can discharge him, though.”
Farley blinked. “A few days?”
“Well, there is that eye,” Manday said, a bit defensively.
Wennda glanced at Farley. “Would you like to know anything else?” she asked.
Farley shook his head numbly.
“Thanks, doc,” Wennda said. Farley added his thanks, but the image had already gone dark.
“He’s gonna make it?” Everett blurted. “St. Francis is gonna make it?”
“You heard the lady,” said Farley, not quite believing it himself. “He’ll be out in a couple of days.”
The crew cheered. If any of them had a problem with Francis’ bacon being saved by a doctor who was a woman who also wasn’t white, it wasn’t evident.
Wennda did something to the thin clear panel and then crumpled it again.
Shorty gaped outright. “A cellophane telephone!” he said.
“Cellophone,” said Boney.
“Where can I get one?” Shorty demanded.
Wennda raised an eyebrow. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. She smiled at Farley. “I told you we’d take care of him.”
“I’m a believer,” said Farley. “Thank you.”
She looked faintly embarrassed. “The commander wants to see you,” she said. “And I’d like to discuss a few things while we go.” She glanced up at the sun and frowned.
“Sure,” said Farley. “I wanted to talk to you, too.”
“I think that’s our cue, fellas,” said Plavitz. “We better fade.”
“Dis-missed!” Everett agreed.
The men went back to their stickball recruits.
“These idiots couldn’t organize a two-car funeral,” Broben told Farley. “I better take charge before someone gets an eye poked out.” He nodded at Wennda and left to join the wildly gesturing fray.
“What are they trying to do?” Wennda asked.
“They want to teach your people how to play stickball so they can get a game together.”
“Why are they only teaching men?”
Farley opened his mouth. Shut it. Shrugged. “No reason I can think of,” he said. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hey,” he called. “Let some girls play, too.”
He missed the look Wennda shot him. “We should go,” she said. “It’s not good to make the commander wait.”
“I’ll bet.”
Shorty glanced at his watch and then squinted up at the artificial sun. He grinned and called, “Hey, captain! Want to see a trick?”
Farley saw the others grinning, too. Garrett nudged Everett and jutted his chin.
“Sure,” said Farley.
Shorty looked at his watch and raised a hand. His lips moved as he counted down, moving his hand in time, and then he snapped his fingers.
The sun went out.
FIFTEEN
Farley’s first thought when everything went dark was, Air raid! But no one was running or panicked, there were no shouts or alerts. Lights in many buildings were already on. Floodlights lit at the top corners of the courtyard.
“I knew I should’ve paid that power bill,” Shorty said in Jack Benny’s voice.
Some of the crew laughed. With the stickball game on hold, most of them were already lighting cigarettes.
“Cute,” said Farley. “What now?”
“Now we wait an hour for the next panel to come on,” said Wennda. She pointed at the dim sky. “Sixteen panels along the meridian are artificial sunlight. They get brighter from horizon to zenith. But the eleven o’clock panel doesn’t work anymore.”
Farley craned his head. With the sun panel unlit the dome above them reflected enough light from the buildings below to reveal itself for what it was—a pale gray bowl covering a thousand people like a cake tray. Starless, moonless, cloudless, and unnerving.
Farley shook his head. “So how long’s this been going on?”
“Eleven o’clock has been out for the last eight years.”
“Why not just jump from the ten o’clock panel to the noon one? Or keep ten o’clock lit for two hours?”
She looked impressed. “Good for you,” she said.
“I’m a barbarian, not an idiot. So why won’t it work?”
“It will work. In fact, that was the solution for a few weeks. But it turns out that the longer a panel stays lit, the more likely it is to fail. And we’d much rather deal with the dark for an hour than lose another panel.” She shrugged. “We’re very good at improvising. But sometimes things just wear out, and there’s nothing anyone can do.”
“Maybe my guys can think of something.”
“We would name a yearly holiday after them.”
“Don’t be silly. A statue would be plenty.”
Her brow furrowed. “Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re serious.”
Farley grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind. So what does your father want to see me about?”
“The commander would like to discuss a plan for recovering your aircraft.”
“He’ll help us?” Farley was elated but surprised. “What’s his angle?”
“I think he wants to explore different options.”
“Fine by me. Long as we don’t just keep exploring them till those aquarium jokers come knocking here in my ship.”
“If I understand you correctly, I don’t think he wants that, either. Nobody does.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” said Farley. He grinned. “We’re burning daylight.”
He told Broben he was headed for a meeting with the CO and set out with Wennda, the midday night continuing around them as they walked beside each other on the amber-lighted path.
“No more armed escort?” Farley asked.
“What makes you think I’m not armed?”
Farley studied her. “Now I can’t tell if you’re serious.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Farley laughed. “Touché.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It just means good point.”
They walked toward the low administration building where Farley had been taken the night before. Farley saw dim shapes of people moving in the distance, but he and Wennda were essentially alone.
“So the CO’s your pop,” he said.
“If that means father, yes, he is.”
Farley shook his head. “Boy, that must put a crimp in your social calendar.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I just mean you probably don’t get asked out a lot.”