She could have killed me.
No doubt in her mind. Genevieve Casey — shit. Shit! Indigo crushed her eyes closed and tried to think past the burning exhaustion, the sensation like a bullet hole in the center of her chest. She saw, over and over, the woman's fucking arrogant white grin as she rolled steel fingers back precise as a time-lapse film of a flower unfurling, the squashed bullet, the wink.
Who the hell would have imagined she could do that?
Why on Earth would she want to let me live?
Despite the blinds, it was much brighter in the cabin when she lifted her eyes and rubbed at the dent the rifle had left in her forehead. She wasn't sure if she had slept, but her neck ached and her mouth felt stuffed with scraps of paper. She leaned the rifle against the wall and stood. Food first — she dug in her backpack for energy bars and a pouch of pop — and then she flipped open the cheap Web link she'd bought in a department store in Ottawa. She signed in using trial guest software from an Internet conglomerate and checked Web mail accounts maintained under several false names.
On the third one, she found the e-mail from Razorface. Time-stamped two days before.
Shit. Her finger hovered a centimeter from the open icon at the edge of her interface, and finally stabbed through it. His recorded image stared at her out of cyberspace, a clever algorithm making the eyes seem to track. “Indy.” A deep breath, and the image covered its mouth to cough. “I got a message for you from Maker… from Jen Casey, probably the name you know her by. She says you need to ditch Farley, head for the border or someplace safe. You need to abort the hit on Riel — she said to tell you this: ‘Tell Indigo that Genevieve Casey says her Uncle Bernard would have had more sense, and she doesn't have to trust me but if she's smart she'll do what I say.' She said to tell you that Farley works for Alberta Holmes, and she — Maker — doesn't.”
“Shit.” Indigo dropped the Web link on the battered maple table. She tried to warn me?
She didn't just let me get away. Genevieve Casey went out of her way to protect me.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
0300 Hours
Saturday 16 December, 2062
HMCSS Montreal
Trevor Koske was coming to dread opening his eyes. It could have been worse. This time, he flinched from the strobe-flicker of fluorescent lights and would have shaded his eyes with his hand, but it was tied to the bedframe. “Ow.”
“Captain Wainwright.” A modulated voice he recognized as the tones of the ship's AI. “The overhead lights hurt Lieutenant Koske's eyes. Would you—”
“Light down,” she said, and the flicker behind his eyelids dimmed to a bearable level. “It's okay, Lieutenant. You can talk now. The tubes are out.”
He coughed and tried to peer at her through his eyelashes. “The fluorescents strobe,” he managed. “Ma'am, thank you. How long has it been?”
“It's Saturday,” she said. “Barely.” She circled sick bay slowly, one wall to the other, measured steps carrying her between workstations. “You're going to be fine. Apparently you're tougher than we imagined, Lieutenant. Your warning allowed the ship's AI to avert a major threat to the Montreal. You have the crew's gratitude for that.”
“Threat?”
“A computer virus. A Trojan horse.” A lightning change of direction. “Can you describe your attacker?”
“Can you untie my hands?”
Captain Wainwright glanced toward the door. “I don't see why not, now.”
The AI spoke. “It should be acceptable, Captain. The duty surgeon gives his permission.”
She unwound the soft cloth straps on his wrists, careful not to touch his skin. Once she released him he stretched, then gingerly patted the bandages encircling his throat. “I remember leaving the gym,” he said. “Handball practice.”
The captain's eyebrows arched at the irony in his voice. “Now you develop a sense of humor?”
He shrugged. It tugged his bandages. He didn't do it again.
Wainwright came back to the bedside, her rubber-soled ship shoes scuffing the deckpads. “That's all?”
He pushed back until he found blackness, his gut unraveling when he realized he didn't even know how much time he'd lost. His voice came out level, to his pride. A wrinkle in the sheets chafed his skin. He smoothed it irritably. “Until I woke up in my quarters.”
“Traumatic amnesia?”
“I–It's not a tip-of-the-tongue thing, like trying to remember where you left the car keys. It's like the memories just don't exist.” He remembered in time not to shake his head. “What am I doing awake, Captain?”
“Your nanite load appears to have saved your life.” Her face stayed impassive, a mask of intellectual interest. “You were very lucky. There was an attempt on Master Warrant Officer Casey yesterday as well, along with the prime minister.”
“Casey? Is she—”
“She'll be fine.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek, not even bothering to sort through the tangle of emotions that raised. “Linked?”
“Seems a bit likely, doesn't it? But no one has provided me with an official opinion on that. Yet.” A touch of irritation? Maybe. “You should be on your feet before you know it,” Wainwright continued. “Meantime, rest. We'll try hypnosis and, if we have to, study drugs to try to recover your memories, when you're feeling better.” She stared down at him for a long moment, as if expecting a response.
“Ma'am?” He struggled with his frown, lost, wrestled his mouth back to a neutral line with some effort.
A shrug, narrow shoulders lifting and falling under the crisp navy of her jumpsuit. She stepped away from the bed. “And, Koske — there's a guard on the door. I'm afraid you're in protective custody until we figure out what's what and which side who is on.”
0400 Hours
Saturday 16 December, 2062
National Defence Medical Center
Toronto, Ontario
At oh-four-hundred I get out of bed to go to the bathroom and realize three steps away — when the IV tugs and I turn back absently to give the motorized smart stand time to catch up — that I am walking. With a certain amount of stiffness and pain, yes. With a spasm in my thigh like my quadriceps has been tied in a knot and spot-welded back into place, and my right arm feeling like Dr. Frankenstein ran a few stitches across the top of the shoulder to hold it on until he could get back to me.
But walking.
I stagger to the head, the IV stand humming happily along behind me, and then crawl back into bed and try to close my eyes. Sleep comes easier than I thought it would, but it only lasts an hour or two.
By sunrise, I'm up and dressed in the clothes Elspeth dropped off yesterday, the IV — much to the discomfiture of the staff — unhooked and pushed back beside the nightstand. I can't stay in bed another minute. Even chatting with Richard about his conversations with Wainwright and company fails to distract me, but my leg still hurts too much to pace. I ask Richard to tell Leah to have Gabe hurry up. He laughs at me.
Dick, how's Koske? I stretch back in the chair and stare at the ceiling, unwilling to endure the mindless drek on the holo.
“Talking to Wainwright. I'll fill you in later. He'll live.” Richard sounds oddly satisfied at that. “He's better once you get to know him. Not personable by any means, but better.”