When her parents arrived, half an hour later, Kafari broke down in her mother’s arms, weeping with exhaustion and fright. Her father took charge of Yalena, speaking quietly with her, reassuring her that the doctors were doing everything humanly possible to save her father’s life. More relatives arrived, not enough of them to be an abrasion against her raw nerves, but lending silent support at a time she needed it desperately. Surrounded by her loving family, all Kafari could do was wait. The volunteer returned periodically to update them, although the “updates” consisted of the same news again and again.
“Your husband is still alive, Mrs. Khrustinova. The surgeons are working to stabilize him.”
Yalena went for a walk with her grandfather, out into the hallway, then came back and curled up against Kafari’s side, shivering. Kafari wrapped one arm around her daughter. At length, Yalena whispered, “I didn’t mean to be rude, Mommy. When we got home. I just can’t leave home and go somewhere strange. All my friends are here.” Her voice was breaking in a plea for understanding.
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
“Did — did the president’s advisor really try to kill Daddy? I can’t believe it. I can’t. Everybody at school says he’s a wonderful person. I just can’t believe that, Mommy.”
“You have no idea how much I wish you were right.”
Yalena bit one lip and fell silent again. Neither Kafari’s parents nor the other family members sitting vigil with them commented on the brief exchange, but knowing glances ran like spiders around the room. They were still sitting there, nerves jangled and eyes puffy, when the soft ping! of the elevators announced the arrival of what sounded like an entire army. The footsteps and voices heading their way were shocking in the hospital’s relative quiet. Kafari realized what that tidal wave of sound was seconds before the camera crews and reporters burst into the room. Bright lights half-blinded them. People were shouting questions at them, so many at once, she couldn’t even sort out individual voices, let alone questions. Yalena shrank closer to Kafari’s side. Her father and several uncles interposed themselves between Kafari and the news people choking the room.
Then one of the featureless faces resolved itself into a familiar pattern. A man Kafari recognized from datacasts strode forward, his acne-pitted face mirroring concern and sympathy. Sar Gremian! Kafari’s father and uncles exchanged distressed glances, then let him through the barricade they’d formed, not wanting to provoke a scene in front of half the press-corps in Madison.
When she realized that Sar Gremian was reaching out to touch her shoulder, making a show — a mockery — of offering comfort, Kafari went rigid. Then she jerked to her feet. “Don’t you dare touch me!” she hissed.
He checked slightly. “Mrs. Khrustinova, you have no idea how distressed I was to learn—”
“Get out!” Kafari snarled. “I have nothing to say to you! And if you ever come near me and mine again, I’ll by God finish the job Sonny left undone!”
The force of her rage — and his abrupt realization that she meant every syllable uttered before God and the planetary press — left him one shade paler than when he’d glided into the room. She could almost see the thought forming behind those cold shark’s eyes. Oh, hell, I forgot this is the woman who brought Abraham Lendan out of battle alive. I may have underestimated her…
You’re goddamned right, you have! And don’t ever forget it.
He recovered his poise quickly. So quickly, Kafari doubted the reporters had even noticed the silent exchange of threat and counterthreat between them, too delighted by the overt conflict to notice the deeper and far more dangerous one. “You’re overwrought, Mrs. Khrustinova, and little wonder. I simply wanted to convey my heartfelt well-wishes and those of President Zeloc.”
“You have conveyed them,” she said coldly. “You are doubtless more urgently needed elsewhere.” Kafari knew her anger was a reckless, dangerous thing to display so openly. But she could not just stand there and let him offer unctuous condolences when he had tried to murder her husband. Twice.
She was rescued from worse folly when a doctor in surgical scrubs shoved through the throng of reporters, demanding in angry tones that the waiting room be cleared. “Who let you in here? This is a hospital surgical ward, not a press briefing. Out! All of you, out!”
Orderlies were appearing, escorting camera crews into the corridor and back toward the elevators. Kafari — with her family standing beside her in a silent show of solidarity — stood her ground while Sar Gremian watched the exodus through narrowed eyes. He turned abruptly, gave Kafari a mocking little bow, and said, “My condolences, Mrs. Khrustinova, and those of the president. Miss Khrustinova,” he turned to Yalena, who was clinging to her, “I hope very sincerely that your father will pull through this dreadful accident.”
Then he strode out, nodding to the reporters with a dignity and concern he had pasted on like thin varnish for the benefit of the cameras. Kafari hated him with an ice-cold loathing that frightened her, it was so intense. Then he was gone and the reporters with him, and Kafari stumbled slightly, groping for the nearest chair as her knees buckled. Her father caught her and helped her down.
The surgeon tested her pulse, frowning with worry.
“Simon?” she whispered, finding and holding Yalena’s hand.
“He’s out of danger, Mrs. Khrustinova.”
Her eyelids sagged close and her bones turned to rubber. The surgeon’s voice reached down a very deep well, echoing strangely in her ears.
“He is still in grave condition, I’m afraid. We’ve stabilized the internal injuries and broken bones. The airlift crew said his aircar was built like a Bolo. Thank God it was or he’d have been killed on impact.”
She managed to open her eyes and focused with difficulty on the man’s face, which had gone unsteady and full of blurred edges. He managed a warm and gentle smile. “Hello,” he added with just a touch of wry humor. “I’m Dr. Zarek, by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Kafari barely recognized the croaking of her own voice. “What else? What aren’t you telling us?”
“He is still in grave condition. To be frank, he needs to be transferred to a much better facility than University Hospital.”
“But—” She swallowed. “University Hospital is the best medical center on Jefferson.” Blood drained, leaving her dizzy. “Oh, God…”
“Easy, now, steady.” She felt someone’s hand on her shoulder. She felt like she was falling off a cliff or out the airlock of a freighter in free-fall. Then a sharp, pungent smell brought her out of a downward spiral. She coughed and the world firmed up again. Dr. Zarek was seated beside her, testing her pulse. A nurse was busy attaching some kind of skin patch to her wrist, probably an antishock treatment. Her family hovered close-by, stricken. When the doctor was satisfied that she wasn’t going to faint, he spoke again, very gently.
“He’s at the ragged edge of critical, but his condition is not life-threatening. That much, at least, I can swear to you.” A look of profound respect came into his long, kindly face as he added, “I have not forgotten what you did in Klameth Canyon, Mrs. Khrustinova. It was one of the greatest privileges of my life, serving as a junior member of Abraham Lendan’s medical team. You may not remember me, but I administered one of your earliest antiradiation treatments. I had a little more hair, then, and a few less wrinkles.”
His smile, his genuine warmth, helped steady her. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “I really don’t remember you.”