Authors: Alan Dean Foster
He didn’t bat an eye and his expression did not change. If she
had
been carrying an old-fashioned antique clipboard she might have written down,
“Note patient’s prior surgery: sense of humor removed.”
Sitting back in the self-powered wheeled chair that motored around the office in response to slight shifts of her weight, she studied the readouts as information became available and was transmitted from the body scanner. Blood pressure: slightly elevated. Heart rate: faster than it ought to be but within tolerable parameters given the visitor’s claimed age. Presence of detectable melds: leg tendons upper and lower, hair follicles, ocular orbits … it was neither a long list nor a distinctive one. Very minor biosurge work compared to what she saw and dealt with every day.
Body fat, sectional proportions, muscle density, presence of required trace elements in the blood, kidney-liver-spleen-heart-testicular function, neural activity, cognitive functions, digestive system—one by one the scanner broke down, analyzed, and reported back on the general condition of the subject. As she perused the flow of information and used it to build up a picture of the visitor’s health, Ingrid’s mind was already turning to thoughts of lying on a warm beach in as little as possible while doing as little as possible and imbibing as much as possible. She managed to lose herself in coastal reverie while absorbing, digesting, and contemplating the visitor’s condition.
Right until the alarm went off.
Ingrid’s daydream vanished consciousness like at a concert. The same inoffice experience that allowed her to diagnose and deal with patients while paying only half her attention to them abruptly jolted her back into full awareness of where she was and what she was doing. Muting the audible alarm with a verbal command, she now turned all her powers of observation onto her visitor. In sharp contrast to her response, he had been neither surprised nor startled by the alarm. His nonreaction spoke volumes. If anything, his attitude verged on the apologetic. She grew tense.
“You knew that was going to happen.”
Whispr nodded without meeting her accusatory stare. “I had a pretty good idea something might. I mean, I knew they had to show up sometime during the exam. I just wasn’t sure how soon or under what circumstances.”
She blinked uncertainly. “ ‘They’?”
Taking a deep breath, he turned sideways to her and pulled the hem of his shirt out of his pants. Raising it toward his armpit exposed a smattering of tiny red bruises on his back. Her inspection was fleeting.
“Not chicken pox and not fleas. But I suspect you’re already aware of
that.” She was more upset by the unanticipated revelation than she cared to admit. Adopting a professional approach in the presence of the unexpected allowed her to remain calm. “Why do I have this uneasy feeling that you know full well what set off my system?”
He let the shirt hem fall from his fingers. Neither was particularly clean. “I’ve been shot.”
“So I infer.” Inclining her head slightly, she nodded toward her instruments. “From the looks of your skin and the readouts I’m seeing, my guess would be police traktacs. But if so then they should be broadcasting. They’re not. At least, not on any frequencies detectable by my equipment.”
“I was able to arrange a three-day stall. The instant it expires I’ll start blasting out signals all over the southeast.” Unexpectedly limpid eyes locked on hers. “There’s no way to stop the transmissions. You know that. All I can tell you is that I have plenty good reason to believe my life’s at stake. It would sure help me out if when these little pieces of electronic shit resume broadcasting, they do it from someplace other than my ribs.” He risked a smile. “Like from the bottom of a toilet, maybe.”
She studied him without instruments, doing her best to try to generate a picture of her quietly desperate visitor. He did not look, sound like, or otherwise strike her as a violent person. There was a disarming innate shyness about him. Working in his favor was the fact that he had come to her office as a supplicant, making no demands and issuing no threats. Of course, that could easily change if she refused to help him. On the other hand, it was unlikely that whatever branch of law enforcement had invested him with the traktacs had done so out of boredom or a lack of other subjects for target practice. She knew it had to be something serious. Casual muggers, sneak thieves, and bar brawlers did not generally attract the attention of traktacs. The Greater Savannah Authority wanted this man badly or he would not have been shot with the minuscule locators.
Her continuing silence was making Whispr edgy. “Can you get them out?”
“Of course I can get them out.” Should she call for help? Or just run from the examination room? “The question is, should I?”
“You’re a doctor,” he challenged her. “I’m someone who’s been hurt. I need your help. I swear to you on my best friend’s life that I haven’t hurt anyone or damaged any property.”
She wasn’t buying it. “Then why do the authorities want you badly enough to inflict you with traktacs?”
That, at least, was a question to which he could reply honestly. “I swear to God I don’t know. I mean, I have an idea, but it’s only an idea. I’m not really sure. I think it has to do with money, but not with any money I stole.”
He was being evasive, which was hardly surprising. The beckoning languor of Dubaia Island was fading from her thoughts. There was no reason why it should. All she had to do was tell him to wait and that she would be right back. Once clear of the examination room she could activate a floor-wide alarm as well as instructing the office receptionist to call the police. Claiming the need to take additional readings and prepare the necessary instruments for extraction would allow her to stall him until they arrived. Washing her hands of him would be easy. She had almost decided how to proceed when he did something that caused her to hesitate.
In obvious pain, he winced and grabbed at his side. He could have used the brief burst of suffering to play on her sympathy, to plead, to try to make her feel guilty. He did none of them.
Traktacs were small, but they were still an alien intrusion in the body. Quite likely some were impinging on nerves. She could remove them, eliminate the pain they were producing, and
then
notify the police. That way she could fulfill the Hippocratic obligations according to which she had lived ever since she had received her medical degree and still turn her patient over to the authorities without feeling more than the slightest twinge of guilt.
“All right. I’ll take them out. But you’ll have to dispose of them yourself.”
He looked shocked, as if he did not really believe that she was going to help him. The disbelief began to dissipate as she approached him holding a small device from which protruded what looked like a large opaque magnifying glass.
“Lift up your shirt again and hold still.” He complied and she passed the lens over his side. The scan didn’t take long. He was the skinniest non-starving person she had ever seen, but he did not register on her instruments as unhealthy. Stepping back, she inserted the narrow end of the device into a slot in a nearby console. Telltales came to life as she waited for the readout.
Within moments she was examining a dimensional projection of the affected area. Whispr gawked at the glowing image as it hovered in the air between them. The projection was a perfect representation of the right half of his torso. Utilizing voice commands Seastrom caused the projection to focus in on specific areas. Imaged blood flowed through the network of arteries and veins while a detailed visualization of his right lung expanded and contracted in perfect parallel to his actual respiration. Zooming in on an area in the vicinity of the fourth rib brought a flurry of minuscule round objects into view.
Traktacs.
Marveling at the pulsating, lambent representation of a living part of himself that was as much an advance over the old MRI as the X-ray was over imperfect pencil sketches drawn from life, he swallowed. A couple of the tiny transmission devices had penetrated deeply into his body. “How—how are you going to get them out?”
“I have a flock of trained ravens that will peck them out of your flesh.” Confronted with a stare of incomprehension, she rolled her eyes and explained. “Just take off your shirt, go over to the exam table, and lie down on your left side. Raise your right arm and put it across or behind your head, whichever is more comfortable.”
Whispr did as he was told, wondering not for the first time if coming here had been such a good idea. He was placing himself at the mercy of this woman. Suppose there was now a reward out for him? Suppose she knew, or suspected, that such was the case? She could inject him with anything, knock him out, and have him all nicely sedated and packaged for the police while she waited for them to arrive and pick him up.
He had little choice. The traktacs had to go. He had to trust
somebody
. Her back was to him as she busied herself placing selected equipment in a sterilizer cabinet.
“You’re not going to have to cut me, are you?”
She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “Where do you think you are—some back alley in Katanga?” Turning, she approached the table holding gleaming instrumentation in both hands. He saw that she was now wearing gloves.
“Taking them out won’t null the stall, will it? It won’t do me any good if the procedure nulls the stall.”
She made a face at him. “I have no idea, Mr.… Whispr. This isn’t the
sort of infection I usually find myself dealing with. I’ll get them out. After that you’ll just have to take your chances.” Her eyes met his. “Unless you want to climb off that table, pull down your shirt, and leave.”
“No. No,” he mumbled disconsolately. “I have to lose them. You’re my best hope.”
“Lucky me.” Her voice dropped to a murmur as she bent toward him. “You’re going to experience a chilling sensation. It’s the usual combinant disinfectant-anesthetic spray. I think we can get by with a local.”
He was relieved to hear it. At least she wasn’t going to knock him out. His wits had been all that had saved him numerous times in the past, and he wanted them about him now. As far as he was concerned, so long as she removed the traktacs he was ready for her to proceed without the aid of
any
kind of anesthetic.
Something hissed like a student whispering in class and his side went numb from underarm to waist. The application stung a little, as if he had inadvertently pressed wet skin against an open freezer. Inquisitive as always, he strained to follow the procedure as she began to work.
As she flipped the surgical lenses down over her eyes and began probing with the extractor, Ingrid noted his interest.
Scrawny but tough
, she decided. The typical patient undergoing this kind of multiple extraction would by now have turned their head away from the site or at least closed their eyes. Not this Whispr fellow. When she made the first insertion he continued to track the probe with almost as much intensity as the doctor.
Sliding into his flesh, the slender probe’s integrated ultrasonic rejuvenator induced temporary metabolic stasis in the muscles and nerves it pierced. Using her lenses to peer far inside the patient’s body, Ingrid aimed the tip of the probe toward the traktac that had penetrated the deepest. The choice was standard for invasive outpatient surgery. When extracting foreign objects, be they splinters, screws, or bullets, always remove those presenting the greatest danger first in order to minimize trauma and the risk of complications.
Whispr said nothing, did not so much as flinch as he watched the probe slowly squeeze into his body, linger for a moment, and then slide back out. As the procedure was repeated, one traktac after another
pinged
percussively as it was transferred to a waiting glass dish. With his flank efficiently anesthetized, he felt nothing. The only pain was psychosomatic. He was at once engrossed in and divorced from the process, as if he were
viewing a projection of someone else’s body. He found the entire procedure very impressive, not least of all because the woman performing the surgery was as easy to look at as she was skilled in her work.
Tic-tic-tic—seven, eight, nine little gray spheres accumulated in the dish. Other than the pings they made as they were dropped onto the glass and the steady breathing of doctor and patient, it was dead quiet in the room. Not many more to go. There was no bleeding. The tiny holes and shafts made by the multiple insertions healed behind the probe as it was withdrawn.
“Last one.” A moment later she was holding the business end of the probe over the collecting dish. Oozing from the instrument’s tip, the last of the itching, intrusive traktacs dropped onto the glass. Taking a long breath she sat back, pushed the lenses up onto her forehead, and rubbed her eyes. “You can sit up now if you like. Somebody doesn’t like you.”
He straightened on the table, letting his shirt fall down to cover the site. From armpit to waist he looked as if he had spent an hour under a heat lamp. His side ached in the places where she had been working, but not to the extent that he could call it pain.
“Somebody like you, for instance?” he opined.
She looked surprised. “I never said I didn’t like you. I’m neutral on the subject. Considering your probable social status, I’d say that’s probably giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Righteous was right about you.” Still sitting on the examination table, legs dangling, he worked to close his shirt. “You’re a real throwback: a doctor first and foremost. A doctor before anything else.”
“So I’ve been told, on occasion. It beats being handed a service plaque at a medical convention.” She frowned slightly. “ ‘Righteous’?”
He turned cautious again. “My professional reference. Did you get them all? The traktacs?”
Her expression twisted. “Are you questioning my professional competency?”
“No, no,” he replied hastily. “I just—it would only take for one to be left behind to make everything you just did a waste of time.”
“They’re
all
out.” Her tone was stern. “As it is time for you to be.” She nodded in the direction of the door. “You’re my last patient of the day—of the week—and I have plans.” Thus far those plans existed only in her head, but the reality of the anticipation was sufficiently strong that she did
not feel like she was lying. And why should she care anyway if she bent the truth a little for this melancholy and socially dubious charity case?