“Yes, I can do that, but the patching is going to be rather unpleasant.”
“Can’t ya give me something for pain, and then fix things?”
“Only to a point. You have several broken bones here, and while the tendon isn’t completely detached, and should heal on its own if we stabilize that foot and you keep it that way, the pain medication is only going to suppress the ongoing, more chronic pain. Setting bones tends to result in brief acute pain while the bone ends are being positioned, and the only thing that will stop that is general anesthesia…which we don’t want to do here, because it tends to slow healing.”
“Shit.”
“Something like, yes. I’d strongly recommend avoiding that neighborhood from now on. Never mind whatever you were doing that took you there.”
“Yeah, yeah, I figured,” he grumbled. “Hit me with some pain shit, and let’s get this over with. I wanna go home and go to bed.”
“I can imagine,” the physician said, rolling her eyes.
It took over an hour, and even with the maximum dosage of pain medication, Sykes was forced to agree – it hurt like hell. The nose was the worst, he decided; when it had abruptly snapped back into place, he had all but screamed like a little girl, and the nosebleed – that had finally stopped after Carter broke it to begin with – resumed in full force. Then the doctor packed it, and it hurt even worse. By the time the physician was done, his entire head throbbed like it would explode.
Strapping his ribs was the easiest; it wasn’t comfortable, but it supported the ribs so that they would stay in place, and hurt less when he tried to breathe. Not that he was breathing through that nose, but mouth breathing worked, provided he didn’t feel like he was being stabbed by one of his own knives every time he inhaled. Which, he realized, the strapping helped prevent. It didn’t stop it entirely, but he could breathe.
Stitching up the arm wasn’t too bad, either; the doctor used a local anesthetic in addition to the pain medication, and made quick work of it once she’d cleaned and disinfected it. Then she gave him a shot of antibiotic, and a prescription for oral antibiotics into the bargain. She did a neat job, but it was still going to be a hell of a scar, he decided as she bandaged it.
The foot, however, proved almost as bad as the nose. He was glad when things were finally in place and she put a boot cast on it.
Finally it was all over. The hospital sent him the bill in VR, and he paid it – which proved to be a pain of its own, at least to his bank account. It took every bit of the advance payment Stash Gorecki had given him for the botched hit, and then some, and he grumbled mentally as he paid it.
I owe that damn retired cop big time for this, he thought vengefully. And this time, I’m gonna make it nice and slow. Stick the knife in deep and twist. Then rip. That oughta slice the bastard to hell and back. I wanna hear him scream like a girl, next time. Then watch him die. Slow.
He hobbled out of the hospital’s arcade level on one good foot, a crutch, and a boot cast, and made it one scant block down before he was panting, his broken ribs throbbing despite pain medications and strapping. The foot, not being elevated, was trying to swell inside the boot, and didn’t feel much better than the ribs. In addition, the stitches in his arm pulled painfully every time he swung his arm.
“Dammit. This ain’t gonna work,” he fussed, stopping to catch his breath. “I’ll never get home like this.”
He turned and headed for the people-movers.
This particular people-mover only had small cars, holding a couple of people at most; it was never intended for high volume, but it would take Sykes where he wanted to go without much fuss or onlooker stares. Which, he decided, would be good about now.
Sykes waited in line for one of the people-mover cars, but several people, including at least one delivery man, saw his condition and let him move to the front of the line.
“Hey, lemme help, here,” the delivery man offered. “I’m used to carrying loads of shit; I can handle this one package and still help steady you.”
“That’d be appreciated,” Sykes said, grateful. “I got mugged this morning and the guy made a mess of me.”
“Somebody sure made a mess, all right,” the delivery man agreed, and helped steady Sykes with a gloved hand as they stepped into the car together. The door closed, and the car moved off, headed for a narrow tunnel to the next arcade section. Rather than try to sit and have his ribs complain at the move, then have to stand up again while they complained worse, Sykes simply leaned his good shoulder against the wall of the car and stared ahead, down the tunnel, unseeing. He sighed, deeply tired, and he blinked slowly as the pain medication finally had a chance to do its job.
Behind him, the delivery man pulled an airgun out of his package and put two shots into the back of Sykes’ head. Switch Sykes collapsed to the floor of the car like a rag doll.
The gloved delivery man caught the crutch by the pad and eased it to the floor, hit the emergency stop button, opened the door and stepped onto the maintenance walkway, before slipping away in the darkness.
After several moments, the doors of the people-mover car closed, and it continued on, diverting to the emergency path upon exiting the tunnel.
Callista Ames sat at home alone, staring at her solitary plate of food. Rather than trying to cook anything fresh, she had simply
