trauma tank, and then it’s over. Burns like this, it’s a waste to even try.”
Kyle had gotten a glimpse of the bed before they sealed his eyes shut. If he’d really been sleeping in it, he would be a pile of ashes by now.
The sensation of being carried was more unpleasant than sitting on the deck of the
He could feel nothing through the foam, so he didn’t know when they went into the cold, open air. Only the sound of doors slamming told him he had made it to the transporter without catching a bullet. Either there was no backup, or the kids were putting on a great performance. If he was as good as dead, why complicate the inquest?
The transporter was gravitics powered. They had spent a lot of money making it small enough to fit in city streets, and it was still half the size of a bus. But it sailed over traffic and buildings smoothly, and carried medical berths for four patients.
More important, it would be almost impossible for anyone to follow them. Only emergency vehicles were allowed in the air. Once the vehicle landed, Kyle would have a head start over any ground pursuit.
The nephew made it even better. “Hey, Jones, head for M7.”
A voice responded through an intercom. “Navcom says Golden Hill is closer. And they have a great burn ward.” That’s where they would be waiting for him, then.
“Yeah but…” Baumer’s nephew fished around for a reason. “I heard some dog on them, man. Their tank fluid’s being recycled.”
The intercom was disbelieving. “Are you serious? No way!”
“Earth, it’s just what I heard. I dunno. But this guy hasn’t got any skin left. I don’t want him in a tank that somebody else might have to share. He’s gonna die anyway, so what’s the difference?”
A subtle shift in direction. The rumor was mightier than the computer.
The rest of the very short trip was in silence. The inside of the transporter was certainly under continual surveillance. Kyle revised his opinion of Baumer’s nephew again, upward. Without the foam, the ruse would have been exposed immediately. The kid wasn’t just reacting well, he was actively planning ahead.
Descent, followed by a gentle bump. The landing was smoother than being lifted out of the transporter. Kyle was helpless, his awareness of the outside world blocked by a layer of foam. He had to wait until the nephew told him when he could make a break for it.
More bumps—he must be on a gurney. Amazing that they spent so much money on a smooth ambulance ride, and then jostled him like a sack of potatoes for the last ten meters.
“Tell Kragen I’ve got a special for him.” The nephew was speaking loudly—too loudly. Obviously half the message was for Kyle.
“Dr. Kragen is with another patient.” A female voice, officious and bossy. “Take it up to the tank ward.”
“Trust me, Kragen is gonna want to see this guy.”
“Dr. Kragen doesn’t specialize in burns, medic.”
“Yeah, but this guy’s a League member.”
A brief silence.
“I’ll page him.” Then, mumbled, “Poor sap.”
It challenged all of Kyle’s newfound faith in the nephew not to panic at that.
More rolling, and then stillness.
It was only ten minutes. Kyle knew this because he counted his pulse. He didn’t have anything else to do. After fifteen minutes he would assume he was alone, and try to escape. But he forced himself to wait, first. That was the most basic mistake the nefarious always made: not having enough patience.
Not enough prudence, even. The humor of the pun was quickly overwhelmed by the desire to share this warm, soft cocoon with her.
“Still alive, I see.” A man’s voice. Given that aura of authority, it had to be a doctor, which implied it was Kragen. “If you can hear me, try not to move. If you can’t hear me, then don’t worry about it.” Graveyard humor. Not exactly what Kyle looked for in a doctor.
Something pressed on his chest. A monitor. The readings it would be giving off had to be most unexpected.
The monitor remained for a very brief moment. Then Kragen spoke in his ear.
“A curious chart. It says you’re a badly burned League officer, in danger of dying at any minute. Given my public opposition to the League, one might think that you were sent in here to finish dying in my disinterested hands. The monitor, however, says you’re perfectly healthy, and even a little bit aroused. But my sexual preference is a matter of public record, and in any case it’s not my birthday.”
A sharp edge brushed against Kyle’s upper lip, pressure was removed, and then he could taste fresh air unfiltered through the antiseptic of the foam. Kyle was still catching up to Kragen’s logic. The doctor was a fast thinker.
“My staff, expecting the possibility of my failing my Hippocratic oath, will automatically compensate by looping the vid recording, making it look like I spent five minutes in diagnosis instead of five seconds, thus covering up whatever criminal negligence they expect, or possibly hope, for me to commit. I suggest you keep your explanation terse.”
It made sense. If the League was trying to kill him, why not take him to an anti-League doctor? Kyle was pretty sure it was only part of the League trying to kill him, though, and that meant that the anti-League might still view him as League, since their contacts in the League might still think of him as loyal. Unless those contacts happened to be undercover League anti-League agents. Like Kyle.
Okay, it didn’t make sense.
Unable to meta-game so many layers of deception, Kyle settled for the truth. “I
“And I should care why?” Kragen was annoyingly direct.
“Because I’m undercover against the League.” Kyle almost laughed. He had revealed his secret just like that, as easy as pie, to a complete stranger. The irony was that the only reason he could do so was because Kragen might believe him. And then he could claim to the League that he was pretending to switch sides, so Kragen would let him in the secret club, so he could bust them to the League. After all, why else would the League have arranged such an inept assassination, if not to get him a chance to infiltrate the opposition? It was such a compelling argument, Kyle almost half-believed it himself.
Kragen was still unimpressed, though. “What, exactly, am I supposed to do about your personal problems?”
“Get me out of here.” Kyle didn’t need much, just a few minutes’ head start on the assassins. He’d calculated that it would take them at least twenty minutes to reach M7 by ground car. Assuming there was active pursuit, of course. But Kyle always assumed the worst.
“For the record, which won’t exist since my staff is not recording this, I don’t believe you. I am assisting you solely because you ordered me to, in your capacity as a League officer. I may hate and despise the League, and everything it stands for, but I am a loyal citizen. I will testify to this statement, should I be required to.”
Kragen’s capacity for double-dealing was awe-inspiring, even to Kyle. A whooshing sound, and then Kyle was covered in a layer of wetness as the foam melted away.
The doctor was hardly older than Baumer’s nephew. Kyle hadn’t realized people that young cared about politics.
“Thank you,” Kyle said.
“I have a patient in another ward with terminal brain cancer. He is in a coma. It would be a simple matter for me to assign him to a different room, intercept his gurney along the way, cover him with foam, and switch charts. Robert Anton Wilson would leave a room, and Kyle Daspar would enter one. It would be days before anyone noticed the switch, and then I would explain I had been ordered to do so by a League officer, in an attempt to uncover a plot against the government.”
“Thank you,” Kyle said again, weakly. It was starting to sound inadequate.
Kragen agreed, and went on to explain just how inadequate it was. “It’s ludicrous that a healer should be
