Stiletto

by Daniel O'Malley

  “Code Heliotrope,” said a calm Scottish voice over the speakers. “Incoming wounded. Code Heliotrope. All medical personnel proceed immediately to the reception area and operating theaters. Code Heliotrope.”

  Doors were opening along the hallway and people were rushing out. Odette found herself being swept along by the crowd, and in moments she was in a sort of round lobby with a circular nurses’ station in the middle and corridors coming off it like the spokes of a wheel. People were hurrying about, and no one seemed in the mood to stop and help a visitor. She pressed herself up against the nurses’ station, as much out of the way as possible. There were three nurses there, typing away on computers and talking frantically on phones. One of them, a bald woman with eyes ringing her skull, looked at Odette questioningly, and Odette shook her head, indicating she didn’t need anything. The nurse nodded, and Odette went back to watching the chaos.

  “What happened?” one nurse called out to a medic.

  “Something at a kid’s birthday party over at Gants Hill,” he said. “We don’t know exactly what, but bad things went down.”

  People were getting wheeled in on gurneys, and it did not look as if they were coming from a child’s birthday party. For one thing, all of them were wearing body armor in various states of disrepair. Grievous wounds were much in evidence, and there was a good deal of screaming. The smell of blood filled Odette’s nostrils, and she found herself mentally conducting triage on the victims rolling by in front of her.

  The injuries were weird. One woman had a spiderweb of cuts that sliced across her chest and through her armor, but rather than blood, rivulets of silver, like mercury, oozed out of her body. Two men hurried by carrying a stretcher on which an unconscious youth was foaming indigo at the mouth. As they passed, the paint on the walls around them turned a virulent turquoise and then shifted back to white. She watched them hurry away and saw that the temporary redecoration followed them down the hall.

  Another medic came in pushing a gurney on which lay a man who appeared to be half turned to glass. Odette couldn’t tell if this was the result of the malevolence at the birthday party or if he was meant to be like that, but the man did not seem at all happy.

  “What happened to the kid whose birthday it was?” asked Odette.

  “Whole family got eaten by the cake,” said the medic, and then he rushed on. Odette and the nurse exchanged horrified glances. Then a painfully loud sound, like an air horn being fed into a wood chipper, tore through the hallways, and Odette and the nurse and everyone else clapped their hands over their ears.

  Are we under attack? Odette wondered. Her instincts were itching to pop out her spurs, and she had to actively keep them in check lest she puncture her own face and poison herself. The noise grew louder and more painful, and then a medic wheeled in a stretcher carrying a man whose combat armor was drenched in blood. Restraints crisscrossed his body, his right arm had been crudely splinted, and Odette saw that his left leg had been torn off at the knee and was in a plastic bag at the end of the gurney. The horrible wound had been carefully bound up with white gauze, but some blood had seeped through.

  The torturous sound was coming from the patient. It was his voice that was warbling and shrilling up and down inhuman scales and setting Odette’s teeth on edge. The medic was wearing a bulky set of ear protectors and a grim expression.

  “Get some painkillers into that man now!” bellowed a doctor. He was just barely audible over the man’s screaming.

  “They don’t have any effect on him!” the medic shouted back. “It’s in his prep file!”

  “Then sedate him!” yelled the doctor.

  “He doesn’t respond to any sedatives!” came the answer. “You’ll be operating while he’s awake!”

  “I definitely think you should be having this conversation right here in the lobby!” screamed the bald nurse with all the eyes. The surgeon and the medic turned to look at her, and just then, the patient shifted. His arm twisted against the splint, and a jagged bone cut through the skin. Blood squirted up into the air and then began to pour out, and the man’s painful screaming faded away to a weak moan.

  Without thinking, Odette scrambled to the gurney, leaned across the man’s body, and applied pressure to the spurting wound. She could actually feel the force of the internal fluids pressing against her fingertips, and hot gore continued seeping out under her hands, although it was much slower.

  It had been an automatic response on her part, but in retrospect it seemed like a terrible idea. The patient’s eyes were still open, and he was looking at her pleadingly. A normal person would be unconscious, she thought. I suppose there are disadvantages to some inhuman abilities.

  “I’m right here,” she assured him. “I’m not leaving you.” She turned her head over her shoulder. “You may wish to move quickly here, before this man bleeds out.” They were all looking at her. “Now!” The doctor’s head moved in a figure-eight pattern as he scanned the situation.

  “We can’t arrest the bleeding here,” he said. “We’ll need to get him to surgery. Are you okay to keep pressure on his arm?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then,” the doctor said. “You’re not going to be able to walk, bent over him like that, so I’m going to lift you up onto the gurney,” he said. “Maintain pressure.” Odette nodded and kept her grip tight as the man put his hands on her hips and lifted her gently. She straddled the patient awkwardly, careful not to jostle his injured leg. “Now move!” he barked at the medic. Several people pushed them down a hallway and through a series of heavy doors. The patient was still looking up at her, his eyes wide with pain and shock.

  He’s my age, she realized with a jolt. And cute. Grievously wounded, she admitted, but cute. Sandy-colored hair cut short, nice features, and pale blue eyes. Say something comforting, thought Odette.

  “So, painkillers have no effect?” she said sympathetically. “That’s really got to suck. Especially right now.”

  Brilliant. Nice job.

  “I’m immune to all drugth and poithonth,” he said thickly. “Thatth why I’m on the firtht-rethponthe team.” He frowned. “Why am I talking like thith?”

  “Blood loss and shock,” said Odette. “You might be about to pass out.”

  “I wish,” he said ruefully. “But it’th nithe to meet you. Thankth for thtepping in to, you know, thave my life.”

  “My pleasure,” said Odette, swaying slightly as they went around a corner.

  “I’m David.”

  “Odette.”

  “Nithe t’mee’choo,” he slurred.

  I wonder if Pawn Bannister has noticed that I’m gone? she mused as they entered the operating theater.

  Around her, people bustled about. Despite the organized chaos and the critical damage to the young man, Odette felt in her element. The intense focus on the problem at hand, the stripped-down surroundings, the blood—I could be back at home, she thought.

  David, however, did not seem quite so at ease. He winced away from the surgical lights and regarded every development warily. Odette tried to reassure him as the nurses carefully removed the man’s armor. He winced as the blood-soaked cloth was pulled away from the cuts on his chest and the tender area where his leg had been severed.

  “Sorry, Pawn Baxter, but you leave your dignity at the door,” said one of the nurses as she cut off his clothes.

  “I din’t think thith mission wath gonna end up with me naked and a cute girl straddling me,” joked David weakly.

  “Oh, yes, this is hot,” said Odette, eyeing the cuts on his chest with a clinical eye. They appeared to be shallow, but they were long. “Nothing like having a lot of people standing around swabbing up your blood to get you in the mood.”

  “You seem fairly cool about it,” said the nurse.

  “It’s an operating theater,” said Odette. “Not terribly remarkable. I’d shrug, but I don’t want to loosen my grip on David here.”

  An Indian gentleman in a suit and tie ca
me in and peered carefully at the patient for a few moments.

  “Fractured radius and ulna on the right,” he said, “although I expect you know that, since the young lady has her hands clamped around the injury. Nice little blades you have tucked away in there, by the way, miss,” he said to Odette, who smiled at him tightly. “And, of course, there’s the severed leg. Apart from those two things, several of the ribs on the left side are cracked, and his left scapula is fractured. No major organ damage that I can see.”

  “Thank you very much, Pawn Motha,” said a nurse. “We appreciate your coming out of your meeting for this.”

  “Always glad to help,” said Pawn Motha, “and always glad to get out of a budget meeting.” He sauntered out and a careful piece of choreography ensued in which Odette and the patient were transferred to a fresh, nonmobile operating table. Odette clambered down awkwardly, still keeping pressure on the man’s arm. Bags of blood were hung and began to percolate down into his body. Special foam braces were secured around him to prevent him from making any more sudden moves.

  “Okay, Pawn Baxter,” said the surgeon, who had reappeared, scrubbed and gowned. “I’ve been reviewing your records, and I’m afraid that we won’t be able to sedate you. And I see that you don’t ever sleep or lose consciousness, which means that you’re going to have to tough it out.”

  “I knew that would happen,” said David weakly. “It alwayth doth. Getting my withdom teeth out wath a bitch. Do you think I’m going to . . .” He trailed off and looked at Odette with frightened eyes. She smiled reassuringly.

  “We’re going to do everything we can,” said the surgeon. “In a few moments, I’m going to ask this young lady to remove her hands from your injuries. I will immediately clamp the severed arteries, and then we shall set about repairing the wounds to your arm. Meanwhile, Dr. Jurwich and her team will tend to your leg.” He nodded toward the foot of the table, where a voluminous woman swathed in an equally voluminous operating gown was peering dubiously at the leg in the bag. “These restraints should prevent you from moving, but do try to keep as still as possible. Do you understand?”

  “Yeth, thir,” said Baxter.

  “Do you understand?” the doctor asked Odette.

  “When you give the word, I’ll move back and out of the way as quickly as possible,” she assured him, and he nodded in approval.

  “Pawn Baxter?” said Dr. Jurwich from the foot of the table. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m afraid that we won’t be able to reattach your leg.” David closed his eyes, and Odette saw tears seeping out. “I’m very sorry, but the damage is just too severe.”

  “I can probably get it back on,” said Odette.

  I have simply got to stop doing things without thinking them through first, she thought. Everyone was staring at her incredulously. But I could do it; I know I could. She could gather up the gory trailing wounds and connect everything meticulously, and even without the equipment back in her hotel room, she could reattach this man’s leg. She could have him walking in a month, running in three, and the scars would completely vanish within a few weeks.

  “I . . . beg your pardon?” said Dr. Jurwich.

  “Well, I mean, I can’t guarantee it,” said Odette awkwardly, “but provided he doesn’t have any unorthodox anatomy and the ends aren’t contaminated by anything . . . um . . . supernatural, I think I could probably do it.”

  “Wait a minute, who are you?” asked the head surgeon. He peered at her and noticed the visitor’s pass slung around her neck, and for a second she was afraid that he was going to have a heart attack.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not a civilian. I’m Odette Leliefeld,” she said shyly. This revelation failed to have any impact. Some people haven’t been reading the flyers in their kitchens. “I’m an apprentice with the Broedersch—with the Grafters.”

  Odette suddenly felt unsafe. The abrupt silence was profound—even the various hospital machines seemed to have halted. Several of the nurses stepped back. Both doctors were holding scalpels, not in the surgeon-approved palmar or pencil grip, but rather in a grasp that lent itself to briskly stabbing someone in the trachea.

  David Baxter was staring at her with a look of utter revulsion.

  “Y’rra Grafter?” he slurred, and on the last word, his voice took on that pain-inducing pitch from before. Odette flinched.

  “Yes, but I’m a guest,” she said. She would have held up her visitor’s pass, but both hands were occupied on David’s arm.

  “Get ’er off me,” said Baxter, his teeth clenched.

  “David,” began Odette, “I can—”

  “Get it off me!” he shouted, and this time his voice reverberated through the room like a thunderclap. Odette felt the sound punch through her bones. One of the monitors cracked and shattered.

  “I think you’d better go,” said the doctor quietly. Odette nodded. She was shaking, but her hands were dead still.

  “Are you ready?” she asked. The doctor wordlessly held up the equipment he would need. “Okay, then. On three?”

  He nodded. “One. Two . . .”

  She had to give the doctor credit—he had fast hands. By the time she took her hands off the wound and scrambled off the bed, he had already clamped the arteries. She turned and the nurses and attendants parted before her, opening a path to the door.

  Stand tall, Odette told herself. Do not show weakness. Do not cry. Do not bring shame upon your family and your people. She walked out of the room, her head held high as, behind her, the Checquy surgeons began to save David’s life but not his leg.

  Odette stood in the hallway, her hands clenched. This is never going to work, she thought. They hate us. They hate us even more than we hate them. She realized that she was garnering curious looks from passersby and glanced down at herself. From her elbows down, she was dripping with Baxter-blood. It was splashed liberally across her blouse and blazer, and she had a distressing conviction that there was more in her hair. Plus, despite her best efforts, her eyes were burning and her nose was running.

  I look like I just helped deliver a baby walrus, she thought grimly. I should find a bathroom and at least wash my hands.

  But first, she would find Pawn Bannister. If she was lucky, maybe the sight of her would completely ruin his day.

  14

  Felicity had been standing in the lobby of the Rookery in her hospital scrubs and sodden socks for almost ten minutes when one of the receptionists at the central desk waved her over.

  “There’s a call for you, Pawn Clements,” said the receptionist. “From the office of Rook Thomas.” Felicity took the phone.

  “H-hello?”

  “Pawn Clements?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Ingrid Woodhouse; do you know who I am?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Rook Thomas would like to speak with you. Can you come up to her office?”

  “I’m, uh, not really dressed for a meeting with the Rook,” said Felicity. “I don’t even have any shoes on.” She realized that her feet were freezing, and that she’d left wet footprints across the floor of the lobby. Then she remembered that she’d changed into street clothes before going to meet with Pawn Odgers. It seemed like something a different person had done, years ago. “I have a suit at my cubicle, though, if she can wait a few minutes.”

  “Really, it would be better if you came immediately,” said Mrs. Woodhouse. “It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing.”

  “All right,” said Felicity uncertainly. “I’ll come right up.”

  “I’m sending someone down in the executive lift to fetch you,” said the EA. “And Pawn Clements?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t talk to anyone until you’ve spoken with the Rook.”

  Felicity had not spent much time on the executive level of the Rookery. It was far nicer than the other levels. Rather than carpet tiles, there were polished wooden floors, and the paintings on the walls were much more valuable. The portraits seemed to
be looking down at her disapprovingly as she left wet footprints behind her.

  “Ah, good,” said Mrs. Woodhouse as Felicity entered the reception area. At that moment, the door to the Rook’s office opened and four people in finely tailored suits emerged. Felicity recognized them as the Rookery’s heads of Legal, Finance, Governance, and Communications. They were all looking rather startled to be leaving.

  “I really am terribly sorry to cut this so short, ladies, gentlemen,” the Rook was saying. “But something extremely important has come up. Mrs. Woodhouse will reschedule our meeting.”

  The four executives made polite if somewhat befuddled sounds and then noticed Felicity. They took in her hospital scrubs and wet socks, her messy hair, and the unmistakable vestiges of her earlier bout of weeping. Four pairs of eyes and a pair of nostrils narrowed (the head of Communications had unorthodox sensory capabilities). Unspoken was the obvious sentiment that she did not look, in any way, extremely important. Nonetheless, Felicity was beckoned into the Rook’s office, and the door was firmly shut behind her.

  It was a large, pretty room with broad windows looking out on the City and imposing portraits lining the walls. A tasteful arrangement of roses in one of the corners filled the room with perfume. There didn’t appear to be any other exits. But it wasn’t the setting that Felicity was interested in. This was the first time that she had seen the Rook close up.

  Of late, the Checquy had been rife with gossip about how Myfanwy Thomas had changed. In the past, she’d reportedly had trouble confronting telemarketers, let alone evil fleshcrafting alchemists. The few times Felicity had seen Rook Thomas in person, in the hallways, during all-staff meetings, or at the Rookery Christmas party, she’d gotten the impression of a woman desperate to avoid all human contact. Then, recently, word had trickled down that Rook Thomas was no longer self-effacing or shy. She’d actually been involved in combat and had acquitted herself rather impressively. Now when people did the wrong thing, she called them into her office and shouted at them rather than sending apologetic e-mails.