by fox, angie
Cripes. I had to let it go. I couldn't change anything about this war or the soldiers who fought it.
I blew out a breath. As much as I didn't want to think about it, Galen was different. I'd seen wounded heroes before, but he was the first one who'd tried to charge out of bed after me. I wondered how many times in his life that man had ever given up command. Let himself be vulnerable. Rest, for gods' sake.
Talking to Galen to night had felt like running a mental marathon. Shipping him out of here would be like crossing the finish line.
So why did I feel so guilty?
I started walking. Forget about it. I'd done the right thing—the only sane thing—to do.
It was more than I could say for some of the generals in this war.
Or the gods. The original war had stemmed from an argument over where to house the capital city. The old gods wanted Atlantis. The new gods wanted El Dorado. Seeing as both cities had been destroyed in the war, you'd think they'd stop fighting.
But no. In a grand show of immortal egomania, both sides refused to back down. Now they were locked in a senseless, deadly game of one-upsmanship that no one could possibly win.
The PA speaker above my head crackled with static.
Attention. Doctors on call. Incoming wounded.
I snapped to attention, almost ashamed to notice that it felt good to be back on familiar ground.
My life made sense again. I was Primary Team on call tonight. Adrenaline surged through me as I jogged to the operating tent, my sneakers crunching against the sandy soil.
In the narrow prep room just outside the OR, I donned my mask and scrubbed up to the squealing of ambulance brakes and the shouts of the drivers. I could hear more doctors arriving in the yard, prioritizing cases as I finished up.
"What do we have?" I asked, sterile hands up as I banged into the front of the OR. Nurse Hume had beaten me out to the floor. Silent and efficient, he helped me fasten my gown and gloves.
The immense steel lights above our tables hummed as EMTs and nurses hustled the new arrivals in.
"Cannon shot to the lower abdomen," an ambulance worker grunted as he and another EMT carried the patient to my table.
I took a look at the chart. "Good." At least it wasn't fatal.
The gods hadn't made a poison that could withstand the heat of an artillery shot. Yet.
"Get me some more light over here," I ordered.
I kept my head down and handled a total of two gut shots and a severed spinal cord. It seemed I was back to my normal caseload, although a broken neck can be a challenge on an immortal.
The trick is to get the bones lined up before it heals wrong. Otherwise you have plant your hands on either side of the neck and break it again before you can set it. The weak spot breaks first. Easy peasy, right?
Don't think about it.
The night passed quickly as I worked on case after case. I was back to handling the routine traumas, and this time I did it without complaint. Galen had given me enough excitement to last the rest of the war.
Afterward, I tossed my gloves into the bio waste can and headed for the surgeons' locker room.
At least it kept my mind off Galen for the night.
We changed in a square room just behind the surgical prep area. Lockers lined up on opposite walls, with a few benches in the middle.
I yanked the surgical cap off and unwound my hair from a tight bun. There's nothing like setting it loose after tying it too hard. I bent over at the waist, letting my hair flow as I drew my fingers against my scalp. Sweet freedom.
A leg scraped up against my hip. "Do you mind?"
I kept my eyes closed, ignoring the scratchy voice of Captain Thaïs. The man was like sandpaper.
"I have a bone to pick with you," he said, banging around in his locker.
Thaïs was from the immortals-are-superior school of thinking. Frankly, I didn't feel like dealing with it.
Brushing my hair out of my eyes with my fingers, I stuffed my operating gown in the bio hazard can.
I could practically feel him invading my personal space.
"Hey, are you ignoring me?"
"No." Yes. I couldn't help it. It was standard protocol at this point. In fact, I was surprised that tips for deflecting, ducking, or otherwise avoiding Captain Thaïs weren't included in the MASH 3063rd handbook. Maybe they were. Come to think of it, I never read the handbooks they issued every year. I just used them to prop up my wobbly bunk.
"It figures." He stood inches away from me. The man looked like Mister Clean, minus the earring. And the smile. Thaïs wore a permanent scowl. "You're going to have to write up your nurse for failing to retrieve the proper neck brace for your patient back there."
My nurse was timid enough. Writing him up wouldn't help.
I nudged my way around him and dialed the combination to my surgical locker. I needed a hairbrush and some duct tape for Thaïs's mouth. "The neck brace was close by. I grabbed it."
No big deal.
He stiffened. "The nurses need to learn respect."
"They're not the only ones," I said. I opened my locker and about fell over. I slammed it closed again.
"What?" he demanded, trying to see around me. "What did you just say to me?"
"Nothing," I said automatically. My splayed hand blocked the door. My heart was pumping like mad. There was a bronze knife in my cubby. Either it was a sick practical joke or the knife from surgery had made it onto the shelf next to my PowerBars.
Somehow I knew this was no joke.
Thaïs scowled. "Well, if you ask me, you're acting stranger than usual."
No kidding. I'd get the knife later, when there were no witnesses around to see it.
I fought to keep my voice even and even managed a halfhearted smirk. "Yeah, well, they shouldn't let half-breeds into the operating room."
Thaïs propped a foot up on a bench, tying his rusty red combat boots. "You said it, not me."
It would have suited me just fine to leave the fighting and the dying and the entire bloody mess up to demi-gods like Thaïs. Only a birth defect had kept him out of the line of fire. "If I could fix your leg and hand you a long sword, I would."
"Ha, ha," he grumbled, before limping out of the tent.
When I was sure he was gone, I opened my locker again. The bronze knife sat on the top shelf, dull with dried blood. It was as long as my hand, with a compact handle and a triangular blade. I picked it up. It wasn't army issue. It was old and ornate, with a newer leather-wrapped grip. Just above, the top of the knife curved to form the head of a snake, or some sort of serpent-like beast.
Intricate, time-worn carvings wound down the blade. A chill ran through me as I saw the sliver missing from the tip. I was pretty sure this was the knife I took out of Galen. Hades knew what it was doing in my locker. It was supposed to be in weapons waste.
I ground my jaw. Nobody saw me.
Except for Galen.
That wasn't as comforting as I'd hoped.
Still, Galen couldn't have planted the knife. He'd been under guard. And no other gods knew about my ability or I'd be dead.
I was tempted to take the dagger straight to the biohazard pit. I would have if I could be sure that would be the end of it.
No, I'd take care of it myself.
With one last glance at the door, I carried the knife over to the prep sink. Holding it like the deadly weapon it was, I carefully washed any remaining poison from the blade. Then I wrapped the whole thing in a used surgical cap and eased it into the pocket of my scrubs, pointy-side down. It didn't fit all the way, but at least it wouldn't stab me.
I dried my hands on my scrub pants. There were windows high up in the locker room, and I could see morning sunlight peeking in from the sides of the drab army-issue shades. Father McArio would be up by now. He'd know what to do.
A dusty breeze hit me as I nudged my way out of the operating tent. It was still fairly cool. In another hour or so we'd be hit with the full heat of the day.
/> On my way toward the south end of camp, I saw Rodger coming out of recovery.
He waved. "You eat?" he called. The wind tossed his hair up in a frenzy, as if it weren't wild enough. His wife had sent him another new shirt from home. He wore it under his white doctors' coat. This one said Trophy Husband.
I caught up to him. "I have to go see Father McArio."
"He's in the mess tent," he said, cocking his head in the direction I'd been heading.
"Then let's eat." I fell into step next to him. No need to draw attention to myself. I'd get a hold of the father on the way out. Besides, if you were going to eat, breakfast was the safest. It's hard to screw up powdered eggs and dehydrated bacon. "Nice shirt, by the way."
"My wife made it," Rodger said, with a hint of pride.
I could tell by the crooked 'T. '
"You're a lucky man," I said as we ambled down the sandy main drag through camp. I nodded to a pair of doctors passing the opposite way.
"I took care of your one-horned patient this morning," Rodger said.
"I was going to do that." I should have had them bring him in at the end.
"It's okay." Rodger shrugged. "Although considering the way he was grumbling, I don't think he had as much fun staring at my chest while I reattached it."
"Served him right," I said. "Thanks," I added, meaning it. "It's been a hell of a few days."
Rodger squinted against the rising suns. "Recovery is jammed. Jeffe is fit to be tied. Keeps trying to play twenty questions with your knife-wound patient."
Dread punched me in the gut. "I shipped him out."
"No, you didn't," Rodger said, far too happily for my taste.
I ground to a halt. "What?"
Rodger took three more steps before he realized I'd stopped walking. He turned. "Commander Galen, your knife patient. He's in recovery."
"You've got to be kidding me." I'd transferred him. I'd handed over the paperwork myself. "Son of a—" I took off for the recovery tent. A surprised group of nurses and a departing ambulance team made way.
"Hey," Rodger called from behind, "what about breakfast?"
I didn't need eggs. I needed an explanation as to why the hell my patient was still here.
Sure enough, Galen was down near the end of the row, in bed 22A, smiling at me.
I placed both hands on the desk of the attending nurse. The knife felt heavy in my pocket. "I ordered that man transferred."
Marjorie was a calm, thin woman with generous lips and large eyes. She looked up from her laptop. "Transport made a paperwork mistake," she said, patiently. "They were gone before we realized he had to go."
I stared her down. I couldn't help it. "A paperwork mistake?" I repeated, emphasizing every word. I was trying to believe it was a coincidence. I really was.
She leveled a steadying gaze at me. "It happens."
Not often. I strode outside to where I saw the ambulance team preparing to leave. "Where are you going?"
The tattooed paramedic glanced up. "To the 4027th," he said, tightening down a loaded stretcher. The ambulances could take up to six patients.
"Got room for one more?" I asked, seeing two empty bunks.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Bed 22A." Hand shaking, I braced a clipboard on my hip as I drew up orders. Dr. Freiermuth would know what to do with him. I hoped. At least I was pretty sure she didn't see spirits.
Two EMTs headed inside to retrieve Galen. "Better take a third man," I said, scrawling my signature at the bottom. "And strap him in," I added, despising myself just a little.
I hated to order restraints. Galen would be ticked. But I couldn't have him getting up and walking away. He'd do it, too.
I stood at entrance to recovery and cringed as three immortal orderlies struggled to tie Galen down. When they'd finally subdued him, two of them hustled him out. The third orderly followed, rubbing at his left hand.
Galen's muscular shoulders shook as he fought the leather straps on his wrists and across his upper arms and torso. They strained against the metal supports that held them in place. "Stop," he demanded. "Tell me where you're taking me."
I followed them out, toward the waiting ambulance. "Can I have a minute?" I asked the orderly before he eased Galen's stretcher inside.
He nodded and left my patient on the slide-out rail of the transport.
Cripes. Galen was busy working a hand loose. I knew better than to think he couldn't pull it off.
At least I was used to delivering bad news. I placed a hand on Galen's chest where the blanket had fallen away. I hadn't wanted to do this out here, in the yard. Or heck, at all. "We're sending you to the 4027th for additional treatment."
He went from confused to calculated in about one second flat. "What the hell," he swore under his breath. "I have an honest to god conversation with you and you ship me out?"
My breath caught as his eyes narrowed.
"I don't know what you mean," I said.
"I really did see something, didn't I?"
He knew. We both did. A moment passed between us that I couldn't take back. I looked into his piercing blue eyes and felt the weight of my betrayal.
Heart pounding, I opened my mouth, then closed it again. It had to be done.
Right now, he had no proof, but if he stuck around here there was no telling what he'd find out. Something had happened between us and I didn't know if there were traces or what—or hell, if I'd end up giving something away. Or if some treacherous part of me even wanted him here with me. No matter what, this had to end right now.
I leaned close, my voice barely a whisper. "I can't do it." This was as far as I went.
His hand cupped the back of my head. I jumped, but he held me close.
I trembled as his fingers wound through my hair. "How did you—"
"I escaped," he said simply, his touch scorching me. His breath was ragged. "Whatever happened on that table, your secret is safe with me. I won't hurt you." He guided me closer. "What are you afraid of?"
I could barely find my voice. "You."
"I know," he said, fingers caressing my scalp as if to calm me. It didn't work. A riot of sensation flooded me. I could swear he saw through me, into me, like I had him. But that was impossible. "Let me in," he urged, "I can protect you. It's what I do." His breath touched my ear. "You don't have to fight this battle alone."
Warm desire sluiced through me. I shouldn't feel this. Or anything. And I didn't have to fight any battles at all. He could get me killed just talking about this.
I broke away from him. "You need to go."
"You can't pretend this isn't happening. It won't work," he said, with way too much conviction for my taste.
I stood. "You're in the hands of the New Order Army now," I said to him and anyone else who wanted to listen. "Beware of the paperwork."
This was the way it had to be.
"This isn't over," he ground out.
It was. "I'm sorry, soldier. It was an honor to meet you."
Galen watched me as the orderly slid his stretcher into the ambulance.
It hurt to watch him go. I wanted to say something more, to tell him to be safe or to take care of himself. But I knew that was impossible. I'd given what I could. There was no safe place anymore—not in this war.
The only thing we could do was survive. I handed the driver the completed orders.
Good-bye, Galen of Delphi.
***
I tried to forget about him the best way I knew how. I stopped back by our place and talked Rodger into hitting our favorite fishing spot near the edge of the tar swamps. Then again, with Rodger it didn't take much convincing.
The day was heating up, but I didn't care. I was used to this place. I could handle it.
I unfolded my beach chair, wedged my pink flamingo iced tea cup into the sand. One good thing about the gods— justice was swift. If anyone in the yard had suspected my forbidden gift, I'd be serving my sentence by now.
Rodger clapped me on the shoulder. "Why so glu
m?"
"No reason." I eased back into my chair.
Despite what Galen had said, it was over. He was at least halfway to the third quadrant by now.
It shouldn't have affected me as deeply as it did.
Galen had his duty. I had mine.
End of story.
One Greek commander couldn't protect me from the wrath of the gods, no matter how fearsome or drop-dead sexy he was. Which was why he had to go. And why I shouldn't get personally involved with my patients.
Damn. I gazed out over the bubbling lake of tar. I was turning into a complete sap. As a doctor, I'd learned to block out personal feelings. Sure, I cared about my patients and wanted to help them as much as I could. But I couldn't get caught up in every struggle or it would kill me.
"I saved you some powdered-egg-and-bacon-bits casserole," Rodger said, nudging a brown sack with his foot.
Yum. "I just wish I hadn't missed Father McArio at breakfast."
The priest hadn't been in his office, either. I'd checked three times.
Rodger gave me an encouraging smile from under a floppy hat decorated with beer company logos. "Relax. He's around somewhere."
I eased the knife out of my scrubs. It was still wrapped in my surgical cap. I knew I'd rinsed it long enough to wash away the poison. Still, I didn't want it in my pocket for the next couple of hours.
I stored the knife under my beach chair and took a bite of the eggs. They managed to be both dry and sticky at the same time. "Someone should tell them to add water to the powder."
"And bacon to the bacon," Rodger said, baiting a hook with popcorn. "That meat is so far away from the pig, I could probably eat it."
He cast his line into the swamp. The weight on the end made a small plop before it sank under.
"Got any more popcorn?" I asked.
He smiled at me like he would one of his kids. "Just five pieces and they're for the fish."
I washed the rest of the eggs down with a large gulp of warm tea. We were each issued two ice cubes with any beverage, and it seemed I'd used mine up.
Ah, the joys of camp life. I should be back in our hutch sleeping, but I couldn't get Galen of Delphi out of my mind.
