The Hound of Justice

by Claire O'Dell

  Dedication

  To the women of the resistance—

  For taking names and getting it done

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Read On

  Also by Claire O’Dell

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  * * *

  JANUARY 20. Tuesday, for those who need to know. The day we get ourselves a shiny new president and . . .

  Well, at least we get that. I might not be so thrilled with a President Donnovan, but I’m glad as hell Jeb Foley didn’t win the election. Foley would have done his best to drive the country backward into some mythical glorious past that only he and the old white men think of as better times. So, there is that. Maybe by the next election, the Democratic Progressives can stop bickering long enough to find a candidate who is democratic and progressive enough to fit the party name.

  But enough about politics, let’s talk about me. Because today I prove I’m ready to take up regular duties as a surgeon and leave behind this purgatory of in-between. Or at least, that’s the plan.

  * * *

  My occupational therapist and I sat on opposite sides of her worktable. The air carried the faint scent of roses and the metallic smell of electronics. Afropunk music played softly in the background. This was Sydney’s domain, as different from the rest of Georgetown University Hospital as Sydney herself. Today she wore a sleeveless tunic of dark purple silk, embroidered with silver along the edges. Her hair was braided in narrow cornrows. No jewelry except a single silver spider-shaped earring.

  “Thank you for skipping the party today,” I said.

  Sydney Okora regarded me with narrowed eyes. Her family had immigrated to the U.S. in the early 2000s, but when 2017 came around, her parents returned to Nigeria. Sydney had remained behind to finish her university studies. She was considered the best occupational therapist throughout the Eastern states.

  “How could I resist?” she replied. “Your bright and cheerful self means more to me than any parade.”

  She spoke lightly, but I knew she understood how much I needed to prove I was capable of performing surgery with my new prosthetic device.

  “I’m ready,” I said. “More than ready. You said so last time—”

  “I said nothing of the kind.” Sydney’s voice was soft, almost gentle. She reached across the worktable and laid a hand over my right arm. “My dear Dr. Watson, I realize that arrogance is a prerequisite for surgeons, but we are concerned with more than your ego. Consider, if you will, your patients.”

  I sucked my teeth. She was right.

  “You think I should wait.”

  Sydney shrugged. “If you ask for my professional opinion, yes. You will need at least another month, most likely two, before you can attempt the most basic surgical operations. However . . . I believe an unofficial evaluation today might prove useful.”

  Useful for whom?

  But I was not about to argue this concession. If I could prove to Sydney that I had mastered not only basic manual dexterity, but the complex programming of my new and very expensive prosthetic device, she might support me when I applied to the CMO to change my status.

  “So,” I said. “What kind of test would you recommend?”

  She offered a brilliant smile. “The best, of course. But no, to give you an honest answer, there are three tests I would recommend. Play a melody on our practice keyboard. Knit me a dozen rows. Or . . . you might try braiding your hair. Since we are not conducting a formal evaluation, I shall leave the choice to you.”

  The keyboard exercise involved opposing action of flesh and electronic hands, with a necessary control for tempo and precision. I had practiced several different melodies daily, here and at home. Sara Holmes, who shared the apartment at 2809 Q with me, played the piano with skill and passion, and my clumsiness drove her to distraction.

  Knitting. Another item in Sydney’s playbook. Definitely not my favorite, though I had often wished I had the skill or inclination.

  Oh, but braiding my hair.

  When I first met with Sydney, she had asked what I had missed the most when I lost my arm.

  Braiding my hair, I had said almost at once. I miss braiding my hair.

  The most difficult test, the one I was most likely to fail. Even so . . .

  “Door number three,” I said.

  Sydney nodded, as though she had expected this answer. “Very well. We shall start from the beginning.”

  The beginning meant Prepare my stump and attach the device. Though I wore my device everywhere during the day, Sydney insisted we start each session by removing it. Only then could she observe me as I went through the drill of prep, examine, attach. Every movement, she insisted, must become as instinct.

  My new metal friend, aka the AIM 4675 programmable prosthetic arm, represented the most recent advances in target muscle re-innervations. A lightweight steel alloy mesh covered the arm and protected the very expensive electronics inside. The device itself had been custom-built to match the stump of my left arm, which was all that remained after an enemy bullet shattered bone and flesh. In the bright lights of Sydney’s lab, the mesh seemed to wink at me. A mischievous device.

  No, dammit. It’s a device, not a living sentient thing.

  But it would allow me, alive and possibly sentient, to reclaim my life.

  “Are you timing me?” I asked Sydney.

  “Not today. Unofficial, remember?”

  Right. Let’s get on with this.

  Sydney kept her lab on the warmer side, unlike a hospital operating theater. Sydney’s cat, Onomatopoeia, an ancient and irascible Persian the color of an overripe peach, sprawled on the floor, taking a long and deliberate bath. I glanced toward Ono, who paused just long enough to glare at me, tongue tip sticking out from her mouth.

  I love you too, kitty-cat.

  I surveyed the table and its supplies. Antiseptic wipes, check. Gel sleeve, check. Electronics test unit, check. Talcum powder measured out onto a sterilized cloth. Check.

  “Supplies ready,” I said.

  Sydney made a note on her tablet with her stylus.

  Next step. I rested my device on the worktable, flipped the control panel open, and pressed the sequence of buttons that would release the vacuum. With an almost too human exhalation, the arm dropped away from my stump and landed on the worktable.

  I doubled over and clutched the edge of the table, suddenly dizzy. No matter how many times I had executed this procedure, there was a moment when my blood seemed to drop to my toes.

  It never gets easy, the techs in the army had warned me. Just easier.

  I inhaled slowly, let the breath trickle out from my lips. Not the most convincing display for someone who wanted to prove her competence. I kept my gaze on my device, as if contemplating the next step. I couldn’t help comparing this sleek modern arm to the one it
had replaced, an ancient ugly thing, its mesh tarnished and battered long before Saúl Martínez had amputated my arm, then argued with the military bureaucracy for even that inadequate device. And yet, that old and inadequate thing had served me—not well, but well enough, throughout a difficult time.

  But Sydney was watching, and whether or not she timed me, she might decide that any hesitation meant I wasn’t ready.

  I shut down memories of Old Device and picked up New Device.

  All these weeks and months of drill made the next few steps automatic. I examined New Device, from the socket and its electrical connectors, to the mesh covering, down to the tapered fingertips. The arm was as shiny and perfect as it had been this morning when I went through this same drill. But the rules said no shortcuts, and I had to agree. Do the drill right today, in the nice clean lab, and you won’t make mistakes next month, when you’re in the middle of an emergency.

  As I made my examination, I reported my findings out loud. No tears or dents in the metal mesh. No sign of corrosion where the electronic leads would connect to the contacts implanted in my stump. The programming panel opened and shut to my thumbprint. No dents. No scratches. The device looked nearly untouched, which you would expect since the arm had left manufacturing only six weeks ago. Even though I wore it daily, I never did anything more exciting than travel between my apartment and Georgetown hospital, with occasional side trips to the VA.

  (NB: Sydney tells me the device is rated battle hardened. Its electronics can withstand acid, extreme temperatures in both directions, and even being submersed in liquids for weeks at a time. Maybe we should go to the beach together.)

  “Device ready and operational.”

  Another notation made. I tried not to worry about the slight frown Sydney made, but I was sweating, and not just from the warm air.

  I wiped my stump with antiseptic and dried the skin with a clean cloth. Next the talcum powder. After eight months of practice, I could maneuver the cloth onto my palm without much trouble. Once I was sure, I clapped the cloth over my stump.

  A pang shot up my arm, and my stomach did a flip-flop. I pressed my lips together and breathed through my nose until the nausea faded. Somewhere in front of me, Sydney Okora was making notes about my competence, but I forced myself to ignore her. This was only a first test, I told myself, a progress report.

  The gel sleeve was easier. I’d practiced this maneuver at home constantly, and it only took me a moment to slide the sleeve over my stump.

  Now for you, my friend.

  My hand closed over New Device, midway between its wrist and elbow. Sydney had advised me to give the thing a name. You will never be friends, she told me. But you might become allies. And allies have names.

  I had not yet reached the point where names made sense. Maybe next week.

  The cap of the device fitted easily over my stump—the first and most obvious difference between Old and New Device. I had to twitch the gel sleeve with my teeth to undo a crease. Next time I would remember to check that, I told myself. If Sydney was recording all this, I no longer cared. I had a goal. Prove myself. Prove I was ready to take my place once more as a true surgeon.

  A few taps on the control panel and the device clamped onto my stump. I felt the slight adjustments it made, the upper ring holding tight while the lower part eased a few millimeters in circumference, rotated, then clicked onto the electronic connections. After that, the adjustments rippled through the cuff, until my skin no longer felt twisted or pinched, and the device itself felt like a natural extension of my body. If I closed my eyes, I could almost believe I had never lost my arm.

  Almost. Not quite.

  I flexed my left hand. The fingers obeyed my thought, nearly as fast as my ghost hand, that invisible hand that lingered long after its amputation. “Obeyed my thought” was incorrect, of course. Electrical impulses from the brain activated the connectors implanted in my stump, which in turn triggered the device’s numerous nanoprocessors. But Sydney encouraged me to use the phrase as yet another mental trick to integrate this metal arm as part of my body.

  One by one, I curled the fingers into a loose fist, then pinched the air between my thumb and forefinger, then all the others in turn. Sydney had given me this exercise on our first day together. I’d made a great deal of progress, but I could still sense a brief delay between thought and movement.

  That brief delay was why I had suggested today for this evaluation, and likely why Sydney had agreed. With the inaugural parade, anyone who could had taken a day’s leave, and this wing of the hospital was emptier than usual. Emptier and quieter. Nothing to distract me.

  So. Next step.

  I had last braided my hair in April the previous year. Then came the attack on Alton, Illinois, when I lost my arm and nearly lost my life. Since then, I had kept my hair cut in a short Afro, but at the beginning of December, when Georgetown first offered me this fabulous position, I had started to let my hair grow. It was almost five inches long—definitely long enough to prove I had mastered the first stages of my new device.

  Lazarus? Might I call it Lazarus, the arm risen from the dead?

  I pressed a square button on the cuff. A small panel slid open to reveal an LED screen and two rows of touch-sensitive dots. I ran my fingers over the dots in the pattern for diagnostics. The LED status panel flickered, then glowed green for clear and ready to go. Now I carefully tapped in the sequence for small motor control.

  A ping from arm to brain confirmed the programming.

  I took a deep breath. “Ready, both of us.”

  Sydney laid out the necessary supplies: comb, clips, a small jar of cream, and a spray bottle of water. I dampened my hair and combed it out. The water Sydney provided me smelled faintly of roses. Tiny steps, I told myself. I do not need to conquer the world today. Only one braid.

  I parted my hair and clipped back all but one small section, then scooped up a dab of the hair cream. The cream was expensive stuff, rich and buttery, possibly from Sydney’s own stock. Then I tilted my head down and pictured my new hand grasping a thick strand of hair.

  My metal fingers closed over a strand and gently parted the section in two. Using both metal and flesh fingers, I parted the two sections into three. What ought to have been an automatic gesture required all my attention.

  Strand over strand. Do that two times. Add a bit more to the middle. That’s right. That’s my Janet.

  My grandmother’s voice came back to me, so strong I almost fumbled my hold. Ivy June Watson. Almost ninety years old. I had built up a picture of her as an imperious, implacable old woman, but there were older, fainter memories, from long before my parents announced their decision to leave Georgia for Southern Maryland and what might as well have been the North.

  My fingers trembled, both metal and flesh. I sucked down a deep breath. Found the center of my concentration again. And really, there were worse memories than my grandmother teaching a four-year-old how to braid her hair.

  Strand over strand, little girl. Add a bit more of that fancy cream your father done bought you.

  I added a dab more cream and continued the braid. Half an inch, two inches. Nearly to the end. Time to finish off the braid. But as I reached for the clip, my prosthetic fingers gave a nervous twitch. My hair sprang loose, and the braid unraveled.

  Dammit.

  I smacked the worktable with my fist. Ono hissed at me from her corner, her fur ruffled, her ears flat.

  I had it. Almost.

  My left arm ached, flesh and ghost alike. My head throbbed with barely suppressed rage. A distant part of me observed that rage, almost dispassionately. The benefit of six months’ therapy? Or was I simply tired?

  “You did well.” Sydney’s tone was impossible to read.

  “You mean I did better than you expected.”

  “We had different expectations, you and I. That doesn’t mean you failed. Would you like to make another try?”

  Yes, I would. But a headache lurked behind my skul
l, and my stomach felt mildly queasy. Caution overruled passion. “No. Thank you. Perhaps next week.”

  One day, I would not be able to refuse. One day, I would have to charge into surgery as though I were God. After all, a surgeon cannot expect the best of conditions. She must be ready to serve her patients anytime, anywhere. When the ER overflows. When a code blue sounds or the enemy overruns the border.

  “You were right,” I said. “I was wrong. I need another month at least.”

  Sydney said nothing. An answer all by itself.

  “We can talk,” I continued. “Tomorrow. About different drills. Whatever you think necessary. But please, not now.”

  I carefully undid the braid and combed out the hair. My right hand trembled. My device moved in awkward clicks, like an echo of my thoughts and emotions. Sydney remained silent, no sign of her thoughts on that blank face. Only when I moved toward the door did she round the worktable and lay a hand on my arm.

  “You did not give up,” she said softly. “You made a good try. You’ll make a better one tomorrow. Remember, this is just one small obstacle, one small rock in your climb up and over the mountain.”

  A lovely platitude. Perhaps I would have it framed and hung on my wall. I thanked her anyway and hurried from the room before I said anything I might regret.

  Georgetown University Hospital had changed very little since I interviewed there, almost four years ago. The halls were just as wide and lit by enormous windows. Dark blue tiles lined the floor, and the walls were painted a soothing green. My office was located on the third floor, one level down from the executive suites. Yet another signal of favor undeserved.

  My workstation blinked awake as I sat down. I swiped my fingers over the bio-security pad. A holographic keyboard appeared on the desktop. The workstation connected me to the hospital network, dozens of medical research sites, and the public internet.

  My Georgetown messaging app launched automatically in one window. A second, smaller window for my private apps appeared in the lower right corner. When I tapped the notifications icon, my private email opened up with a message from my old friend Jacob Bell.