He took the rest of the way without distraction.
Dr. Morgan walked into the waiting area of Dr. Rausch's office. He stood in front of a male receptionist who was feverishly punishing a keyboard.
"I'm here for a check up. Dr. Rausch is expecting me."
"Sign in," the man said without looking up. A clipboard with a tethered pen sat on the counter.
"No thumb scan?" Dr. Morgan said, picking up the clipboard and scrawling answers where denoted.
“We lost the server dedicated for that software last week,” the receptionist said, his attention still on his computer. “We have to do it the old fashioned way now.”
“Was it a hacker?” Dr. Morgan asked.
“Nothing so dramatic. I doubt there would be a concentrated terrorist effort to keep us from a thumb scan. The old server was kind of dodgy to begin with. And we had neglected it for quite some time. Didn’t seem like much of a priority, until the last war.”
Dr. Morgan signed and returned the clipboard.
"Have a seat. You'll be called soon."
Dr. Morgan went into the waiting area and sat. A few other people waited. They were absorbed by the flat screen on the wall that played the Ministry News.
A woman reporter spoke to the people in the room as a graphic of the hammer and stripes played behind her. "In glorious news from the Chancellor's office, the Children of Cain have been driven from the Capitol. In a battle over the holy city, the leader of the topsiders, Taima, was killed in a skirmish with the 679 of the Red Guard, led by Sergeant Winters."
The photo of Taima, his corpse held toward the lens by grinning infantryman, appeared on the screen.
"Taima has led a long terrorist campaign against the 45th. His death signals a major victory for the Red Guard. The loss of their leader has caused chaos and destabilization to his ranks. A massive global strike has been initiated against the enemy. On a related note, the 679 also prevented the imminent death of our longest serving field medical officer, Dr. Morgan."
A picture of Dr. Morgan's hard stare popped onto the screen.
"Dr. Morgan has served six times beyond the typical life expectancy of a field medic and three times beyond a soldier's expectancy. The Chancellor has hailed Dr. Morgan a hero. The Chancellor was quoted as saying, God has a plan for Dr. Morgan."
A side graphic of a computer with an animated frown face and a thermometer sticking from its lips played. "As I am sure a great many of you have noticed, some non-essential software has been offline for several days. An old, faulty network server is being blamed for…"
Dr. Morgan's name rang from the speaker in the waiting room ceiling. He rose and journeyed to the back.
A nurse guided him to Dr. Rausch's examination room. She put him in a chair and checked his vitals.
"Dr. Rausch will be in momentarily," she pleasantly assured him. "Strip to your boxers."
The nurse took her leave.
Dr. Morgan looked around the exam room. How tedious, he thought. He undressed and took the examination seat. He wasn't at all self-conscious. Dr. Rausch was intimate with his many scars.
Her face was the first image he had seen through the birthing plasma while in the pod. He remembered that day very fondly. A tech assistant next to her had looked at a chart and marveled, "Look at the size of him! He's a beast. Are you sure he carries the medicine lifebrand? He's larger than most soldiers."
Dr. Rausch, whose face was still blurry to his new eyes, had replied. "Yes. He's a try at a more resilient field medic. Dr. Morgan is very special."
He had grown quite smitten with her over the years. He imagined her when he had the rare urge to pleasure himself. He suspected she knew how taken he was with her.
The doctor appeared sooner than he expected. Dr. Rausch was black, lean and had very short hair.
"Hello Morgan!" she said, smiling brightly. She walked to him and took his hard hand. "You are quite the popular one, aren't you?"
"It is good to see you again, Dr. Rausch."
"Every time they send you out, I pray that I walk in here at some point and see you there. You have made my heart quite happy today."
Dr. Rausch put sensors on his temples and did a perfunctory check of his glands. She put her hands on the skin over his inhibitor.
Dr. Rausch winced in sympathy and softened her touch. "Oh, quite a bit of swelling here."
"Yes. It was a good thing I landed on my head. I might have hurt myself otherwise."
Dr. Rausch chuckled. She moved in closer, her hands lightly inspecting the back of his head. Her breast pressed into his shoulder. Dr. Morgan felt his skin heat. "It seems fairly superficial. I'd suggest ice and rest after this."
Dr. Rausch stepped back. She gazed down and chortled. "My, Dr. Morgan. Should we apply for a breeding permit?"
Morgan stared down at his lap. He immediately covered his erection with his arms. "Well that's just mortifying. I apologize, Dr. Rausch."
"No need. I'm flattered. And here I thought you were steel inside. Figured that's why they couldn't kill you. I'll switch on and see how your inhibitor is coping and let you get that under control."
Dr. Rausch switched on the vertical EKG and dialed Dr. Morgan in. His signals danced in frenzy.
"There is a lot going on in there, Morgan. Your inhibitor is operating at ten percent capacity. How are the urges?"
"They are still there. No matter how tight you button my inhibitor, I feel they'll drive me mad at times. I see my brothers die and I feel useless and vile. I'm a grenade with the pin pulled but I'm still fingered down."
"Have you acted on it?" Dr. Rausch asked. "Have you hurt someone?"
Dr. Morgan thought of Chansomps. "No," he said, aware that Dr. Rausch would see a flicker in his waves. "I wouldn't go against my lifebrand."
"You've served well beyond expectations. That much horror will take a toll on anyone's inhibitor. It would do us well to take you off of active duty and utilize you here."
"No," Dr. Morgan said. "Please don't even suggest that."
"Would it be so horrible to spend the rest of your days working alongside me? You do a lot for a person's ego," Dr. Rausch teased.
"I don't feel comfortable down here. With the generals and the priests. Up there makes more sense. War puts on no airs."
Dr. Rausch looked guilty. "The notion of taking you off duty might have already floated. If it comes to that, I apologize. But I won't be sorry to see you grow old and fat, Morgan."
Dr. Rausch went to her computer. "I'm going to soften the algorithm on your inhibitor. I'll schedule you for surgery in a day or two. When the swelling goes down. You'll have to behave yourself until then."
"I'll do my best," Dr. Morgan said.
"Your dreams will be quite vivid until the new implant is ready. I'd sleep on a towel."
"Could you humiliate me any further?" he said with a smile.
"Given the chance, I'm sure I could," Dr. Rausch joked. "I'll see you tonight. I'll be joining you at the Chancellor's table. Get some rest before then."
Dr. Morgan nodded. Suddenly, a meal with the Chancellor didn't seem a terror.
He left Dr. Rausch's and went straight to his room only long enough to clean himself and change clothes. Dr. Morgan went to the nearest holo booth. He washed the controls with a pre-moistened sanitary wipe from the dispenser nailed to the side of the large view screen. He knew what went on in those booths. Dr. Morgan then put on the VR specs, verified his credits, and took a virtual trip to the Grand Canyon.
After swooning over the view of the chasm, Dr. Morgan clocked off and prepared to leave the booth. The main menu flickered, and he paused. He saw the category, First Person Shooter Games. He clicked it and went to the submenu. A game called Mutard Massacre jumped out at him. He checked his credits and saw that he had plenty.
He put the VR glasses back on and fed the machine. Dr. Morgan had never engaged in this sort of violent game play before. But he thought it might help him purge the venom inside.
He
took the control stick as aggressive music filled his headphones. After the gaudy opening title, Dr. Morgan emerged through heavy jungle brush and found a sergeant in a clearing.
"I'm Sergeant Fleischmann, and we are surrounded by the enemy!" the cartoon said. "Go into that green hell and take out as many as you can!"
Two arms baring an assault rifle popped up at the bottom of the screen, and a help bubble told Dr. Morgan how to aim and fire. After he hit the ready button, he surged through more brush and paused at a wall of trees. Another help bubble instructed: Take out all of the Mutards but don't hit your comrades!
Highly exaggerated caricatures of armed topsiders popped out from the trees. The mutards wore loincloths and had bones in their noses and war paint on their faces. Dr. Morgan jerked the controller and fired on them. Though an animation, the gore was extremely graphic. The mutards' heads exploded and painted the vegetation with blood and brains. Small halo-topped ghosts playing harps rose out of the murdered cartoons and ascended upward. But they didn't fly far, for the hand of God emerged through a cloud and pointed downward. This caused their halos to pop like balloons. The souls fell to a fire pit that opened in the ground beneath them.
After taking one or two of his own men out, Dr. Morgan found the rhythm of the game. When the level was done, a bubble informed him: Hand-to-Hand Combat!
The assault rifle disappeared and a machete took its place. Screaming topsiders charged him. He swung the weapon, maiming and decapitating them as a score racked numbers furiously at the top.
When the first game finished, sweat covered Dr. Morgan and he puffed heavily. If he stepped out of the booth at that moment, people would suspect he'd been whacking in there.
He felt exhilarated.
I should go get ready, he thought. Maybe one more game.
Dr. Morgan rattled the booth for hours. He played until his credits ran dry.
***
It wasn't often that Dr. Morgan was given an opportunity to wear his service tails and chest candy, but explicit instructions from the Chancellor had been relayed through Phillip.
The aide twisted a tie around Dr. Morgan's substantial neck. When he was done preening the doctor, he stepped back and admired his charge.
"Look at you," he said approvingly. Phillip stepped away and let Dr. Morgan see himself in the mirror of his quarters.
"I look like a blithering idiot," Dr. Morgan said.
"Nonsense. You clean up nicely," Phillip said.
Phillip had dressed in a suit as well. It fit him better.
"Dr. Morgan, I just need to say that I envy you, sir. The engineered, they rise from the pod with a purpose already set in them. The birthers, like myself, have to find our reason. And that can be a long and painful search."
"My lifebrand has been forced upon me, Phillip. You can change your program. I am not allowed. I know you meant something kind in what you said, but it is a sad observation to make to an engineered."
Phillip looked regretful. "I am sorry, sir. I did not mean to upset you. That's the last thing I want to do. Especially on a night like this one."
Dr. Morgan rested his heavy hand on his aide's shoulder. "I'm not upset. But I am starving. I want to eat until I bust the seams on these fancy pants."
***
One dozen identical mess halls spread throughout the bunker. But Dr. Morgan had never ventured into the one where the Chancellor and the elite ate. When he followed Phillip into the dining hall, he was met with a standing ovation. It went from the common area near the entrance to the guarded banquet table, which was on the cafeteria stage. Twenty of the Chancellor's personal Elite Guard stood like statues behind the table. The Elite Guard wore dark gray uniforms with red trim and the crest of the 45th.
The Elite Guard were naturally bred mercenaries. They were the bunker's defense and its most lethal citizens. There were over one hundred of them in service, and a special detail always followed the Chancellor. The Elite Guard were preferred by the Chancellor over the engineered because they could not be compromised by lifebrand. They were not as strong or quick as the engineered, but they were cunning and had no inhibitor to curb them. The Elite Guard were often compared to an ancient race of warriors called the Spartans.
The Chancellor stood, with advisors near, when he spotted Dr. Morgan. He motioned for Dr. Morgan to come. The priests of the 45th and their wives, as well as aides, made up the majority of the table.
He marched through shouts, salutes, and fingered whistles. When he made his way up the stage stairs, the Chancellor welcomed him with a hug. He led Dr. Morgan to the spot of honor near the head of the great table. Phillip was pointed to the end, reserved for aides, which he took with as much of a happy face as he could manage.
Dr. Morgan sat and looked to the Chancellor and General Workman, the Chancellor's most trusted advisor. Workman was a broad-shouldered man who was creeping into his fifties. He had short rusty hair and a thin mustache. Workman was a stone-faced strategist who regarded everyone with the same look of suspicion. He was no-nonsense and that he didn't care for this pageantry, especially for a lowly medical officer, was evident by the cross expression on his face.
The Chancellor wore his white cassock and the 45th code of arms. He was tall and old. He had a benevolent face but a fierce heart and temper.
Dr. Morgan looked across the table and Dr. Rausch smiled back at him. She wore a lovely gown and her face was made. Dr. Morgan drank her in until the food was put in front of him. As it hit his nostrils, the Chancellor called for his table microphone. An aide put in front of him, and the Chancellor addressed the room.
"This is a wonderful day for us all. Our enemy has suffered a major blow with the loss of Taima. The topsider forces have been irrevocably fractured. We have chased them from the capitol and we have wrested other states from them as well. And though we could enjoy a respite as the Children of Cain reorganize, General Workman is intensifying our military effort. Now is not the time to relent. We must press the advantage. For God and the 45th!"
The room nearly shattered the walls with their response.
"As if we weren't blessed enough, our longest surviving soldier, medical officer Dr. Morgan, has been spared execution. By the hand of God himself. I see that the maker has a grand purpose in mind for this soldier. God favors Dr. Morgan over many. And who am I to argue with the almighty? It is my decision to keep Dr. Morgan here, with us, so that he may help train our new medics and assist Dr. Rausch at the medical complex."
Dr. Morgan looked to Dr. Rausch. She stared intently at the Chancellor, but her eye betrayed her and she looked for a second to the doctor.
The Chancellor turned to Dr. Morgan. "For you, Dr. Morgan, the war is over. Well done, sir."
The room applauded. Dr. Morgan tried to look grateful, but he was gutted inside.
When the crowd died down, the Chancellor took to the microphone again.
"Now I shall give the dinner prayer, and we can commence with this wonderful feast."
The Chancellor bowed his head. "From us. For us. God bless the Sleepers in the Cold."
Dr. Morgan's lips moved an amen but it was only lip exercise. He was devastated. He wished he had fallen with his comrades.
He ate his square steak and greens without looking to anyone. Dr. Morgan was too preoccupied to appraise the greens. He felt energy coming toward him from Dr. Rausch, but he couldn't answer it.
The first to address him was the Chancellor's wife. Delphine, no older than eighteen, wore a red clerical gown that was common for most wives of the priests. Delphine was seated next to Dr. Rausch. She spoke as the dishes were taken by the kitchen staff.
"I've heard that the topsider women fight on the front lines. Is that true?" Delphine asked.
"My wife forgets her place and her manners," the Chancellor said sternly.
The girl stared down dejectedly, and Dr. Morgan came to her rescue. "The topsider women are very fierce. I'd say they are more dangerous than their men in some cases."
G
eneral Workman, who occupied the seat next to the Chancellor, where one might expect Delphine to sit, addressed Dr. Morgan. "Disgusting. Women weren't meant to be soldiers. They have their jobs in this, but not on the battlefield. The topsiders also arm their children as soon as they're are able to bear the weight of a rifle. Shall we march our wives and the children of the elite out there as well, Dr. Morgan?"
"I took no position. I merely answered a question," Dr. Morgan said.
"So let me ask you another," General Workman said. "I took a look at Sergeant Winters' report and he said that you gave medical assistance to the topsiders. Is that correct?"
"I treated a child," Dr. Morgan admitted.
"Was it under duress, Dr. Morgan? Did they have a gun pointed at your head?' General Workman asked.
"No sir. But the threat had been well made," Dr. Morgan said, growing alarmed and angry.
"So you fortified the enemy. You nursed one of them back. One who is probably already strengthened enough from your care to carry a weapon and claim more of our boys on the battlefield."
"She was a child, sir," Dr. Morgan argued.
"And as I have stated, the Mutard children kill alongside their parents."
"With all due respect, General, I have never seen a topsider child bear an arm against the Red Guard. If anything, the topsiders are ferociously protective of their progeny."
General Workman looked livid. "Are you suggesting you know more about the enemy than I, son?"
"I know more about the enemy than most, General. Granted, that isn't saying much. I've been in that hell longer than any soldier under your command. I've survived longer than any man out there."
"That is because you cower behind your comrades," General Workman hissed.
"Dr. Morgan has risked his life over and over again and he has the scars to prove it," Dr. Rausch interjected. "His lifebrand compels him to dispense medical treatment when called upon, if he isn't compromised. He follows his programming, General."
"Let the men speak, girl," General Workman admonished.
The general then turned to the Chancellor. "Why are we celebrating a man who was captured by the enemy? The Red Guard would eat a bullet before allowing themselves to be taken hostage," General Workman said.
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