The Clinic

by Cate Culpepper

  “That’s right, General. In spite of the best efforts of some sadly deluded civilians, clinical trials will open right on schedule. Oh, I’m so glad you stopped by.” Caster beckoned to Brenna and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’d like to present our unit’s new medical technician, who comes to us with the most glowing professional references imaginable. Brenna, General Lorber is the Clinic’s Military liaison.”

  “Miss Brenna.” Lorber’s large freckled hand devoured Brenna’s. “With a Clinic team of such breathless beauty, how can we fail?”

  Caster tittered girlishly. “The General is our own Roman warrior, Brenna, surging into battle against the rapacious Amazons of old! We couldn’t have a more valorous ally.”

  Lorber’s fleshy thumb drew lazy circles over Brenna’s knuckles. She smiled up at him politely and slowly tightened her grip until he stopped. “It’s an honor, sir.”

  “If you have a moment, General, I’d love to show you our latest estimates on the value of Tristaine’s timber rights.” Caster bestowed a parting smile on Brenna. “Run along and see to our illustrious patient, dear. And remember, I want you to feel free to come to me at any time, yes?”

  Brenna watched the flirtatious brush of Caster’s hand on the General’s arm as they strolled back toward her office. She noted the distinguished Roman warrior avoided her eyes. She started to push through the double doors, then reversed herself and took a detour to the staff lounge. She checked to make sure she was alone, then opened her locker and pulled out a small silver flask.

  She tipped it twice, whispering invectives. That brief lapse of professionalism worried her. Angering a General was simple stupidity. She couldn’t let emotion goad her here. Her job was keeping her patient healthy, then cashing paychecks from the most prestigious research facility in the City. She would not make waves.

  When Brenna pushed the heavy door of the detention cell open, she was relieved to note some improvement. While still cool, the cell’s temperature was bearable. The prisoner lay quietly under the blanket, but she opened those disconcerting eyes when Brenna approached her.

  “What do you say we start again?” She folded her hands behind her. “I’m Brenna, I’m Clinic staff. I’m going to take care of your health needs during the research study and be your medical advocate while you’re in clinical trials. Remember that I have the authority to discipline or disable you at any time, if necessary. Understood?”

  Jess swallowed. “Would this be a Military study or Civilian?”

  Brenna heard the dryness in her throat, and she lifted a blue decanter of water and fit the bendable straw between Jess’s lips. “This is the Military Research unit.”

  For a moment Jess was still, and then she pulled hard on the straw. The cool water sluiced down her sandpapered throat in a welcome flood, but she hardly tasted it. She would have preferred organ harvesting or the morgue to this. A Civilian study would probably kill her too, eventually, but Military research meant the Feds planned to use her against Tristaine.

  “Caster is the scientist in charge of your project. She’ll explain everything you need to know later.” Brenna replaced the decanter on the table, and her voice took on a practiced, soothing cadence. “You just need to concentrate on following directions, Jesstin, and obeying rules, and you’ll be fine. All that clear?”

  “Clear,” Jess said. She smelled whiskey. Wonderful. Clinical trials, Military research, and a Government pixie with a fondness for spirits and access to long needles. The luck of Tristaine’s women hadn’t turned yet.

  “Also,” Brenna rummaged in the pocket of her lab coat, frowning again, “I should have read this to you earlier.” She pulled out an index card. “‘Jesstin, your transfer to this medical facility was arranged under conditions of highest security. Be aware that armed peace officers—’” Brenna scowled and glanced up. “They mean orderlies with guns. ‘That armed peace officers, stationed throughout the Clinic at all times, will ensure your compliance with unit rules.’”

  She pushed the card back in her pocket. “It goes on like that for a while. Translated, you can rebel or try to escape if you wish, but someone will shoot you if you do.”

  Jess filed away Brenna’s apparent distaste for this edict for future reference. A medical advocate must not rank highly enough in the hierarchy to know that the Feds had assured her compliance above and beyond the firepower of Clinic staff. She had little doubt that Camryn and Kyla would pay the price for any resistance she might offer.

  “I need to patch you up.” Brenna surveyed Jess critically. “Save us both time. Tell me where you’re hurt.”

  “My head stings.” Jess thought about it. “My side hurts. Other than that, cuts and bruises.”

  Brenna unbuttoned Jess’s shirt and spread the black cloth apart. At first she thought the mark high on Jess’s left shoulder was a deep bruise; then the intricate swirls of color asserted themselves into a complex design.

  “Is this a tattoo? I’ve never seen one.”

  “It’s a clan marking. It identifies my guild and the crest of my home village.” Jess had seen her glyph inspire the same wonder in jaded Prison guards that softened Brenna’s features now. In a society so threatened by individual expression that most forms of commercial art were illegal, the work of Tristaine’s glyph-painters seemed magical. All but unreadable to City dwellers, the small circular etching of an arrow in flight marked Jess as a warrior, and the dancing stars formed a constellation signifying her Amazon heritage.

  “It’s beautiful,” Brenna murmured.

  “Thank you,” Jess said simply. “I think so, too.”

  Brenna forced her eyes away from the glyph. Standing on her tiptoes and leaning over, she spotted a thunderhead bruise low on her patient’s right side and drew in a breath. “That’s got to hurt like hell, Jesstin. You might have a few cracked ribs.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Well, I’ve got to be sure.” Brenna straightened and regarded Jess. “I’ll have to examine that bruised area and decide if you need X-rays. That’s going to be painful. And I need to stitch the cut on your head.” She paused. “You were right about analgesics, Jesstin. I can’t give you any.”

  “Brenna?” Jess squinted up at her. “Just curious. How in blazes did you end up here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t seem to enjoy inflicting pain. I’m trying, but I can’t see you as the bloodthirsty type.” Jess’s brogue deepened when she was tired, and she was starting to twirl her r’s.

  “I’m a certified medical technician, Jesstin. I may be new to this particular unit, but I’ve seen my fair share of gore. Don’t worry. I’m no green nurse’s aide.”

  “You’re a kid.” Jess closed her eyes wearily. “You’re probably a capable medic, lass, but how you got assigned to a gruesome outfit like Military Research—”

  Brenna laid the flat of her hand over the bruise on the prisoner’s ribs and pressed, gently but deliberately. Jess stiffened hard in her restraints.

  “Okay.” Brenna cleared her throat again. “Now you know I’m not just a capable medic. I’m also capable of correcting you if I have to.” She folded her arms tensely. “Look, I’m required to apply a pain stimulus like that with a new patient. That makes it clear that I’ll do what I—”

  “Clear,” Jess gasped.

  Brenna waited uneasily until her patient was able to lie flat again in the restrainer.

  Then she pushed up the sleeves of her coat, as if to reset her professional mode. “The other unit I was assigned to in the Clinic didn’t do Military research, Jesstin. But we did lots of Civilian projects there, and I’ve worked with a dozen prisoners. Some of my patients did well, and they were released. Some of them wouldn’t cooperate, and they went back to Prison.”

  Jess studied her, the pain still pounding in her side, and wondered if this girl really believed that release was an option in her case.

  Brenna shrugged, her face impassive. “It didn’t matter to me, my pay was
the same. So don’t push me, okay?”

  Neither of them spoke while Brenna deftly stitched the cut above Jess’s brow. She knew her fingers were cold on the rugged face, in spite of the restored warmth in the cell. She’d never stitched anyone without at least a numbing spray, and she found her patient’s utter stillness beneath the fiery needle unnerving. However, her stitches were characteristically neat and even. She held herself to high standards when it came to patient care.

  She moved to the other side of the recliner and used her palms and the flats of her fingers to detect any sign of fracture in the prisoner’s ribs. She found none. Brenna applied salve and bandages as needed. Then she wrote clinical notes on the clipboard for some time while Jess dozed beneath the blanket.

  Brenna brushed one hand through her bangs and noticed she’d gotten a smudge of blood on the corner of the blue intake form. She slapped down her pen in annoyance and went to the sink. She didn’t realize her hands were trembling until she held them beneath the water, and she thought longingly of the flask in her locker.

  She took a white cloth and folded it. Her patient was still shivering, from exhaustion and pain now rather than cold. Brenna patted the beaded sweat off Jess’s forehead with the cloth and summarized her clinical impressions.

  Jesstin of Tristaine was a slightly malnourished Caucasian female in her late twenties. She was in surprisingly good health and obviously was fit and physically active before her incarceration. To say the least, Brenna thought. She looked as strong as a horse. Her shoulders were broad, and according to her orders, her powerful arms and legs required constant restraint. She might have been sentenced to field work at the Prison, judging by the healing scratches on her long fingers.

  Brenna unsnapped Jess’s shirt again and patted the cloth over her throat before moving it over her stomach and sides, studiously avoiding the firm, pale breasts.

  Jess lay quietly under her skillful ministrations. The feather-soft brush of Brenna’s fingers soothed her at first. Then Jess became aware of the persistent tightening of her nipples. A wry smile curved her cracked lips. She would have sworn Prison life had banished all trace of her libido. She supposed she had Gaia to thank for the durability of Amazon lust.

  “I’ll tell you a secret of the medic’s trade, Jesstin.” Brenna ran the soft cloth down each muscled arm. “If you know how, and when, to administer pain, and your patient knows you’re willing to, then you don’t have to do it very often. Makes life more pleasant for both of us.”

  “Did you learn that bit of wisdom from this Caster, Brenna?” Jess’s brogue softened the words. “That’s the strategy of a bully, not a healer.”

  Brenna stared at her, but she saw another small tightening around Jess’s eyes as pain flickered through her again, and she let the comment pass. A few minutes later she folded the cloth. “All right, Jesstin, you’re patched for the night. Think you can sleep?”

  “Sure.” Jess shifted stiffly on the padded recliner, and another shadow of pain crossed her face.

  Brenna studied her patient pensively. She flicked off the floodlight above them, plunging the cell into blue-hued darkness. Her searching fingers touched Jess’s bare shoulder, then slid gently beneath her hair. She cupped the strong neck, noting the velvet-sheathed tension thrumming in her palm. She began working the tight muscles with strong fingers, closing her own eyes in order to concentrate.

  “You’re like me,” she said. “We carry all our tension in our shoulders and neck. My little sister can put me to sleep in ten minutes doing this. Try to relax, Jess.”

  She probed the steely muscles silently for a while.

  Jess remembered Kyla’s cool hands on her back. Every night, in spite of a punishing shift in the Prison’s kitchens, the young redhead spent hours on her and Camryn, kneading the ache from their locked muscles. Shann called Kyla her best student in the healing art of touch. Jess let the darkness hide the welling in her eyes.

  “Listen.” Brenna kept her voice low. “Your chart says you’ve got nothing but physical therapy for the next week. Caster wants to build your strength for the clinical trials. That means bed rest, decent meals, light exercise when you’re ready for it…”

  Brenna heard a light, buzzing snore in the darkness. She smiled and edged her hand carefully from beneath Jess’s thick hair. She smoothed a stray lock off the sleeping woman’s brow, sifting its softness through her fingers.

  “I’m so good,” she murmured.

  Chapter Two

  They used to lop off one breast, so they could draw a bow to shoot arrows in battles with the Greeks.” Dugan leaned on hairy forearms crossed on the circular desk next to the staff locker room.

  Brenna’s Amazon patient was hot gossip, particularly among the male orderlies. Morning shift change consisted of little else. The three men had already seen Brenna, so it was too late to avoid them. She continued her trek behind the desk to retrieve Jesstin’s chart.

  “Amazons were Greeks,” the big, pock-faced man slouched next to Dugan corrected.

  Jodoch was a recent addition to Clinic staff, and Brenna hadn’t met him formally, but his association with Dugan left her less than eager to make his acquaintance.

  “Modern Amazons don’t do that.” Dugan tipped a toothpick at Jodoch. “Lop off a breast, judging by the cleavage on this one. Hell, judging by the cleavage on this one, I wouldn’t mind if they hauled the rest of those renegade banshees down here.”

  “Even the dusky ones, stud?” The third orderly, Karney, yawned as he poured coffee from the staff urn. “I hear they’ve got Amazons in all colors up there.”

  “We got dames in all colors down here too, Karney, which is why we built separate boroughs for ‘em. Once that bitch-nest is wiped out, the duskies can be locked up in their own Prisons. If those ditzy witches up there are dense enough to give the whole race relations mess another try, we’ll mow ‘em down without breaking a sweat. Homeland Security has taught us how to deal with perverts like this.”

  Brenna slipped Jess’s file out of the locked metal bracket reserved for Military projects, actively avoiding Dugan’s avid gaze. His muddy eyes followed her, as they often did, but she’d grown accustomed to ignoring him.

  “It’s all bullshit.” Karney sipped his coffee and grimaced. “Amazons died out tons of generations ago. They’re comic-book fodder now. Beats me why Caster’s got her knickers in a knot over this invert.”

  “Well, but see there, that’s more proof that big honey in there is an Amazon. The Amazons were all inverts, Karney. Ask Jodoch here. He has a permit to study history.” Dugan nudged his friend, but his eyes were still on Brenna. “The real Amazons were dykes. Right, Miss Brenna? You think that’s why the sainted Caster is so hot on this study?”

  “Caster’s got three kids,” Karney scoffed, stirring the murky brew in a Styrofoam cup. “She’s sure not inverted.”

  “Is she, Brenna?” Dugan grinned. “You can tell us.”

  “I’ll let her know you’re interested.” Brenna kept her tone pleasantly bland. She ducked under the wooden flap of the desk and headed toward the gymnasium to check out equipment for Jess.

  “She wants me,” Dugan crooned, and Karney chuckled.

  *

  Brenna’s chart notes over the next week were encouraging. Jess’s bruises bloomed to full glory, then began to fade. The cut on her head closed neatly, and she showed no signs of concussion. She regained full range of motion on her right side, so the bruised ribs were coming along well. Jess healed faster than anyone Brenna had ever tended.

  The sun burned high and hot in a flawlessly blue sky. Brenna blinked sweat out of her eyes as they entered the arena grounds. She tossed one of the sleek quarterstaves she carried to Jess, who walked beside her and caught it neatly.

  “Hey, this is beautiful.” Jess balanced the staff in her hands with apparent pleasure, studying its carvings. “I haven’t done staffwork in years. Are these yours?”

  “Just this one is.” Brenna twirled the unadorned q
uarterstaff in one hand. “I signed that one out, and it’s a matchstick by comparison, so watch it.”

  They were both somewhat hindered by attire. By regulation, Jess could wear only the black shirt and trousers of the Prison population. Brenna could have opted for something with a little more protection, but in fairness she dressed in scrub greens when they drilled.

  Jess’s physical therapy had quickly moved beyond bed rest, stretching, and exercise machines. Brenna had allowed her to graduate to drilling in a small enclosed arena that separated the Clinic from the Prison.

  Two orderlies, usually Dugan and Karney, were posted on the high walkway encircling the neat workout field. They lounged lazily against upright posts in the sun, their rifles slung over their shoulders, watching. They would have been skeptical if told the two women drilling below were virtually unaware of them.

  “You anchor your right foot rather than your left on attack?” Jess parried a confident thrust from Brenna’s staff.

  “Yep, helps me build momentum before I strike.” Brenna danced a little, watching Jess’s center of balance to predict her next move.

  She knew her small stature was deceptive, as anyone meeting her in a ring found out. She was quick, even with alcohol making its first inroads in her fitness. And her compact, sturdy body was well proportioned. She still trained regularly, even in days clouded by a mind-numbing hangover, and she was stronger and healthier than she had any right to be.

  “So whenever you shift your weight to your right foot,” Jess noted, “I know you’re about to smack me from the left?”

  Jess sounded so confident that it was doubly satisfying when she mistook Brenna’s pivot, bobbed when she should have weaved, and would have received a nice clout in the stomach if Brenna hadn’t pulled her strike.

  Jess grinned as Brenna indulged in a fist-pumping victory dance. Lately, after these sessions in Jess’s company, her cheeks carried a healthy flush and her eyes danced in a way they usually didn’t.