A Study in Honor

by Claire O'Dell

  “So did the rest of the Red Squirrels,” Sara said softly. “And others since then. You can help us.”

  Calloway shook her head. She was crying. “It wasn’t my fault,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps not,” Sara said. “We’d like to find out who is to blame.”

  Another shake of the head.

  “A name?” Sara suggested. “I can promise you immunity for evidence leading to prosecution. It’s a way to help the dead.”

  But the dead were apparently none of Calloway’s concern. She clamped her lips shut and glared at me, since she couldn’t glare at Sara. Her ponytail had come undone, and her thin hair straggled over her face.

  “Very well,” Sara said. “The dead do not matter. Let’s talk about Livvy Pharmaceuticals.”

  That produced a frantic struggle. “You already know,” Calloway choked out. “You don’t need me to say anything. Just let me go. Please. Oh god, please.”

  “Livvy,” Sara repeated. “A pharmaceutical company that belongs to Adler Industries. That strikes another chord, I see. It should. You worked at Livvy for six years in its research division. Your name is associated with several drug patents, and you were likely due for another promotion when you entered the service. Oh, yes, I would say you know a great deal about both Livvy and Adler, including their connection with the events of June third. Specifically, the events concerning the Red Squirrels. Tell us for my friend’s sake. You meant to earlier.”

  Calloway shuddered. “I did. I saw her device and . . .” She gulped down a breath. “Promise you will give me immunity. Promise.”

  “I promise.” Sara’s voice was cool and remote.

  “Okay, then. I . . . I was the senior medical officer for our brigade. First Infantry Division, Fourth Combat Brigade. The one President Sanches reactivated. I had oversight for our standard health practices for officers and enlisted. Vaccinations. Annual examinations. It was a good assignment. I didn’t ask for anything more.”

  “But others did ask more from you. Who were they? Your commander?”

  Sara’s voice was soft and understanding. Even so, Calloway dithered. “No, not her. It was Vandermay, our lieutenant colonel. She—I don’t know what she told our commander, or if she ever said anything.”

  Sara gave a breathy sigh. I had not dared to move at all these last five minutes.

  “Who else knew?”

  “No one else, I swear. Vandermay ordered me to her office. Early May, it was. She said we were in trouble. Not us, but the army.” Calloway’s words poured out in an almost incomprehensible flood. How the war had continued for too many years. How the U.S. was crumbling into a second-rate country. How with that attack on Alton, the Confederate troops had robbed our people of courage, and if we didn’t take victory, then victory would never be ours.

  “But she had a plan,” Calloway said. “How to stop the rebels and grab those victories. She didn’t want to say more until I agreed. It was only later I found out the plan wasn’t hers. It was Nadine Adler who gave her the idea.”

  Oh, and oh. Now my enemy has a name. Now she has a face.

  Calloway sucked down a breath. “I recognized her right away from my job at Livvy. She used to visit the lab once a month. I heard she did the same for all the companies she owned. ‘Make it personal’ was her motto. If we had a breakthrough, she knew it before the end of the day and we all got raises. If we screwed up, she knew that too, and someone got fired . . .”

  Another gulp, another pause before she continued. “Adler paid a visit to Vandermay in May. I was there too. We told the commander this was part of Adler’s new policy for their government contracts. She wanted to meet with senior medical officers in the field, take down their concerns. Make it personal, you know. What really happened was she brought us a new drug. Code name SX#99. That meant an experimental drug in Livvy.”

  “And what did this drug do?” Holmes asked.

  “It made . . . super soldiers.”

  Impossible.

  Except I knew it was possible. No matter what the preachers told us, I knew what all doctors knew—we were bags of chemicals and nothing more. The right combination could make us spew our dinner. Another could recalibrate our emotions, for good or bad. We could turn ourselves into sheep or monsters.

  Calloway had not stopped that soft and ceaseless whisper. “It hadn’t passed FDA trials. Next month, she claimed. I knew right away it never would. I’d already seen reports about the side effects. But Vandermay ordered me to conduct our own trials. So . . . I did. Three soldiers. I told my people these were a new flu vaccine. Oh, God, forgive me. And the first round seemed to have no effect. So the second time we scheduled two injections. Same excuse, different squad. The Red Squirrels. The other squad was our control. You know what happened there.”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Why don’t you tell us, Dr. Calloway? What did SX#99 do to your patients?”

  She was weeping now. Great gobs of genuine tears. I almost felt pity. I would have, except for the small matter of those veterans who had died under her care.

  “Tell me what happened,” I repeated in a softer voice. “How did SX#99 make these men and women into super soldiers?”

  Calloway shook her head, as if she didn’t want to answer. Sara gave her a shake. “Answer the nice doctor, or you won’t get any immunity.”

  Her lips pulled back to show an edged smile. That broke through Calloway’s haze of terror. “Hormone boosters,” she said. “It tripled the body’s testosterone and adrenaline production. It added a megadose of pain inhibitors. All of it temporary. At least it was supposed to be temporary.”

  But it wasn’t. I already knew that.

  “Side effects?” I asked.

  Another hesitation. This time I wanted to shake her myself.

  “A few,” she said reluctantly. “The hormone boosters didn’t evaporate as expected. Our patients showed signs of hypertension. Edema. Behavioral disorders. By then, my lieutenant colonel had ordered two more missions. Big ones.”

  Jonesboro and Little Rock.

  “I told her about the side effects,” Calloway said. “Vandermay told me those were aberrations. Expected aberrations. The same words Adler used back at Livvy. By that time, Adler had shipped us their new drugs to counteract the side effects, and those did help, but not enough. When I asked about government trials for the new drugs, Vandermay ordered me to follow through with our third mission. It would be the last one, she promised me. If I didn’t make trouble, she could guarantee me an honorable discharge. I . . . I said yes.”

  She fell silent. No need to confess more, I thought. We could piece the rest together from the names and dates she’d given us. One drug to create the super soldier that Vandermay and the Federal Army wanted. Another to counteract its unforeseen side effects. Adler had made its profits twice over. And Calloway knew all that, even as she pretended otherwise.

  Sara, evidently, was not quite satisfied. “That explains a great deal, doctor,” she said. “What about Nadine Adler’s connections with the New Confederacy?”

  Calloway gasped. “What? I don’t know anything about that.”

  Sara was unimpressed. “You do. Or you guessed. Adler supplied the New Confederacy with those same drugs, didn’t she? She’s the reason behind Alton. She sold SX#99 to both sides, to keep the war and her profits alive. That’s the real reason you’re so frightened.”

  Calloway shook her head. “I have no proof—”

  She broke off when Holmes flung her to the ground the same moment a loud crack echoed through the garage. I dropped to the concrete, my brain yammering, Incoming, incoming. Another crack sounded; a burst of sparks and concrete exploded from the wall next to us.

  “Adler.” Calloway sobbed. “I saw her in the bar.”

  Sara was cursing softly. “Let me take care of our new friend. Janet, you must get our witness away from here.” She gestured toward the line of cars. “That will give you some protection. I can do the rest.”

  She re
leased Calloway and rolled over into a crouch, gun in hand.

  I can’t do this. I can’t.

  It was April all over again, but this time I knew I was not invincible. This time I knew I would die.

  Sara threw herself into the open. She fired off two shots before she landed and rolled again. I saw her dive behind a car opposite us. She mouthed the word go.

  I grabbed Calloway’s wrist. “Come on.”

  “No, no, no—”

  Her terror broke mine. “Yes, yes, yes. Unless you want to die.”

  There were five cars between us and the stairs. I had not counted them before, but the number jumped into my mind. I dug my fingers into Calloway’s wrist and dragged her with me to the next car. Another bullet ricocheted from the concrete. We buried our heads in our arms. Across the way, Sara let off another round of shots.

  Next car. No bullets this time, but also no reason to get cocky. My doctor had given up arguing. She only whimpered when I adjusted my grip. Damn you to hell, I thought. You never cared about your soldiers. You wept because you were terrified for yourself.

  Two more cars. Two more rounds of bullets. Did this count as noise to Sara’s watchers?

  One more car, then a longer distance to the door. We gained our first goal. It was then Calloway dropped limp to the ground. “Let her kill me. I don’t care anymore. Fuck you. Fuck all of you.”

  “Fuck you,” I said savagely. “I care.”

  I dragged her toward the stairwell, grabbed the handle. But my left hand would not close. I had to let go of Calloway to open the door. I had it propped open with one foot and was hauling this useless woman to safety when the bullet punched through me.

  18

  After that, the world fractured into pieces. I remember a buzzing chorus of voices. Sara shouting orders. More gunfire. Running footsteps, then Sara and Katherine Calloway, arguing over me. And oh, oh, oh, the agony, the weight against my chest that made every breath a struggle. I tried to warn them about the rebels, or Adler, to tell them to keep watch, but my lips and tongue refused to obey me.

  “She’s coming around.”

  “Better if she didn’t. You have no idea—”

  “I have every idea. Stop the bleeding, damn it.”

  My vision flickered from there to yesterday.

  I crouch next to three bodies. Two corporals, a sergeant, their uniforms caked with black mud, their faces covered in blood, their limbs now frozen in odd contortions, as if they had all been caught in mid-convulsion when they died. They had outlived an IED attack, surgery, and the madness of the attack on Alton, only to bleed out in this muddy ditch. I am nearly ready to lie down and surrender myself, but I have six more patients who depend on me.

  “Janet, Janet, my love. Hush. Keep still. We’ve called for reinforcements.”

  I twisted around to see Sara’s face, but agony was a dragon, ripping me with its claws. I choked on a mouthful of vomit. Calloway swore. Together she and Sara raised me onto my knees. Calloway pounded between my shoulders until I heaved and coughed and cleared my throat. I sucked down a breath, tasted the salt on my cheeks, the sour residue, the blood and grit from where my mouth hit the pavement.

  “Don’t,” I whispered. “Don’t ever call me your love. Don’t lie to me.”

  Sara’s hand brushed over my cheek. “I would never lie to you. You are my love. Not as you once loved your Angela. But there are other ways, my friend.”

  The meaning of her words slowly seeped through my molasses thoughts. “My friend,” I tried to say, but all I could manage was inarticulate noises.

  And then the miracle happens. I hear the thump, thump, thump of a helicopter. SPC Jefferson is stabbing her finger to the east. Ours, yes, ours. I rouse the other patients and we creep toward salvation. One, two, three scramble through the open doors, when gunfire breaks out. One of the soldiers stumbles. I drag her to her feet. Hand her over to Jefferson. That’s when I hear the rebel yell. That’s when the bullet shatters my arm.

  A third voice joined the argument over my body. A stranger, a young man with a New Jersey accent I could barely understand. He and Calloway exchanged a rapid-fire dialogue thick with medical terms. Penetrating wound to the left lumbar region. Possible perforation. There was talk about the ambulance, the necessity for a blood transfusion, and how to raise my core temperature. Sara broke into their conversation with arguments of her own. Something about national security.

  It was then I heard the distant thump, thump, thump from a helicopter. I felt a cool imprint of lips against my cheek. Felt a stab in my right arm. Cold flooded my veins, and I was falling, falling, falling into darkness at last.

  * * *

  It was just like any other downtime in the unit. Saúl sat cross-legged on his bunk, smoking a cheap cigar. I lay on my back and waved my hand to blow the smoke away. In between was a bottle of Jim Beam Black Label and two glasses.

  Why did you die, Saúl?

  He took a drag from the cigar.

  No reason at all. What else did you expect, Captain Watson? That we would dance through this war, invincible?

  But of course I had expected that. I had always wanted the impossible, as my mother would say. I wanted the best university, the best job, the best life, and never mind any obstacles in the way. My mother and father had warned me, tried to school my expectations, even as they taught me to aim for the skies.

  Goddamn skies, I said.

  Saúl laughed.

  * * *

  Later, some interminable stretch of time later, I emerged from the darkness to the brilliant glare of indoors, to stark white walls and a circle of masked faces peering at me. Sara had vanished. So had my device, leaving behind a strange void. My mouth felt sticky and dry, and when I tried to speak, to give them my own diagnosis, I could only make a croaking noise, which they ignored.

  The strangers bundled me from one location to the next. When I struggled, they fastened padded cuffs around my wrist and ankles. There were more stabs from needles, more shameful episodes involving catheters and probing, as if I were merely an object to be inspected and repaired. I wanted Sara. I wanted a friend to hold my hand and whisper reassurances in my ear. I never got them.

  As from a distance, I registered what had to be standard prep for surgery. I tried to explain that I understood the procedures. That the bullet was not like the one from Alton. Of course no one paid attention to me. I had never paid attention to my own patients. I vowed that the next time I operated on someone, anyone, I would tell my patient what to expect.

  If there would ever be a next time.

  * * *

  There were more dreams, interspersed with other, more lucid interludes. Once or twice I thought I saw a familiar face. Jacob, several times. Faith Bellaume. Roberta Thompson. Imaginary visions. Wishful ones.

  Eventually I woke and remained awake.

  Sunlight poured through the window, pale and inadequate. Late afternoon, then. The presence of the window itself meant I had been transferred from surgery to a convalescent ward. My right arm was immobilized, with IV drips installed. Nutrients and hydration, I guessed. The dull throb in my right hand would be the needle for the pain medication.

  My ribs ached, too, but that could have been from bruising or even dislocated pain. My gut felt entirely numb, which I suspected meant more severe injuries.

  I was shot. I guess that qualifies as severe.

  “Captain Watson. You’re awake.”

  I suppressed the urge for snark. I was too tired. I hurt too much. “Where am I?”

  My visitor came into view. She was a young white woman, her brown hair slicked back, with one tattoo on her upper arm that came into view when she reached to take my pulse. “You are at the VA hospital, Captain. Do you remember what brought you here?”

  An enemy of the state was my first thought. But I simply shook my head.

  My nurse operated the controls to tilt my bed at an angle, then offered me a cup of water, which I drank. Clear, fresh, blessedly cold, and fr
ee of medication. Her name badge said she was Ellen Kirby, RN. She was glad to see me awake. She had not served in the war, whichever war you chose, but she had a brother stationed in Kentucky and a sister overseas with the Coast Guard. Her manner was pleasant and professional, calculated to set me at ease. I found myself liking her.

  “And,” she added, this time with less assurance, “you have a visitor.”

  “Oh.” My voice came out as a harsh exhalation. “Who is it?”

  But Kirby had vanished. In her place stood a figure dressed in drab and anonymous gray. A woman, I realized belatedly, her blond hair pulled back over a narrow skull. She held a thin tablet in one hand, and she wore a set of earbuds and implants. No lace gloves, but I noticed a wide silver bracelet that glittered with indicator lights.

  “Captain Watson, I’m Special Agent Davidsson. I have several questions for you.”

  She flipped open an ID. It looked official, as far as I could tell, with its badge and photo and a quantity of text in fine print. As if you knew what a genuine ID looked like, said Sara’s mocking voice in memory.

  “Where am I?” I said. “They told me the VA hospital. They didn’t mention which one.”

  Davidsson tucked her ID in her breast pocket. I caught a glimpse of a gun holster underneath. “We thought you knew,” she said. “You’re in Washington, DC. They brought you directly here by Lifestar. We thought that best, under the circumstances.”

  “I can imagine,” I whispered. “What kinds of questions?”

  “Just a standard interview, to confirm your role in recent events.” She granted me a thin smile. “I trust you will cooperate.”

  I nodded, reluctantly. It wasn’t as though I could sucker-punch this woman and make a daring escape through the hospital corridors.

  Agent Davidsson tapped her fingers over her tablet screen and recited her name, mine, and the date. October 29, it was. Yet another clue how much time had passed. She asked me to recite my name, former rank, and military ID. Then she rattled off what had to be a standard formula about this interview taking place under the regulations governing matters of national security. I understood that I would not be granted a lawyer, nor would I discuss the questions or my answers with anyone without proper security clearance.