remembered a bad dream about swinging on something –
Urgon Htoth Ur Hunn, BattleMaster of the Fourth Legion.
What the fuck? Dave tried to shake the thought from his head. He remembered something about a TV being on in the crew quarters. A game, stalled on the Xbox. Maybe some sort of acid flashback? Man, it’d been years, but they said it could still come back at you years later.
‘So he’s good to go, Professor?’
It was the soldier. No, it was the new navy guy, Dave reminded himself. His voice was a strange train wreck of a Midwestern accent buried under a surfer’s drawl. A voice like that, this guy got around. A replacement for the navy guy Dave had broken, he was dressed in the same digital jungle camouflage, but with a pistol strapped to his thigh. Dent hadn’t been wearing no pistol. Dr Pradesh turned away from his confrontation with Nurse Fletcher, letting the new guy feel the full force of his disapproval.
‘Well, he is good to get out of bed, if that’s what you mean. But I don’t want him leaving the hospital or even the ward until we find out who was responsible for putting him in here when he should have been sleeping off his drunkenness in a cell at the police station. You might not think it important, but I am trying to run a medical facility here, and I cannot have it descend into some sort of half-arsed pantomime of a Persian bazaar. Mr Cooper –’
‘Hooper,’ Contrite Dave said, getting less contrite by the minute. ‘Dave Hooper.’
Pradesh carried on without missing a beat: ‘– will not be leaving until we find out how he made his way in here.’
And with that he turned the full force of both turban and beard on Contrite Dave.
‘And rest assured your employer’s health insurance will be paying for every minute you lie there wasting our precious time and resources.’
‘Hey, that’s cool,’ said Contrite Dave, who didn’t want any trouble.
The navy guy spoke up again, apparently not at all intimidated by the superior attitude of this high-talking asshole with his head in a towel. ‘Doc, if he’s good to go, I have orders and authorisation to take him, right now.’
Uh oh , thought Dave, his heart sinking. He’d really fucked up that other navy guy, and now he was in the shit. Not just with the government or the fucking IRS but this time with the navy. Fuck. That was probably worse than the IRS.
‘Hey, I’m a civilian,’ Dave said.
The navy surfer bro rotated his head a notch to the left, still leaning on the doorjamb as if they were at the bar playing pool. ‘Dude, seriously? You can pretend to have a choice about this, but you will be coming with me. On foot or on your ass.’
He spoke calmly and steadily with a laid-back Californian vibe that sounded as if it had been tacked on to the Midwest inflection like a jerry-built porch. But there was no mistaking the intent behind it, as though putting a couple of rounds in some dude was no big deal. Dave didn’t doubt this new guy would shoot him without a second thought. He wasn’t making threats; he was just explaining how it was gonna be in his weird soft-but-hard voice.
All Dave wanted to do was get out of bed, get out of this hospital gown that left his ass hanging in the breeze, find Vince Martinelli or somebody – anybody – from the platform, and sort out exactly what had happened. But nobody was interested in what he wanted. Pradesh left off his argument with Nurse Fletcher to take up this new one with . . . Allen. The navy guy’s name tag read allen , and he had stripes on his collar. Dave frowned. He knew that without having to look. But he didn’t remember having seen it and noted it before.
Nurse Fletcher, meanwhile increased the volume of her objections about Dave’s injuries to Professor Pradesh, or rather to the back of his duck-egg-blue turban. The navy guy, Allen, glanced at the cupboard Dave had destroyed by – what? Jedi Knight Force-punching it? Allen stood with arms folded, refusing to
Urgon Htoth Ur Hunn, BattleMaster of the Fourth Legion.
What the fuck? Dave tried to shake the thought from his head. He remembered something about a TV being on in the crew quarters. A game, stalled on the Xbox. Maybe some sort of acid flashback? Man, it’d been years, but they said it could still come back at you years later.
‘So he’s good to go, Professor?’
It was the soldier. No, it was the new navy guy, Dave reminded himself. His voice was a strange train wreck of a Midwestern accent buried under a surfer’s drawl. A voice like that, this guy got around. A replacement for the navy guy Dave had broken, he was dressed in the same digital jungle camouflage, but with a pistol strapped to his thigh. Dent hadn’t been wearing no pistol. Dr Pradesh turned away from his confrontation with Nurse Fletcher, letting the new guy feel the full force of his disapproval.
‘Well, he is good to get out of bed, if that’s what you mean. But I don’t want him leaving the hospital or even the ward until we find out who was responsible for putting him in here when he should have been sleeping off his drunkenness in a cell at the police station. You might not think it important, but I am trying to run a medical facility here, and I cannot have it descend into some sort of half-arsed pantomime of a Persian bazaar. Mr Cooper –’
‘Hooper,’ Contrite Dave said, getting less contrite by the minute. ‘Dave Hooper.’
Pradesh carried on without missing a beat: ‘– will not be leaving until we find out how he made his way in here.’
And with that he turned the full force of both turban and beard on Contrite Dave.
‘And rest assured your employer’s health insurance will be paying for every minute you lie there wasting our precious time and resources.’
‘Hey, that’s cool,’ said Contrite Dave, who didn’t want any trouble.
The navy guy spoke up again, apparently not at all intimidated by the superior attitude of this high-talking asshole with his head in a towel. ‘Doc, if he’s good to go, I have orders and authorisation to take him, right now.’
Uh oh , thought Dave, his heart sinking. He’d really fucked up that other navy guy, and now he was in the shit. Not just with the government or the fucking IRS but this time with the navy. Fuck. That was probably worse than the IRS.
‘Hey, I’m a civilian,’ Dave said.
The navy surfer bro rotated his head a notch to the left, still leaning on the doorjamb as if they were at the bar playing pool. ‘Dude, seriously? You can pretend to have a choice about this, but you will be coming with me. On foot or on your ass.’
He spoke calmly and steadily with a laid-back Californian vibe that sounded as if it had been tacked on to the Midwest inflection like a jerry-built porch. But there was no mistaking the intent behind it, as though putting a couple of rounds in some dude was no big deal. Dave didn’t doubt this new guy would shoot him without a second thought. He wasn’t making threats; he was just explaining how it was gonna be in his weird soft-but-hard voice.
All Dave wanted to do was get out of bed, get out of this hospital gown that left his ass hanging in the breeze, find Vince Martinelli or somebody – anybody – from the platform, and sort out exactly what had happened. But nobody was interested in what he wanted. Pradesh left off his argument with Nurse Fletcher to take up this new one with . . . Allen. The navy guy’s name tag read allen , and he had stripes on his collar. Dave frowned. He knew that without having to look. But he didn’t remember having seen it and noted it before.
Nurse Fletcher, meanwhile increased the volume of her objections about Dave’s injuries to Professor Pradesh, or rather to the back of his duck-egg-blue turban. The navy guy, Allen, glanced at the cupboard Dave had destroyed by – what? Jedi Knight Force-punching it? Allen stood with arms folded, refusing to
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