Текст книги "What Judgments Come"
Автор книги: Dayton Ward
Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
Жанр:
Научная фантастика
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“It does not appear to be serious,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the alarm as she inspected his wound. Reyes managed to retrieve his fallen disruptor as she helped him to his feet, before looking up to see all four Orions lying on the deck, victims of T’Prynn’s formidable marksmanship. “We have to go. Now.”
Even with the siren blaring in the corridor, Reyes still heard the sounds of heavy, running footsteps echoing over deck plates and growing louder. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his thigh, he favored his injured leg and allowed T’Prynn to assist him down the passageway as he looked back the way they had come, waiting for Ganz and his minions to appear.
Come on, you big green son of a …
He felt cool air on his sweat-dampened skin at the same instant his feet all but tripped over the raised threshold of what he knew was the docking port’s pressure hatch. T’Prynn guided him through the entryway, and Reyes looked down to see the familiar gleam of polished duranium deck plating. How long had it been since he had last set foot on the station? How long had he stared at it from one of the Omari-Ekon’s viewing ports?
“Watch out!” he warned, feeling his heart race at the sight of Ganz and at least a dozen followers—only some of whom were Orion—turning the corner in the passageway leading back to the merchant vessel. He felt T’Prynn starting to turn in that direction even as she kept carrying him farther into the station’s service corridor, and her motion allowed him to raise the disruptor in his left hand.
“Reyes!” Ganz bellowed, his face a mask of unrestrained fury. The Orion, rather than stopping at the threshold separating his ship from the station, seemed to have no intention of giving up the chase. Less than ten meters away and still pressing ahead toward the hatchway, he raised the disruptor pistol in his massive green hand and aimed it at Reyes’s face.
Then, everything dissolved into chaos.
Phaser fire pierced the air all around him as Reyes felt himself pulled downward. Streaks of blue-white light flashed over his head, interspersed with the deep howls emitted by disruptor pistols coming from the other direction. T’Prynn lowered him to the deck before scrambling to return fire, though her efforts seemed not to be needed, as Reyes caught sight of at least half a dozen men and women in Starfleet uniforms. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the face of a male Andorian officer he at first did not recognize. Then he realized that this must be Commander ch’Nayla, T’Prynn’s replacement as the station’s intelligence officer.
“Mister Reyes,” he said, adjusting his hold on Reyes so that he might help him move out of the line of fire, “come with me.”
Feeling a fresh twinge of pain in his thigh, Reyes allowed himself to be maneuvered backward by the Andorian even as T’Prynn and other station personnel retreated to positions of nominal cover at the first corridor intersection leading into the station. The Orions appeared to outnumber the Starfleet security detachment and were using their advantage to press their attack, moving forward while laying down a vicious string of covering fire. For his part, Ganz had taken momentary refuge behind the entrance to the docking gangway, leaning out every few seconds to take a shot with his own disruptor.
“Is he out of his mind?” Reyes asked of no one in particular as he shifted his weight off his injured thigh and leaned against the bulkhead for support.
Ch’Nayla, leaning into the corridor to return fire, replied, “It certainly seems that way.”
A shadow fell across the deck plating near Reyes and he turned to see Tim Pennington standing behind him, wielding the portable audiovisual recorder he had seen the man use on several occasions.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Reyes asked.
Appearing slightly out of breath, Pennington offered a knowing grin. “Right place at the wrong time. Story of my life, mate.”
“Mister Pennington,” T’Prynn said from Reyes’s right. “I should have known you would somehow find your way here.”
“Nice to see you, too, Lieutenant,” Pennington replied, before jerking himself back as a disruptor blast tore into the bulkhead behind him.
Another bolt of weapons fire screamed past, much too close, and Reyes recoiled as it struck ch’Nayla where he knelt next to the bulkhead while trying to return fire. Hit in the chest, he was knocked backward and off his feet, collapsing on the deck. One of his teammates rushed to pull him back to cover even as more disruptor bolts filled the narrow passageway.
“Damn it!” Reyes shouted above the din. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this!” Looking to where the security guard—Reyes did not recognize the young ensign—knelt over ch’Nayla, he asked, “Is he all right?”
The ensign shook his head, ducking as more weapons fire sailed overhead. “No, sir. He’s dead.”
From where he stood next to Reyes, trying to lean forward with his recorder in order to capture the firefight, Pennington said, “What the … is that Ganz?”
Angling for a better view, Reyes leaned around the corner to see the muscled Orion advancing from the relative safety of the docking port, his disruptor held up and firing at any target that presented itself. He seemed not to care about the hailstorm of phaser fire hunting him and his men, some of whom were falling victim to the hasty defense being staged by the Starfleet security force.
T’Prynn turned her head toward the journalist, gesturing with her free hand for him to stay behind her. “Mister Pennington, you are in the way. Please—”
“Look out!” the reporter shouted, reaching forward and grabbing the Vulcan’s extended arm and pulling her toward him just as a disruptor bolt slammed into the wall next to her head. Pennington’s movements sent her past him and back around the corner, making him pivot to his left as his momentum carried her after him, and Reyes heard another report as energy once more howled in the corridor. He heard the impact of the shot against soft flesh at the same instant Pennington cried out, the force of the shot sending him tumbling forward into T’Prynn. Something metal or plastic clattered on the deck, and Reyes looked down to see Pennington’s recorder where it had fallen from the journalist’s grip.
Then he cringed again when new weapons fire blasted away a chunk of the bulkhead to his right. He looked up to see Ganz firing at him from the other end of the short passageway. Some of his men lay unmoving on the deck behind him, and still others were running for the docking port and supposed safety aboard the Omari-Ekon, but Ganz was standing his ground. The expression on his face made Reyes wonder if the Orion had taken actual leave of his senses.
Then their eyes met, and any lingering skepticism vanished as Ganz released an enraged snarl and stepped into the corridor, moving forward with menacing purpose. “I’ve been waiting a long time to do this, Reyes,” he said, bringing up his weapon to take aim.
“Me, too,” Reyes replied, pulling his own disruptor into view and firing the instant he could sight down its length and see nothing but the Orion’s face. The energy bolt, discharged at the weapon’s highest setting from a distance of less than twenty meters, took Ganz’s head and most of his torso on its way into the wall behind him. Soft, bloody shrapnel painted the bulkhead around the point of impact, and what little remained of his body lingered upright for an additional few seconds. It then fell backward, dropping to the floor with a sickening, heavy thud.
Seconds later, Lieutenant Jackson and two of his security officers rushed forward, covering the other fallen Orions and verifying that no threats remained. Jackson was speaking into a communicator, and Reyes heard something about reinforcements, sealing off access to the Omari-Ekon, and requesting an emergency medical team for the injured personnel. Hearing that, Reyes turned to where T’Prynn was huddling over Pennington, who lay unconscious on the deck with a ghastly wound covering most of his right arm and shoulder.
“T’Prynn,” he said, “is he all right?”
The Vulcan shook her head, and Reyes thought he heard the note of concern in her voice. “I do not know.”
Sagging until his back rested against the bulkhead, Reyes allowed himself to slide to a sitting position on the deck. He bit back the pain from his own injury, at the same time allowing the first wave of relief to wash over him. After his long exile with the Klingons and the Orions, he was free, at least in a relative sense. There was no way to know what might next be in store for him, but at the moment he did not care.
A moment later, he looked up to see Lieutenant Jackson walking toward him, pulling his attention from his fallen crewmates long enough to offer a small, grim smile as he nodded in greeting.
“Welcome aboard, Mister Reyes.”
27
Amid the hive of perpetual activity that was Starbase 47’s operations center, Admiral Nogura watched the image of the Omari-Ekon as displayed on one of the room’s oversized viewscreens. The Orion vessel had just disconnected from its docking port along the station’s secondary hull and was now maneuvering away, rotating on its axis as it took up a course for open space.
“Good riddance,” Nogura said. Turning away from the viewer, he looked to where the station’s executive officer, Commander Jon Cooper, stood at a nearby workstation. “Commander, keep an eye on that ship until it’s out of sensor range. I don’t really care where they’re going, just so long as they go.”
Smiling at the comment, Cooper nodded. “Aye, aye, sir. Do you think that’s the last we’ll be seeing of them?”
“I highly doubt it,” Nogura replied. “They found a way to ingratiate themselves to me once before. Something tells me they’re not above trying it again.” It would have to be something spectacular, he decided, for him to consider allowing the Orion ship to regain the favored status it once had enjoyed. With T’Prynn having seen to the deletion from the Omari-Ekon’s navigational logs of any useful information pertaining to the possible location of the Mirdonyae artifacts, Nogura could conceive of no reason he might entertain the idea of allowing the Orion ship to return.
But, he reminded himself, you said that once before.
“There’s always the chance they’ll come looking for me,” said a voice from behind him, and Nogura looked over his shoulder to where Diego Reyes stood, flanked by two members of the station’s security detail. “But something tells me they’ll probably just cut their losses and call it a day.”
Nogura nodded as he turned to face Reyes. “Were I in their position, I’d likely do the same thing. Neera has an easy scapegoat in Ganz, and you did her a favor when you tied off that particular loose end.”
“Happy to be of service,” Reyes replied, his expression flat and unreadable.
Nogura gestured for Reyes and his security escort to accompany him as he began walking toward his office. “Given that the Federation now has every reason and justification to make life absolute hell for every Orion vessel in the quadrant, I’m thinking Neera and her bosses are more than happy to lay everything at Ganz’s feet.” In addition to Ganz being killed, several of his subordinates had been stunned and taken into custody by members of Lieutenant Jackson’s security detail. They had languished in the brig for more than a day while Nogura decided what to do with them. It had been his first impulse to have them all tried under Federation law for Commander ch’Nayla’s death as well as those of two security officers, along with the injuries to Reyes, Tim Pennington, and other members of the detail.
The reality of the situation, Nogura knew, was that such a trial would only serve to shed unwanted light on the reasons for the incident in the first place, including the acts of subterfuge and espionage Reyes had conducted with Starfleet authorization aboard the Omari-Ekon. After consulting with Lieutenant Commander Holly Moyer in order to get the Starfleet JAG view of the situation, Nogura had come to the reluctant conclusion that the best for all involved parties was to see to it that the matter was handled as quickly and quietly as possible. The Orion Syndicate would also want to avoid public attention, so attributing everything to Ganz, his wounded pride, and his insatiable need for vengeance against Reyes in response to any perceived slights made for a nice, tidy end to the entire odious affair. Starfleet’s position was that it was easier to accept such a premise knowing that Reyes had been successful in obtaining the navigational log information from the Omari-Ekon’s computer.
Reyes said, “I don’t think it’s a simple case of blame game. If Neera really was pulling Ganz’s strings, then there’s no way she would have sanctioned sending an armed boarding party to the station after me.” He paused, frowning as though recalling a memory. “You should have seen the look on Ganz’s face there at the end. He was livid, and wanted my head on a plate, right then and there, and by any means necessary.”
“That’s pretty much what Neera said when Lieutenant Jackson questioned her,” Nogura replied. “According to her, she laid on the tears and came across as little more than the helpless moll, forced to do his bidding. She had no idea that we suspected the truth about her relationship with Ganz.” There had been isolated reports—some dating back more than a century—of other female Orions holding positions of power within criminal organizations similar to the one supposedly run by Ganz. In several of those examples, the females chose to downplay their role, allowing a subordinate—almost always a male—to be the group’s public face. This carried with it the obvious benefit of allowing the figurehead manager to be the target of competition, ridicule, and even the odd assassination attempt. The dynamic also was useful for situations where blame needed to be shifted away from the organization’s true leader.
“You mean Neera didn’t try any of those tricks on Jackson that Orion women do so well?” Reyes asked. “I’ve experienced that sort of thing firsthand, and I can tell you that resisting their charms is harder than you might think.”
“I can imagine,” Nogura said. “I observed Jackson’s interview with her, and she did try to wile him with her charms. She played up how grateful she was that we’d taken care of Ganz for her, as she’d been scared of him and all sorts of other nonsense.” He shook his head. “There was a minute there when I thought I’d have to intervene, but Jackson kept everything under control. Her little secret’s safe, though I expect she’ll have a tough time finding a dependable replacement for Ganz, given the fate he suffered and how quickly Neera and everyone else threw him to the lions.” He shook his head. “Her problem, not ours.”
Nogura led the way into his office, instructing the two security guards that they could wait outside before indicating that Reyes should follow him. Clasping his hands behind his back, he waited until the doors closed before saying, “By the way, I haven’t yet had a chance to thank you for what you did over there. I know how much danger you were in just by being there, but helping us placed you at even greater risk. I appreciate that you accepted that risk on our behalf.”
Reyes shrugged. “Old habits die hard, I suppose. I just hope it’s worth it, for ch’Nayla’s sake, and Pennington, Hetzlein, and Gianetti, and everyone else who’s died or been hurt since we found that damned meta-genome.”
“With any luck,” Nogura replied, “we’ll know something soon.” Even as he stood here with Reyes, Lieutenants T’Prynn and Xiong were working with the navigational data Reyes had secured from the Omari-Ekon.
“I can hardly wait,” Reyes said, and Nogura heard the tinge of sarcasm in the other man’s voice. “By the way, I want to thank you for simply confining me to guest quarters. You’d have been right to just toss me in the brig until someone’s ready to take me to Earth.”
Though he had considered doing exactly that, Nogura had decided such treatment was not needed. He did not believe Reyes to be any sort of flight risk, and keeping him under guard in guest quarters would be sufficient to contain him until such time as his final disposition—be it transport to the New Zealand penal colony on Earth as per the original sentence from his court-martial, or something else—was determined. “It seemed the least we could do, given the circumstances. I trust you’re comfortable in your new quarters?”
“Best sleep I’ve had in months,” Reyes replied. “It’s nice, being able to go to bed and not have to worry about maybe being dead before you wake up.”
Nogura chuckled at that. “I can imagine.” Gesturing to where Reyes had been injured during the firefight that climaxed his escape from the Omari-Ekon, he asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Zeke—that is, Doctor Fisher—fixed me up. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be sore for a few days, but that’s about it.” Reyes’s expression changed to one of concern. “Don’t know if I can say the same about Pennington.”
Nodding, Nogura released a sigh. “What happened to him is unfortunate, but I have every faith in Doctor Fisher.” Unlike Reyes and others who had been injured during the firefight, Pennington had been wounded much more severely. According to Fisher’s last report, the damage to the journalist’s arm and shoulder were such that the doctor was still considering amputation and prosthetic replacement. “I’ve also recommended to Starfleet that he be awarded a civilian citation for valor. What he did probably saved your life, and T’Prynn’s.”
“If I know Pennington,” Reyes said, “he’ll likely offer a polite refusal. He’s a journalist, through and through. He’d rather report the story than be a part of it, even if the last couple of years make it seem the opposite’s true.” Pausing to look around the office, he asked, “I guess I have to wonder what’s next for me?”
Nogura had of course been considering the question since receiving the report from Jackson that T’Prynn and Reyes had made it off the Omari-Ekon. “There are a lot of questions, of course. You’ll be debriefed in full about your time with the Klingons and the Orions. Your association with the Klingons in particular has a lot of people at Headquarters calling for your head. Many of them don’t buy that you were acting to protect Starfleet and this station as much as possible given your situation, rather than actively colluding with the Klingons.”
“Anybody who wants to call me a traitor is going to have to come out here and tell me to my face,” Reyes snapped, the first hint of bitterness or anger over his current status Nogura had seen since the disgraced officer’s return. “Everything I did was to protect as many lives as possible. That’s all I’ve ever done. I even got court-martialed and convicted for it, if you recall.”
“You were court-martialed for disobeying orders and violating your Starfleet oath,” Nogura countered, allowing a slight edge to creep into his voice.
Reyes stood his ground. “My oath was to protect Federation citizens and obey all lawful orders from my superiors and our duly elected civilian leaders. There’s nothing in there about safeguarding dirty little secrets or acting out of political expediency to cover my or anyone else’s ass. I said basically the same thing at my trial, and I stand by it.”
Saying nothing for a moment, Nogura regarded the former commodore before offering a slow nod of appreciation. “I know you do. While I can’t officially condone your actions, I can respect them, because I believe you always were acting with noble purpose. Whether anyone agrees with either of us is something we’ll have to wait to find out.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t take the time to tell you this before.”
He had chosen to refrain from interacting with Reyes during his pretrial confinement and court-martial, to avoid even the perception of attempting in any way to influence the proceedings. The result was that he had not been afforded the opportunity to simply talk to the man. He had never suspected Reyes of being a traitor, or even of acting with malicious intent when deciding to disobey orders and allow Pennington to publish the story that had brought the Shedai—if not the truth behind the secrets and power they possessed—to the public’s attention. Likewise, Nogura believed him still to be a man of character and honor, as demonstrated by his prompt decision to assist T’Prynn with the espionage she had conducted. The question now was whether anyone else stalking the halls of power at Starfleet Command would see things in similar fashion.
I probably shouldn’t hold my breath.
“The debriefings are liable to take a while,” Nogura said. “We’ll do our best to see to it that you’re as comfortable as possible. Is there anything in particular you need?”
Reyes shook his head. “No, Admiral, thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve already done for me.” He stopped, his eyes turning downward to stare at the floor for a moment. When he spoke again it was without raising his head to meet Nogura’s gaze. “Can you assist me with getting in touch with Captain Desai?”
Having expected that query, Nogura nevertheless was uncomfortable now that Reyes had given it voice. “Of course. We’ll get word to her that you’re no longer with the Orions, but you understand that you’re still technically a prisoner. There’s nothing I can do about that until after you’ve been properly debriefed.”
His expression once more growing impassive, Reyes drew himself up before nodding. “I understand.” Then, as if deciding there was nothing more to be said, he added, “Thank you for your time, Admiral.”
Nogura said nothing as Reyes turned and exited the office, waiting for his security detail to take up positions in front of and behind him as they escorted him back to his quarters. For the first time, the admiral realized he felt sorrow for the former commodore, who at one time may well have been fueled by the knowledge that Rana Desai, the woman he loved, might still be waiting for him once he navigated the obstacles separating them. That this appeared no longer to be the case probably had done nothing but increase Reyes’s sense of isolation. His life and career already in virtual ruin, he had no one but a handful of steadfast friends on whom to lean. Otherwise, Diego Reyes, without doubt, had to feel utterly alone.
And for that, Nogura thought, I’m truly sorry.
28
“My arm hurts.”
The persistent, throbbing ache Tim Pennington sensed in his right arm flared enough to rouse him yet again from fitful sleep. Lying flat on his back, he grunted in irritation at his inability to do little more than doze, rather than enjoying anything resembling restful slumber. Even beyond the pain in his arm, there was the simple matter that the hospital bed was anything but comfortable. He was unable to shift onto his right side and slide his arm beneath his pillow, situating himself as he had since childhood. His current position was likely to be the best he could manage for a while.
Wonderful.
Closing his eyes as the dull pain continued to nag him, Pennington became more aware of the ambient sounds permeating his hospital room: conversations held in hushed tones drifting from the corridor, the low hum of passing antigrav carts, even the dull, two-stroke tone of his own pulse as interpreted and amplified by his biobed’s array of sensors and status indicators. Listening to the melodic chorus of the machines overseeing his care, he began to sense his own body mocking him, as each beat of his heart seemed to pulse in rhythm with the pain from his arm.
Well, that’s just damned annoying.
The sound of his room door sliding open was followed by a shift in the light beyond his closed eyelids, and Pennington blinked as he raised his head, squinting to clear his vision. Beyond the foot of his bed, a silhouette moved against a curtain of white illumination, which disappeared as the door closed once more. The room returned to its dim scales of gray, though he still could discern the figure as it moved toward him.
“Hello?” Pennington called out, noting how raspy his voice sounded.
“So, you’re awake,” replied a deep voice he recognized as belonging to Ezekiel Fisher even before the physician moved closer to the right side of his bed. “Take a drink. You’ve been asleep for quite a while.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.” Pennington leaned toward Fisher and the small cup the doctor held in his hand, grasping the tip of its thin straw between his teeth. The water flooded his mouth with cool relief, prompting him to take several gulps of it before releasing the straw. Leaning back, he felt the liquid’s chill as it coursed down his throat.
“How are you feeling?” Fisher asked, an almost paternal expression gracing his weathered features as he set the cup on a stand next to the bed.
“My arm hurts,” Pennington replied.
Fisher smiled. “I heard you the first time. That’s why I came in.” He paused, glancing toward the middle of the bed. “Which arm?”
“That’s not very damn funny,” Pennington said, scowling.
Holding up a hand, the doctor shook his head. “I’m not trying to be, son. It’s a legitimate question given your situation. Do you remember our last conversation?”
Pennington paused for a moment, attempting to sift through his grogginess and pain in order to recall when he might last have spoken to the physician. “I think so. It was after I was shot.”
“Yes, it was,” Fisher said, nodding. “You were brought to the hospital from the docking platform, near the Orion ship.”
Memories came flooding back into Pennington’s consciousness, accompanied by another series of dull throbs in his shoulder. “You took my arm.”
“I did,” Fisher said, his eyes now betraying a hint of sadness. “I took your arm.”
Closing his eyes, Pennington swallowed as his throat once more felt dry. “I remember.” He turned his head, opening his eyes again as he looked to his shoulder. The arm, which had been in enough discomfort to awaken him—and in which he still felt that odd, constant ache—was gone. His shoulder seemed oddly misshapen to him, a sensation enhanced by the fact that the empty right sleeve of his blue hospital tunic appeared to have been tucked neatly behind his back.
“The disruptor bolt damn near destroyed your shoulder,” Fisher said after a moment, “and damaged a great deal of the surrounding tissue. There was no way I could regenerate or repair what you would’ve needed fast enough to save your arm. I had to make a choice. I’m very sorry.”
“No, Doctor,” Pennington said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “No apologies needed. I’m sure you did everything you could to patch me up.” He shrugged. “This will just take some … getting used to, is all.” As he spoke the words, he realized his gaze remained fixated on his right shoulder, and the space where his arm should be resting beside him on the mattress.
“This doesn’t have to be permanent, you know,” the doctor said. “Despite the damage, you’re a perfect candidate for a bio-synthetic replacement. After some extended sessions with our dermal and muscle tissue regenerators, it’ll definitely be an option worth exploring.”
“Of course,” Pennington said, his voice drifting as his thoughts turned to the memory of a veteran reporter he had known at the start of his Federation News Service career. Despite the elder journalist’s byline of Garold Hicks, the news staff had called him “Old Dane” for reasons Pennington never did learn. Old Dane had been as spry and resourceful as reporters one-third his age, and among the tales he heard Hicks relate time and again was how the man had lost his left arm and leg while covering a conflict on a planet being considered for Federation member-ship—an application that subsequently was denied once Old Dane’s reports went live on FNS feeds. He regaled every new member of the bureau staff with his account, ending it each time by saying, “That piece cost me an arm and a leg—but it cost that planet a hell of a lot more!” Pennington never noticed Old Dane’s replacement limbs slowing him down, and that remembrance now seemed to offer a measure of emotional comfort, if only for a moment.
As for physical comfort, Pennington admitted to himself that he could use that, too. “Right now, Doc, I’d be happy for something to ease this pain.”
Fisher offered a knowing nod. “I understand, but the best I can do is to give you something to help you sleep. The pain you’re feeling isn’t real. It’s all in your head.”
Wincing at the words, Pennington lolled his head back on his pillow. “You think I’m just imagining this? It hurts like hell.”
“That’s not what I meant,” the doctor replied, his tone one that Pennington recognized as intended to soothe him. “Your neurological circuitry is adapting to your loss. It’s attempting to rewire itself—to work around what it can no longer control. Now, we can try a few sessions with a neural neutralizer, or I can go in there with a cortical stimulator and desensitize a region of your thalamus, but I don’t want to try any of those solutions before you decide whether you want to try biosynthesis. You might feel better, but you need all the synaptic activity you can get if you want that new arm to work.”
Despite a momentary wave of disappointment he felt sweeping across him, Pennington accepted the explanation. “Okay, you got me.” Then, forcing a smile, he added, “I mean, I can’t bloody well type with just one arm, can I?”
Fisher chuckled at that. “You input your stories manually?”
“Sometimes,” Pennington replied, shrugging again. “When the mood strikes, or I’m not in too much of a hurry.”
“Well, don’t be in too much of a hurry here, either,” Fisher said. “It’ll take a little time, but not as much as you might think. We can begin some of the scanning work as soon as you feel up to it, and when you want to sleep some more, I can give you more for that, too.”
Pennington once more glanced down at his arm, or where his arm should have been. Was it odd that he seemed to feel no resentment at having lost the limb, either as a consequence of the firefight or due to Fisher’s inability to treat the injuries he had suffered? Part of him felt as though he should be angry and should be wanting to lash out at something or someone, but as quickly as such thoughts manifested themselves, they seemed to dissolve of their own volition. Was he in denial about what had happened to him, or had he already begun to accept it without so much as a token protest or outburst at the unfairness of his current situation?
