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“HOW LONG BEFORE WE can resume the surgeries?”
Doctor Campbell knew she was treading on dangerous ground with her persistent questions. The tension inside the Citadel’s medical facility had worsened of late, especially after the Council Chamber bombing.
Ethan frowned, irritated by the interruption. He pretended to be engrossed by his digital clipboard. He was aware, as was the doctor, of the nearby presence of their supervisor.
She sighed in frustration at his mouse-like subservience. He seemed perfectly incapable, or unwilling, to do any without the Councilor’s permission.
Maybe I should turn you into a Tracker. At least you’d finally have a spine.
Councilor Sterne overheard her insolent tone—as she’d intended. He left his vantage point by the floor-to-ceiling windows and their view of the storm-wracked downtown. Dusk had arrived early under gray skies and heavy rain, and at least a third of the Enclave remained without power.
“Are you worried the Givers will have no further need of your services?” The Councilor strode across the polished floor to stand on the opposite side of the operating table. “Or, more to the point, that they may have lost patience with your unreliable production in recent weeks?”
A tremor of anxiety shot through the doctor. She glanced involuntarily at the dull black walls of the Givers’ private chamber. It was rare for the aliens to leave their inner sanctum—a citadel within the Citadel—and privately, Doctor Campbell preferred it that way.
“You must mean my ninety-five percent success rate.” She camouflaged her trepidation behind a façade of professional indignation. She was the best at her job, and she knew it. But Sterne’s whims could be unpredictable, and the Givers were just so . . . alien.
“And the other five percent have been unusually spectacular failures,” Sterne replied with a condescending look. The doctor wished she could wipe the smirk from his smug face. “Never, in the recorded history of the Enclave, has it been necessary to dispatch Trackers to hunt down malfunctioning units. You’ve changed that.”
The doctor leaned against the edge of the operating table, her posture deliberately nonchalant. “Your memory’s a little selective, Councilor.” The surgical lights gave her countenance an odd glow. “I’m also responsible for creating the successful units which tracked them down.”
Ethan coughed politely into his hand, interrupting their dance of mutual dislike. “Sir, if I may? The other members of the Council will arrive soon. Perhaps we should adjourn to the conference room to prepare.”
Adjourn? She rolled her eyes at his pretentiousness. Are you trying to impress the boss? Your groveling is pathetic and obvious.
Sterne nodded. “After our tragic loses in the Chamber disaster, this evening’s gathering will be a delicate matter. Navigating the changes will require some finesse.”
He smirked across the surgical table, relishing the chance to remind the doctor of her lower role. She knew his methods. “You may finish sterilizing your operating theater, Maggie, and then you may leave. The Givers have no pressing need for your presence this evening.”
He spun on his heel and strode through the heavy door which separated the medical facility from the conference room. His obsequious assistant followed dutifully in his wake. Neither looked back as the door closed.
Doctor Campbell was alone again in her medical domain, fuming at Sterne’s patronizing use of her given name.
“As you wish, Councilor,” she muttered under her breath, despising them both.