“Dr. Warner, you are asking us to believe an unbelievable story.” The spokesman for the rebels, a misplaced Dubliner who said his name was Phil, had downed half his pint in two long swallows before greeting Dinnie when she first approached him. Now he drained his glass and shoved it toward his partner, who was manning the pitcher while ignoring Dinnie.
She didn’t think the partner was really ignoring her, but she made an effort to play their game, and directed her comments only to Phil. “I know it’s hard to accept,” she said, needing to shout to be heard over the live band howling on the stage of the busy pub. “That’s why I went through the danger of smuggling the data out.” She tapped the storage chip with an angry forefinger and glared at the arrogant fellow across the table from her. It had taken weeks to get this meeting set up. The situation had morphed into the biggest event the human race had yet seen, and the rebels sent this joker? She was risking her life and they weren’t even taking her seriously.
“I swear it’s all true,” she went on, “and Feldman is planning on ways to use the travelers and their technology for Sun’s, and his own, benefit. I suggest that you take these data to one of your physicists. I’m sure you have one or two working for you. It needs to be someone with the knowledge and experience to understand what these data are saying.”
“Oh, aye, that’s true enough.” Phil sat back, with one arm resting on the back of his booth, and regarded Dinnie from under greasy brown bangs. It annoyed her that he didn’t have to shout to be heard. “It might help your case if you could produce a piece of this equipment you’ve been talking about. A probe, the time machine, the wee green men ... ?” The hand on the booth waved in a nonchalant circle, and Pitcher Bloke snickered.
“They’re as human as you and I.” Dinnie sighed and sat back into the booth. She’d done her best, and what she’d done was enough to get her executed. She shivered, her hands twitching toward the chip. Phil reached it before her, tossing it into the air and catching it. Dinnie watched him, her heart pounding with booming pain.
Pitcher Bloke surprised her when he spoke, his accent marking him as British. “We’ll examine the data thoroughly, Dr. Warner. What you’re saying happened is not probable, but I will admit that it’s possible.” He held out his hand and Phil gave him the chip. He slipped into a pocket without a glance.
Phil grinned at Dinnie, salacious and dangerous all at once. “If you get more information, let us know. Otherwise, it’s best you forget this conversation happened.”
Dinnie nodded, holding her hands closed in tight fists to hide her shaking. In over my head, and there’s no way out but through.
Angels and saints protect me.
~~~
Somehow, Moira knew the rocking had stopped, but dizziness kept her floating even as she tried to open her eyes. Mr. Green. Memory came flooding back, and she came to with a gasp and shock of pain. But the pain didn’t matter, because her eyes showed her it was true. Mr. Green was next to her, kneeling outside the passenger door, reaching to loosen the restraint that held her in place.
The pain kept her still. “You came.” That seemed to be the only thing her mind could process.
He moved the restraint, slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Yes. Can you walk, Moira? It's just a few feet. I can help, but the monitors will be suspicious if I carry you.”
She gripped his arm and sat up, but stopped as pain lanced through her stomach. She wanted to scream, but that would have hurt more. Instead, she moaned, a sound forced out beyond her control.
He gasped. “Jesus! How do I help you?”
“I can do it,” she said. “Just slowly. Please, just slowly.”
He helped her turn and slide her legs outside the car. She sat a moment on the edge of the seat, her hands on his chest, head bowed, waiting for the pain to recede back to a deep ache. When she thought she could move again, she nodded at him. “Help me up. Slow.”
It felt like a chain was hooked to opposite sides of her stomach and was pulling, stretching her past endurance. Her whole body shook, her legs nearly collapsing. It was impossible to stand straight and Mr. Green stepped close to her, his arms around her, holding her upright. She wrapped her arms around his waist, moaning.
“One step, Moira. This way.”
She scuffed her foot forward and he continued to talk her through it, one step at a time. She focused on his voice and her feet, on each step forward at his command. He walked backwards, guiding her, holding her up. He stopped and issued a “door open” command, but the mechanical voice of the monitor stopped them.
“Do you need assistance?”
“Nah.” Mr. Green sounded incongruously nonchalant. “She just had too much to drink. Right, love?”
“Yeah,” Moira managed to gasp. “Too much ...”
The door opened, and they continued a few slow feet to a lift. “Second floor,” Mr. Green said, holding her closer, taking her weight, keeping her upright. “Just a little further,” he whispered.
It hurt too much to nod, but she shuffled with him into the lift. As they rose to the next floor, she took a careful, deep breath, relieved to have lungs full of air. Too soon, the lift stopped and she had to move again, aware only of a thin, blue carpet under her feet as she moved with Mr. Green into the hall. An odor of cheap antiseptic and pesticide made her breathe shallow through her mouth. He kept an arm around her waist, half carrying her to a door two down from the lift. She leaned against him, feeling his rustling movements as he fumbled a cardkey from his pocket and swiped it in the lock. She closed her eyes, concentrating on that movement, on the soft fabric of his sweatshirt, and the touch of his body against hers. He was really here.
Once inside, he picked her up. She bit back a moan, clinging to his neck. His walk caused dizzy nausea to grip her, but at last he stopped and lowered her onto a bed. She curled around her stomach, gasping into the pillow. He lay a blanket over her and she felt his fingers, gentle on her head.
“I'm going to get a med kit,” he said. “I'll be right back.”
She nodded, but he was already gone. She could hear his movements, opening and closing cabinets in another room. It hurt to raise her head, but she studied what she could see of the room. She lay on a red blanket, and over the edge of the bed was more of the thin, blue carpet. A dresser stood against the opposite wall, its top cluttered with socks, a docking station and a Pad. A bong lay on its side in the corner between the dresser and the door to a bathroom. Mr. Green came through that door with quick strides, placing the soft med container on the floor as he sat with gentle care on the bed.
She glanced up at him, struck by the quiet, haunted look on his face as he gazed at her. His mouth was tight as he reached to move her hair back from her ear. She flushed from head to toe as she remembered how it was injured, and her hand lifted to cover the ear in automatic protest. “Don't look at it,” she said, closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to see his face.
“I need to treat it,” he said. He was whispering, his fingers stroking her head, but not going near the ear. “It needs to be cleaned, you've got an infection starting.”
She flushed hot with humiliation. “Please ...” But she moved her hand to cover her eyes, wiping away the tears that welled up.
“It's all right, Moira,” she heard him murmur, along with the tearing sound of a sterile packet being opened. “I'll be careful.”
He was, too, although she hissed at the stinging medicine. She kept her eyes covered, his gentle touch a sharp contrast to the memory of Wayland's bite and probing tongue. That contrast made her cry harder, tears escaping the hand that covered her face.
Mr. Green's distraught voice broke through. “I'm sorry, dear. I'll be done soon, and it won't hurt anymore.”
“No,” she gasped. “It's okay. You're not hurting me.” That wasn't quite true, of course, but the pain was not his fault, and it wasn't why she was crying, either. But she couldn't force herself to tell him how it happened.
At last, he stopped and fumbled around in the kit. She sensed he'd bent down near her face, his fingers tickling her head. He spoke quietly. “This wasn't your fault, Moira. Whoever did this is a monster. Don't let yourself feel ashamed about it.” His fingers continued to stroke her head. “I won't ask you what happened, but you know you can tell me, if you want to. You know how I feel about you, Moira. Something like this makes no difference at all.”
His words caused more tears to come, but she stayed silent.
He sat up. “I want to put some Nu-skin on it, but I'm not an expert at this. Do you want me to try?”
She nodded. “If you think it needs it.”
“I think it does. You'll have to be as still as you can.” A teasing lilt entered his voice. “It would be best if your ears match, as much as possible.”
She nodded again and tried to relax, taking a deep breath, but wincing at the pain this brought to her stomach. Mr. Green hesitated and she waved a few fingers at him. “I'll be still.”
He took his time, his touch light. She felt the tickle of the Nu-skin as it adhered to her ear, and the nano-cells embedded in its polymers sought out the ends of her damaged tissue. Mr. Green's concern was primarily cosmetic. The Nu-skin would heal the injured tissue, but a careless placement could leave noticeable wrinkles or creases. At this point, Moira didn't much care about that, but she knew she might care later.
What did 'later' mean for her, now? For Mr. Green? If they were caught, he could go to prison. He'd risked everything to help her.
At last, he sighed and sat back, hands resting in his lap. Moira glanced out of the side of her eye. “Done?”
He shrugged, then took a penlight out of his pocket and examined his work. “I think it's okay.” He stroked her head.
Moira kept her eyes on the floor. “When he showed up at school, I was trapped.” She whispered the words to the air in front of her. On her head, Mr. Green's fingers stilled. He didn't say anything, but after a moment, he started stroking her again. She continued. “I don't know what was wrong with me. I just couldn't think. I could hardly move. I did what he said. I had a chance to leave a message with Missy, but that was all.”
“She told me,” Mr. Green said. “The minute I drove up.”
Moira squeezed her eyes tight. “He was going to marry me off. To this awful, awful man. That's who hurt me. Because I protested. He punched me in the stomach and he ... he ...” her hand jerked toward her ear as a flood of humiliation washed over her again, at the thought of his tongue licking her. That was almost worse than the bite. I own you, that lick had said. You are mine to use as I wish. She shuddered with the strength of the fury and shame battling within her. She'd been so damn helpless.
“He hit you in the stomach? Does it still hurt?” Mr. Green asked.
She nodded. “It hurts a lot. I can hardly move.”
He pulled something else out of the medkit. “Let me run a Feinberger over it.”
Her hand jerked and she grabbed her dress, holding it down. “No.” Feinbergers could read internal injuries by just scanning, but they had to work against bare skin. She wasn't about to lift her dress up.
Mr. Green didn't seem to get it. “We need to see if you're injured, if there's any internal bleeding.”
“No.” She felt her face flame and she couldn't look at him, but she reached for the probe. “I'll do it. I have to use the loo, anyway.”
He released his grip on it, but his jaw was tight with uncertainty.
She reached for his arm, to pull herself to a sitting position. Clenching pain made her stop and he grabbed her shoulders to hold her up. She forced herself to sit. “I want to take a bath.”
“Moira, you can't even sit up ...”
“I want to take a bath.” It seemed important, and she refused to budge. “I'll manage it.”
He blew a breath out, but nodded. “Let me start the water for you. Then I'll go dig up some clothes. I'm sure there's some spare jeans and shirts lying around.” He stood, watching her. “You practice sitting there. See if you're up to it.”
She nodded, her hands gripping the sheets as she leaned against the headboard. She heard him rummaging in another room, drawers opening and closing. What was this place?
He returned in a few minutes, a pile of clothes in hand. “I think these will fit,” he said, heading into the bathroom. “I'll leave them on the shelf in here.”
“Okay.” She heard water start in the tub, so she didn't try to say more. Tightening her lips, she forced her legs to move around so they hung off the bed. Stabbing pain shot through her stomach, and she sat still, breathing in shallow gasps. Mr. Green's hand under her arm made her look up.
“Maybe you should just rest.” His eyes betrayed his worry and sadness, and she managed a small smile.
“Just help me up.”
It took all her effort to not cry or gasp, but she stayed silent as he helped her stand and walked with her to the lavatory. At the door, she gripped the doorjamb and lifted her chin to look him in the eyes. “Ignore any groaning you hear.” She tried to sound light-hearted, knowing she only sounded grotesque. “If I really need help, I'll say so.”
His sad expression didn't budge, but he nodded. She moved inside and closed the door, pausing to lean against it and just breathe. She wanted to sink to the floor and rest, but she knew if she did, she'd just stay there. With great care, she lifted the horrid gunnysack up and over her head, quite unsuccessful at holding back a moan. Shaking, she managed to sit on the toilet, and fumbled with the Feinberger. When the ON light turned green, she moved it toward her stomach, gasping in shock at the solid mass of blue and black that covered her entire abdomen. No wonder it hurt.
She sat straight, running the boxy probe up and down, over and across, trying to get every inch. It was hard to go slow enough since she was shaking like a sonic cleaner. Twice, the probe slipped and tapped her skin, making her jump with pain.
At last, the light began blinking to indicate it was finished. Still shaking, Moira squinted at the display. Mr. Green had set it for layman mode, so in plain English, the probe informed her she had massive bruising and was still bleeding internally. Under “Treatment”, she learned that the best course was to seek immediate medical care. However the bleeding was slow, and she had the option of resting, while performing Feinburger checks every two hours, to track the rate of hemorrhage, and monitor her temperature. Injuries of this kind often healed on their own in a few days, although she could expect to be sore for a few weeks or more. The display continued with advice about diet and general care, including the cryptic note that bathing, especially in warm water, was not recommended, as this might increase the bleeding.
So much for her bath. She was dusty from the cellar, though, so she climbed into the tub and washed off as well as she could without immersing herself. Then she examined the clothes Mr. Green had given her. The pants were too long, but the real problem was the pain in her stomach when she tried to button them. It would be impossible. Fortunately, the sweatshirt was long and loose. It would have to cover the open pants.
She had no shoes. As it turned out, Mr. Green had a plan for that.
“I have to clear out my room at the academy,” he told her when she asked about it after sinking wearily onto the bed. “I'll do that early tomorrow. If you tell me where you've hidden your supplies, I'll sneak out there and get them.”
The idea made her nervous, but she had so many necessary items buried out there: toiletries, warm clothing, extra socks, shoes ... So she told him where to find her cache. “If you stay to the right, the loganberry bushes will hide you from the buildings. Make sure no one sees you.”
He smiled and covered her with another blanket. “Cross my heart. Now what did the Feinburger say?”
She gave him an abbreviated version, hoping he wouldn't demand to see the injury. But he just nodded, his face thoughtful. Then he patted her shoulder. “Get some sleep. We'll see how you are in the morning. I will be right outside your door all night. If you need anything at all, just call.”
“All right.” She touched his arm. “What is this place? Whose clothes did you give me?”
His face flushed pink. She could swear he was embarrassed. “Just student apartments. Some friends of mine rent this place, and several of us have a key. Um ... the clothes were somebody's ... girlfriend's.”
Moira tried to cover her own embarrassment. “Oh,” was all she managed to say.
“Sleep,” he commanded, heading for the door. “We'll discuss our next step in the morning.”