Prog 9 : Gajog
"Can I wake him?"
The nurse with the pretty pink-and-white doll's face checking the chart at the end of the hospital bed looked up, her autumn-hazel eyes curious beneath the ragged fringe of her butterscotch hair. "Well, there's no medical reason for him to be asleep," she admitted, "but I don't think you'll be able . . ." Her voice trailed off as Anderson slipped her hand into his, her slender fingers enveloped in his massive digits. The cold, brutal, taciturn mask lying on the pillow stirred awake, warmth and compassion flooding through it. Gold-flecked eyes opened and chiseled lips curled into a smile as his head rolled to face her.
"Cassie," he murmured sleepily, his hand squeezing hers. He blinked once or twice, consciousness and clarity coming back.
The nurse gave a disbelieving smile. "You two must be really close," she said.
Cornelius ran the pad of his thumb gently along Anderson's finger – it was only the second time he'd touched her naked flesh; like the first, he was lying injured with her worrying, woken from unconsciousness by the gentle caress of her mind. He didn't feel like explaining it all to the nurse, even if he could have done. "She's my boss," he said.
The nurse smiled brightly, glancing at the lifesigns' monitor by the side of the bed. "Well," she said, pressing the button to summon a robodoc, "you've got a good one – she barely left your side since they brought you in. Would have been in the operating theater if they'd let her."
Cornelius raised an eyebrow and looked at Anderson, who blushed and avoided his gaze. "You're a useful asset," she muttered unconvincingly.
"Hmm." He didn't press the issue, probably because he was guiltier than she of anything he might accuse her of. "How bad was it?" he asked the nurse.
"Broken ribs and a punctured lung," she said, "along with extensive thoracic bleeding and some garden-variety contusions. One rib was repaired with bone staples, the other was too fragmented; the surgeon replaced it with osteoceramic. There'll be some swelling and pain for a day or two, but you should have the full range of motion." She watched with a diagnostic eye as he moved his arm and inhaled deeply.
If it hurt he gave no sign. "I'm free to be discharged?" he asked.
The nurse rolled her eyes. "I know better than to try to keep you here," she said darkly, her voice world-weary with experience. "Doc will likely clear you for active duty within forty-eight hours," she added bitterly.
On cue, a robodoc rolled through the door. It was a mismatched mechanical grotesque; a legless torso mounted on a wheeled cylindrical base with a white labcoat draped over several multiple-joined spindly arms like a Kansas flaylord would wear its victim's skin. A blandly-disquieting plastic mask was stuck to the front of its cranial module, the number of actuators under the skin insufficient to lift it out of the uncanny valley. It flopped its lips out of sync with its voice synthesizer as it spoke; "Judge Cornelius, John R, Psi Division – how are you feeling? I am here to perform the discharge exam." It brandished probe-tipped appendages and advanced on him, its expressionless 'face' staring a thousand yards past his shoulder.
Anderson didn't move away, actually drawing closer to him and clutching his hand with both of hers. Cornelius gave her fingers a comforting squeeze – privately, he wondered if the illusion of demon-possessed cybernetic body-horror wasn't a deliberate attempt by the robotics division to encourage Judges to leave the medical wing as quickly as possible. Still, at least they were getting the pronunciation of his Division right; he could almost hear his mother telling him to be thankful for small mercies in her own vowel-mangling accent. "Thanks," he said without conviction.
The robodoc pushed, prodded and poked, pressing probes against his skin and plugging itself into the lifesigns' monitor. Its dead-fish eyes stared blindly past him as internal mechanisms clicked and whirred. Rather than simply remain silent as it processed the data and logged it in the central database, it reached into its magazine of conversational gambits. "Is your preferred sports team scoring sufficient points to achieve victory?" it asked.
"They have been sporting very hard, but the other teams also sported well, and so we will need to sport more to succeed at sports," said Cornelius dryly. He was rewarded by both Anderson and the nurse bursting into laughter, their hands identically lifted to hide wide pink smiles.
Something clicked inside the robodoc and it abruptly disengaged from the terminal and its patient. "Judge Cornelius, John R, Psi Division – discharge from the medical wing okay-okay." A printed whirled and a justice-blue form popped out from its base. "You are not cleared for active duty until authorization by MedDiv personnel," it told him. "Abstain from alcohol, strenuous exercise and sexual activity for forty-eight hours."
"Well, there goes the weekend," muttered Anderson, shaking her head. Surgeons and prescribing doctors in the medical wing were, in the main, robodocs – dedicated quasi-intelligent nodes slaved to the central MedDiv database, their decisions supervised and approved by a small cadre of Med-Judges. The robots' sophisticated programming and immunity to fatigue, emotion, and nausea meant the technical perfection of the medical care was second to none, but their bedside manner inevitably left a lot to be desired. It was only because of the tireless work of nurses like the one attending to Cornelius the medical wing managed to rise above the chamber of horrors it could so easily have become.
The robodoc snatched the discharge paperwork from the slot with a pair of forceps, thrusting it towards Cornelius with a motion like lancing a boil. He jerked the form from its gleaming steel pincer and watched, disquieted, as it left the room by the simple expedient of rolling backwards. It wouldn't have been so bad, but the designers had tried – and failed – to make its movements appear more human by programming it to face the direction it was going. It accomplished this by rotating its 'head' smoothly through 180 degrees on its neck at the perfect speed to inspire nightmares.
"Best argument for staying healthy I know," Anderson remarked, perhaps picking up on Cornelius' thought from earlier. He laughed and disengaged his hand from hers, pushing down on the bed to shove himself up into a sitting position. He managed, but winced as he did. The nurse started forward, she and Anderson helping him get his feet onto the floor and stand stiffly upright, the sheets sliding off him. The nurse didn't seem affected by his near-nudity in a pair of very brief athletic shorts, bandages and nothing else but Anderson felt a flush of warmth thrill through her core at the proximity of his presence and bulk, his warmth and scent, the scar-crossed hairy musculature of his massive torso, shoulders and biceps . . .
"You okay?" asked the nurse.
Anderson started, turning away and busying herself with the clean uniform she'd brought for him. "Oh, yes," she said brightly, "just fine."
The nurse raised a single eyebrow, taking the duffelbag from Anderson and setting it on the bed, pulling out the packet of underwear and tearing it open. "I was talking to him," she said dryly. She flicked her head at the door. "Wait outside, I'll help him get dressed. Don't worry," she added, addressing both of them with a professional smile, "I've seen it all and more."
A pang of something she didn't want to recognize as jealousy speared Anderson, and she managed to stop herself from asking in the general or the particular? She nodded and left, stopping briefly at the door to turn and look back. The nurse was helping Cornelius into the tight black J-Dept standard-issue uniform undershirt. Anderson realized she'd never got her name, and told herself she reached into her mind only to find it so she could thank her personally later. She was a focused pillar of professionalism, concerned with nothing more than getting him dressed, making him well, and easing his pain. Embarrassment – perhaps at her own concerns, perhaps at what she'd mentally accused the nurse of – welled up inside her. "He likes to wear a Tutor's T-shirt," she called. The nurse turned, her face carefully neutral. "Under his fatigues," she explained. "I brought one – side pocket." She didn't wait for a response, instead stepping out into the corridor and letting the door swing shut behind her.
Outside of the calm of the private room her clearance had managed to get for Cornelius, the medical wing was a hive of activity – she smiled grimly at the word, feeling the welts from the stings itch anew. With the city engulfed in riots and demonstrations, a violent crime-wave directed as much against the Department as it was the victims of lawlessness, the hospital was at capacity or beyond – every bed contained an injured Judge, others lying on gurneys or sitting on chairs in the corridors. Judges had a high tolerance for pain, but even so the wing was filled with cries of anguish and repeated alarms from call-buttons that went unheeded for far too long. To Anderson's psynses, of course, it was all far worse.
She shuddered, concentrating on her mental shields. With Psi Division's secured facilities beneath the medical wing, she should have got used to the constant grind of pain, grief and despair – but she never did. Part of her hoped she never would – being affected by the agony of wounded Judges, the fractured sobbing of their widowed partners, the constant, low-grade migraine of the nurses' frustrated futility at dealing with the casualties of a city-wide war reminded her she was still, despite everything, human.
The imagery she'd used reminded her. She pulled the bottle of pills from her belt and looked about – the robodoc, or one identical to it – was a few yards away, trundling down the corridor. She jogged after it, calling, "Doc! Wait up!"
It probably was the same one – it was rolling backwards, its head facing the wrong way. It stopped as she addressed it, rotating on its castors and at the same time turning its head so it ended up still facing away from her. It continued to spin various parts of itself through a couple more rotations as it scanned her implanted RFID chip and verified her identity, finally managing to get both its head and body pointing towards her. "Judge Anderson, Cassandra J, Psi Division," it intoned. "How are you feeling?" It twitched its head as it accessed its small-talk subroutines – apparently, there was a specific set for females that did not involve sports. "Would you like to receive spoilers about a Brit-Cit imported costume drama currently airing on public television, or would that reduce your enjoyment?"
She held up the painkillers. "Can I get a refill of these?" she asked. The robodoc took the nearly-empty bottle and scanned the barcode with the laser-reader in its left eye.
"This is a controlled medication and no prescription is currently on file," it told her. "Can you describe your symptoms? Would you like to schedule an examination? There may be other options to manage your pain. What are your thoughts on the social stratification appearing in your costume drama of choice?"
Anderson snatched the bottle back. "Thanks," she said insincerely. "I'm good." She should have known better than to expect a robot would hook her up – she'd go talk to a human doctor, someone she could persuade without answering so many prying questions.
She turned as she felt the flavor of Cornelius' chivalry dent her mind – he was holding the door open for the nurse, who was smiling as she ducked under his outstretched arm into the corridor. Anderson caught her eye and was halfway through calling "Thank you," and pressing gratitude into the surface of her psyche when the pager at her hip beeped and lights flashed high on the walls.
"Code Twelve-Blue, multiple casualties, gate C." The jargon was incomprehensible, but the effect immediate – the nurse and others broke into a sprint, Anderson jumping clear just in time. The psi watched them go, wishing she could do more to help. She shook her head as Cornelius came to stand beside her – to each his own when it came to serving the city.
It wasn't just the lack of armor web that made Cornelius look underdressed. "Where're my badge and gun?" he asked. "And what did I miss?"
"Jackie," said Anderson brightly, answering both questions. "She picked you and them up – you don't remember?" He looked uncertain – she could taste the fuzzy vagueness of his memories. "She's got them secured on Aegis." She led the way towards the elevator, slowly out of concern for his injuries. "And she was there with me for most of it – she left just before you came to."
"Hmm," remarked Cornelius. "Probably knew I was going to wake up and decided she didn't need to see it."
Anderson gave a slightly-sickly smile – it was perhaps best to let him think that. She and the younger psi had much to talk silently about during their vigil outside the operating theater and at his bedside. Anderson had apologized, of course, but so had Quartermain – retracting her opinion Cornelius meant as much to her as he did to Anderson. She'd stood to leave, shaking her head as Anderson urged her to stay. "You should see him come 'round," she'd croaked, speaking with her voice for the first time. "I'll be on Aegis."
That, of course, had been why she'd woken him then – as impossible as it sounded, she did not want to be alone with her thoughts. But now they returned to her, unbidden – just what did he mean to her, and she to him? Were her motivations pure and judicial? Were his?
She sighed – she didn't want to think about it. She reached out with her mind and dropped a suggestion into his, the merest touch to tip his thoughts in that direction. "Perps rounded up?" he asked. Gratefully, she nodded.
"The ones that didn't get slabbed at least," she said. The elevator came, the doors opening with a ding. They stepped inside, Anderson pressing her gauntlet to the control panel to authorize travel to the roof. "Tek-Div and J-CoE are still scanning buildings, but they're confident they'll locate and repair everything. The remaining wasps have hibernated for the Winter – animal control will relocate them when they swarm in the Spring."
"Any news on Manta?"
Anderson grinned. "Brufen's managed to spin it positively – quite a politician, that one. We should watch him. He told HoJ the crash-landing provided important data it would have been impossible to get otherwise. She's being repaired and upgraded based on that information. Brufen estimates she'd grounded for a week."
Cornelius nodded. "What about Dana?" he asked. "She okay?"
"She was in the room next to you for a while," Anderson said. "Harmon wouldn't leave her side, of course – I think he's sweet on her." Cornelius rolled his eyes.
"Well, you didn't need to be Jackie to see that one coming," he remarked dryly. Anderson laughed.
"She's okay – nothing physically wrong with her. Soon as the psych boys gave her the once over they let her go – she and Harmon went to the pound. She wants a puppy," Anderson explained in response to his puzzled look. "He's smoothing over the paperwork for a permit. One of the lawyers from the architecture firm came around – preemptive strike, I think, but Hershey was there. Based on her advice, Dana's quit her job and is suing."
Cornelius chuckled. "Let me guess," he said, "sexual harassment?"
"And the rest," said Anderson. "Hershey's hearing the case, and also fast-tracking her citizen-auxiliary application – Harmon's trying to get her a job as a secretary at animal control."
The elevator reached the roof and they stepped out into the cold, bright sunshine a fifth of a mile above the city's streets. Aegis hovered a a few dozen yards away from the building, tethered to a docking spike and with an enclosed gangway connecting the gondola to the roof. "Hershey's playing match-maker?" Cornelius asked. "Doesn't seem like her."
"I think she feels guilty," Anderson said simply.
Cornelius shrugged. "Dunno what what for," he said guilelessly.
"I think you're supposed to," Anderson said meaningfully. "She asked me to apologize, tell you it was good working with you. I didn't ask for details."
"Hmm." Cornelius was non-committal. "I'm guessing you're letting her grab credit for the collar?"
Anderson gave an empty-handed gesture. "Meh," she said as if such things bored her, "my star's high enough. And," she added craftily, "it's good to be owed a favor by someone who's got an in with the heavy-bronze."
Cornelius chuckled, coughing a little and gingerly touching his side as he did. Anderson looked at him with concern, but he brushed it off. "Just what I was thinking . . . but you knew that, right?" he added with a grin. She demurred but didn't deny it. "So . . ." His voice darkened. "Jackie waited by my bedside."
"She did," admitted Anderson. "She cares about you – oppa." He gave an awkward laugh.
"You don't call me oppa, Cassie," he chided her. "You're my boss."
"I don't call you seonbae," she corrected him. Her smirked at his surprised expression. "What? You think I didn't pick Nick's brains about the correct terminology?" She left it vague as to whether she meant that literally. "And, technically speaking, while I'm older . . ." He voice trailed off as the pieces fell into place in her own mind; so that was it. "Sometimes a girl just wants to be a . . . a dongsaeng. You know?"
He looked down at her. This close to him, worried about his injury, she could not help but be aware of the periphery of his mind. There were thoughts of other women there; dark and powerful like him, with his eyes and hair – family, most likely. Once again, she realized she knew nothing about where he was from. He nodded, and opened the door to Aegis for her. She ducked under his arm like the nurse had done, moving through the rear hold into the squad room.
The crisp, toothsome smell of ecks, tomatoes and fried corn greeted them, along with Quartermain wearing an apron and holding a spatula in one hand. "Can you make coffee, Cassandra?" she asked without preamble. "Nick offered, but he's terrible at it. They drink tea in the NAAF, apparently." She grabbed Cornelius' hand. "I made breakfast, Sir!" she exclaimed, pulling him into the squad room. "I know it's a little late, but . . ."
"But nothing, Jackie," he said. "I just woke up – I don't care what the chronometer says, it's breakfast time."
She blushed. "I meant I promised breakfast a couple of days ago, Sir," she explained.
"Ah." He stepped towards the table, lifting the lid of a tureen to peer inside. "Huevos rancheros?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No, Sir," she said. "Huevos pericos." His hand froze and he turned to her. "I called your mother for the recipe, Sir," she said. "And I've got your shield and gun," she added, holding them out.
Cornelius blinked and suddenly seemed to be having as much trouble with his voice as she was. "C'mere, you," he said shortly. Her own eyes brimming with tears she stepped forward, offering the badges of his office to him.
He took them from her and stared at them for a second – she'd cleaned the gun and polished the eagle. He swallowed heavily and tossed them on the table, pulling her close to him. She gave a shuddering sigh and pressed her cheek into his chest, hugging him as tightly as she dared. "I was so scared, Sir," she admitted. "I should have been more certain, I should have said something. I'm so sorry . . ."
Cornelius didn't have any words. He bent his neck and pressed his cheek against the top of her head, holding her against him for a second. He let go and she understood, stepping backwards and stiffening into attention. He looked around – Anderson was standing at the doorway, her hands clasped before her and her butcher-blue eyes misting with tears, Betancourt was smiling, and even Brufen looked like he tolerated the unjudicial display.
Cornelius clipped his badge into place, picking up his lawgiver and moving towards his bunk. "Well, don't want to let the eggs get cold," he said lamely. He opened his locker, stowing the gun inside. "Cadet . . ." he called meaningfully. She turned, to see him holding the cartoon drawing and looking at her with a questioning expression. "What shall we do about this?" he asked.
She winced – him choosing to do this now was a cruel blow; knocking her down she was was already wounded. But she was a Cadet and he her designated Tutor – his shield was back in place, the case closed. It was time to take her medicine. "I . . ." she began.
"The refrigerator door is traditional," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken, "but it's not really visible." He pinned it to the noticeboard on the main bulkhead – the bold, bright colors next to grayscale FAXes and printouts meant it dominated the utilitarian room of gunmetal walls and furniture. "There," he said with satisfaction. He looked down at her, giving a little smirking smile. "I'd pick you up," he promised, "but . . ." He gestured at his injuries.
She shook her head. "Don't worry, Sir," she explained. "You just did."
A/n : Alright, perhaps too much feels? :)
Well, I had fun writing it – hope you had fun reading it!
"Gajog", "oppa", "seonbae" and "dongsaeng" are Korean – the language doubles as SoAz. They mean "family", "older brother (of a woman)", "senior" and "younger sibling". They are used a lot in the K-pop genre of music, which I have used as a partial-expy for KT-Pop. They help establish the familial relationships between the Aegis team.
This story has been – throughout – about family and friendships, male and female relationships, feminine vulnerability and masculine strength . . . and subversions of that. Our big, tough, macho hero strides through the story with the women looking up to him . . . and spends the final action sequence doing absolutely nothing of any value after he gets hit with a single bullet, and the women save the day! You will notice (at least, I hope you notice!) that Cornelius says in the first chapter he won't carry Quartermain . . . and then physically picks her up at least once in each of the first seven chapters! In the eighth, he is picked up by her and then – in this ninth – we finally get some balance; his "picking up" of her is psychological, raising her spirits and making her feel good about herself.
Like I say, a lot of "feels" here – and I make no apology. The relationship between Cornelius and Anderson (and Quartermain – and everyone, really) needed to be explored, and couldn't stay static. I didn't really "advance" it to romance – rather, Anderson wonders if it is . . . and then realizes (or thinks she realizes? :) ) that its a brother-sister thing. There's emotional movement, but not a lot of travel – if that makes sense?
I made a very deliberate choice – which some might not like – to include no characters (except the nurse and robodoc – who don't get names) but the Aegis crew. The others' stories ended last chapter (and I very much wanted Hershey to just duck out – she just leaves without saying goodbye). As I said in the notes to the last chapter, this chapter isn't essential – it is pretty much just "feels". But, there is an interesting little note vis-a-vis Anderson and her . . . dependencies? which will be important next story.
Yes, another story will be forthcoming – and it's a big shout-out to Rhinne and her excellent story "Shielded".
Watch this space (or follow my profile, I guess!) and don't forget to review! I will be posting the "deleted scenes" I mentioned earlier after this chapter – but this is Bee-movie done and dusted!
Like it? Hate it? Please review and let me know!
