He was conscious a long time before he dared open his eyes. Finally
curiosity overcame lethargy and he cracked open one eyelid. Just as he
suspected -- red. Why red? Why not yellow? If he had to wake up to only one
selection of the chromatic scale, he'd rather it be a nice cheerful color.
Red was such a downer. But where...?
Yielding to the inevitable, Harrison pried open his other eyelid and looked around. So the room wasn't actually red; sunlight streaked through the open curtains, dappling the room with the colors of the sunset. Or sunrise, he mentally amended, rubbing at his eyes. No way to tell how long he'd been out.
A sharp twinge in his shoulder reminded him of the reason he'd ended up in this red streaked, sterile room in the first place, bringing with it the realization that his less than clear thoughts must be attributable to painkillers. Everything was fuzzy and his shoulder was a dull ache rather than a sharp one. He probed the wound gently, fingers encountering a thick bandage and sling holding his right arm immobile. Didn't feel too bad ... not with the pain dulled like that, anyway.
Cautiously he turned his head, examine the casual trappings of a semiprivate hospital room. An IV stand stood to his left, explaining the bruise on his left hand. How long had that been in? And how long had he been unconscious?
Long enough to have to go to the bathroom, he decided. He debated ringing for a nurse, then decided against it as visions of bed pans and acute embarrassment presented themselves. He could handle it ... provided he took things slowly.
It took him far longer than he could have possibly imagined to make it the less than six feet to the bathroom and back. Trembling violently with exertion, it was all he could do to lever himself back up onto the narrow bed and lie there panting for breath. He fought to maintain consciousness, then surrendered seconds later and felt himself spiraling down into a soothing womb of non-existence....
How long he slept he had no way of knowing but when next he opened his eyes, golden radiance streamed merrily through the drapes and a bird was singing outside the paned glass. Morning? At least it was yellow, he thought groggily, then had to smile. Where had that come from? Yellow?
For some reason it was easier to face a yellow room. Harrison hesitated not at all before turning his head and looking around. A hospital room, or course. He'd been shot. The alien attack....
"No." Whether the word was spoken aloud or in his head, Harrison Blackwood never afterwards could say. He was aware only that he was sitting bolt upright in horror as the details of the alien raid played themselves out in pitiless detail. "Norton ... Suzanne." His mind insisted on superimposing images of the two as they had been before the meeting with Q'Tara: laughing, glowingly vital -- alive! -- over his last sight of them with their cold, dead eyes staring sightlessly, accusingly into his own ... and their own eternity.
The pain welled up but there were no tears. Not now. They would come later, he was sure. For now there was a sense of detachment -- of not quite reality holding the full force of the grief at bay and granting him precious time to think as clearly as possible through the morphine. Norton and Suzanne were gone -- dead. What of Ironhorse? Was he still alive? Or was Harrison now -- again -- truly alone?
For the first time he noticed that a semicircle of curtain divided the room in two. He had a roommate. Could it be...? Fighting back a surge of irrational hope, Harrison sidled to the edge of the bed and swung his feet over the side. A wave of vertigo spun the room again, forcing him to cling grimly to the bedpost. After a moment's concentration the room regained its solidity, allowing Harrison to slide to his feet and take his first tentative steps toward the curtain. Unconsciously the scientist muttered little prayers under his breath -- phrases unuttered since early childhood; comforting words for the babe, desperate pleas for the man.
Wobbly legs barely supported him across the distance, and only sheer determination carried him those final few steps around the curtain to the sheet-draped figure in the second bed. "Please...." It was a badly trembling hand which lifted the sheet half-hiding the dark head, but the tall physicist scarcely noticed -- noticed nothing at all, in fact, except the angular features revealed.
"Thank you." Harrison offered the prayer to all the powers that be, gratitude filling his heart at having even one of his friends back to ease some of the pain deep inside. He wasn't completely alone. There was still one member of his team/family left to him.
Legs refused to hold him any longer, spilling Blackwood heavily onto the side of the bed, relief sapping what strength fear had provided. "Thank you," he whispered again. Silently he studied the sleeping figure, drinking in the sight of the friend whom he'd feared lost. The slight rise and fall of the muscled chest, the flutter of the dark lashes against bronze cheeks, spoke of life -- a heady wine to a man lost in the sorrows of grief. Harrison drank deep and rejoiced.
Gently he laid his hand against the cloth-covered arm, craving some form of physical contact, needing some reassurance that the man wasn't some drug- induced fantasy fulfilling the need of the moment only to soon vanish in a puff of smoke. But no, the skin was warm, solid, beneath his hand. Blessed reality! Harrison drew comfort from the touch, then reluctantly withdrew to begin the arduous journey back to his own bed. That was when he noticed a pair of dark eyes peering up at him. "Colonel? How...?" His dry throat betrayed him then, choking off any further speech.
Ironhorse jerked his head at the nightstand. "Help yourself, Doctor."
A water pitcher stood there, and Harrison clumsily filled a cup one- handedly; he took a hasty gulp, relishing the coolness as it slid down his throat. Then he offered the cup to Ironhorse, who took a sip of his own. "Better," the soldier sighed. "Blood loss will raise a good thirst."
"I guess so." Harrison returned the plastic cup to the nightstand and sat regarding his friend with a relieved smile. "You certainly look a lot better than the last time I saw you," he commented, clasping his friend's forearm. "How are you feeling?"
Amusement flashed in Ironhorse's dark eyes. He jacked himself to a sitting position, waving away Harrison's offer of assistance. "I'm fine, Doctor. It's you we were concerned about."
"Why were you concerned about me?" Harrison asked curiously. "My shoulder isn't that serious..." Newly alarmed, he glanced down at the heavily bandaging. "...is it?"
The soldier shook his head at once, much to Blackwood's intense relief. "Not that bad. You were unconscious for forty-eight hours and--"
"Two days?!"
Ironhorse scanned him carefully from head to foot, then leaned back against the headboard, obviously satisfied with what he saw. "Shock and exhaustion, the medics said. But we were beginning to wonder if you were going to come out of it at all."
"Two days," Harrison repeated wonderingly, remembering crimson vistas. "Red."
"What?"
"Nothing." Why was he thinking of that again? Why did the color generate such feelings of despair? Not letting himself dwell on the problem, he asked, "What's been happening? Has General Wilson....?
Ironhorse settled himself higher on the pillows, suddenly finding the ceiling a fascinating study. "He was here this morning. I told him about Q'Tara."
I'll bet that tickled his military weapons mentality, Blackwood -- an avowed pacifist type -- thought unkindly, though the acid was old and had lost most of its bite. "And Suzanne?"
"He already knew." Cherokee birth and military training had instilled in Colonel Paul Ironhorse an outward stoicism that had served him through more than one war. It frayed under Harrison's sorrowful gaze, and he closed his eyes but not fast enough to hide the single flash of pain that belied the dispassionate tone of his voice. "He'll be back for a further debriefing this afternoon. First he had to make some arrangements for Suzanne and Norton."
Absorbing that took a moment, and even the cheerfully golden room could not dispel the pall of the concept. "He'll notify the families?"
"I presume so, Doctor. It would be logical for him to do so."
Harrison glared at the controlled features, choosing anger as brief respite from sorrow. "Who do you think you are, Mr. Spock?" he flared, forgetting the pain he'd glimpsed but a moment earlier. The anger cooled, soothed away by the memory of gentle fingers stroking his hair and a sad voice offering what comfort it could. The memory gave him pause; he more than anyone else, knew Ironhorse simply released his grief in a different manner than did Harrison. "Colonel, I'm sorry."
"And what do you think you're doing out of bed?"
Harrison jumped to his feet, startled at the interruption from the doorway. Unfortunately the action upset his delicate equilibrium, setting the room aspin again. He tottered and would have fallen but for a strong grip encircling his wrist and guiding him back to the edge of the bed. Desperately he clutched at it as his vision faded and returned, clearing by degrees. "Thanks," he muttered, leaning into the support and grateful he didn't have to greet their visitor from the floor.
Ironhorse held him a moment longer, then dropped his hand, turning his attention to the petite Oriental woman entering the room and polite introductions. "Dr. Lee -- Dr. Blackwood."
"It's about time you rejoined us, Dr. Blackwood," the woman acknowledged in softly-accented english. "We were beginning to wonder if you were going to sleep forever."
"So I heard." Harrison used his left hand to return her firm handshake, then pushed himself to his feet, allowing the woman to slide an arm around his waist in support. Once more the room spun, and Harrison tottered, afraid to lean his full weight on her slender shoulders; Lee was sturdier than she looked, however, and easily took the extra strain until he was close enough to lean on his bed's safety rail.
"Lie back down, Dr. Blackwood," she admonished, giving the tall, slender physicist a firm shove. "Your body still needs rest. And don't bother telling me you are feeling better, either."
The physicist, mouth opened to say exactly that, smiled sheepishly instead. "Yes, ma'am."
"And you." She turned back to Ironhorse, flipping long black hair over her shoulder as she did so. "I thought you had finally fallen asleep. Ever since you got out of surgery," she explained to Harrison as an aside, "he's been lying there watching you. And he wouldn't take a sedative last night, either. The third shift nurse was quite cross over it."
Harrison adjusted his sling carefully, then seated himself at the foot of his bed where he could see his friend, a brief grin curling his lips when the soldier flushed. "Didn't know you cared," he quipped, amused by the other's countering oath.
Inured to difficult patients by now, Lee merely rolled her large eyes heavenward. "Such language, Colonel Ironhorse," she remonstrated, drawing shut the curtain and cutting off Harrison's view. "I know your arm hurts. As soon as I examine your friend, I'll have Martha bring you a painkiller."
"No shots!" Ironhorse shouted from behind the barrier."
Pink lips pursed with annoyance, then Lee sighed and threw up her hands. "I hope you are a better patient than the Colonel," she muttered, returning to the first bed.
"I'll do my best." Harrison quick skimmed the woman, appreciating her prettiness in some far off fashion. There was compassion in her brown eyes, though, that tugged at the sadness weighting his heart. This too was distant, a muted throbbing that matched the one in his shoulder. "You're a good looking woman," he startled himself by saying aloud.
The unintentional compliment engendered an answering twinkle, though she continued to study the bruising around his wound. "Thank you. Does your shoulder hurt much?"
"Nothing hurts much," he replied dreamily. "I don't feel anything at all. What kind of drugs are you giving me?"
"Only the usual." Deft fingers unwrapped the thick bandaging covering the bullet wound, turning it into the light. "Hmmm. The puncture is healing well. Does this hurt?" She poked the reddened flesh, nearly causing Harrison to leap off the bed.
"Yes, it hurts!" he snapped, catching his breath and summoning up an impotent glare.
Inordinately pleased -- in Blackwood's opinion -- at the reaction, Lee nodded, adding insult to injury by patting his cheek in a maternal fashion. "Very good. That means there's no nerve damage." A middle aged black woman entered carrying a tray, which she deposited on a sidetable. The pretty doctor offered the newcomer a friendly nod. "Ah, Martha. We need fresh dressing here. Do you want a shot for the pain, Dr. Blackwood? No? Perhaps later." She continued to examine him, calling off a string of numbers that Martha dutifully noted on a chart. Finally she settled one hip on the edge of the bed, shoving her stethoscope back into the pocket of her lab coat. "You are doing very well, Harrison. We'll start you on P.T. ..."
The initials didn't register ... or perhaps he did know what they stood for and couldn't quite dredge them out of the slow mud that was pretending to be his memory. "On what?"
"Physical therapy," the larger Martha replied in an even contralto. "We have to maintain the strength and flexibility in those arm muscles. Before you know it, all that'll be left of that boo-boo will be an interesting scar to show your girlfriend."
Boo-boo? Summoning up what remained of his strength, Harrison cautiously moved his arm under the sling, grimaced, and abandoned the attempt. "When can I go home?" he asked, turning huge, pleading eyes on Lee.
The physician tapped her lower lip with one finger, brows drawn low as she considered. "You have someone home to help you? Besides the Colonel?" Blackwood nodded eagerly; he'd have sworn to anything at the moment. Perceptibly unconvinced by the enthusiastic reply, Lee smiled gently. "Maybe tomorrow then, more likely the day after. Depends on how you do."
Another two days in this place? Harrison tried another pleading look, eliciting absolutely no response whatsoever. He lay back on the pillow, resigned. "Terrific."
"It will go swiftly, Harrison." She gave him another friendly pat and glanced at the dividing curtain, the smile fading by degrees into a scowl. "Now I must see to your friend." She made to rise but stopped at the hand on her arm.
"How bad is he hurt?" Harrison gestured towards the other bed, his voice barely a whisper and a knot in his gut. Drugged or not, the fear of loss loomed like a massive shadow, just over his shoulder. He swallowed heavily, striving to keep the trembling out of his voice. "Is he...?"
"Don't worry -- he will also be fine. Better than you, even -- he is leaving the hospital this afternoon." Blackwood released her then and she left the bed to disappear around the curtain; Martha winked and followed. "I don't want any trouble from you, Colonel," Lee warned, drawing the curtain to. "The sooner I am finished here, the sooner your visitors can come in."
"Visitors?" Ironhorse asked warily.
"Quiet. Open wide."
Harrison grinned at the response to that, then sighed to himself. Two days. He'd have to endure General Wilson's debriefing, of course -- who else could it be waiting to see him? The man would want every detail of the mission from the time Norton had first noted the multiple alien deaths later attributed to the alien android. Reality twisted in his mind, his consciousness seeking to withdraw from the ache remembering caused. Some events were blurred, the edges dulled by shock and grief -- the twenty-four hours during which they had believed Ironhorse dead, for example, was a total blank. Other moments shone with a supernatural clarity: he had only to close his fingers to feel cold flesh or to smell blood, and Suzanne's dead eyes would haunt Harrison Blackwood for the rest of his natural life. The firefight in the great chamber could have lasted no more than ten minutes; yet, each separate sensation was experienced as though in slow motion, one minute lasting a million years of time. Like Khe Sahn. A million nights long.... exactly as Ironhorse had described it -- the waiting to die.
But he hadn't died ... only wished he had. Blindly Harrison swiped at his cheeks, his hands coming away wet. In the space of perhaps ten minutes, he had lost more than he had since ... 1953.
"When they killed my parents." Like magic the sorrow loosened its hold, allowing a dull burning hatred to fill his innermost heart, hot enough to evaporate the tears from within. "The aliens took away my family again," he murmured, choking on the words. "Now it's my turn." Music sang lightly in his ears, its rhythm fury, its melody retaliation. He clenched his fist in a silent vow, turning his face heavenward. They're going to pay, he swore. No matter what the cost, I won't stop until every one of them melts into oblivion.
He glanced up when Dr. Lee threw open the dividing curtain, dire fantasies breaking under the sight of a flustered looking Ironhorse glowering back at a just as annoyed Martha. "Oh, very well," Lee was saying in a disgusted tone. "But when that arm hurts you bad enough, then you'll wish you had taken the shot when I offered it." She swung on Harrison, almond shaped eyes flashing dangerously. "He is so ... so meshuginah!"
Harrison's brows rose in unison. "Meshuginah?"
The woman shrugged sheepishly. "My husband is Jewish. I think it fits him." She glowered again at the seemingly unaffected Ironhorse. "Martha, tell our visitors they can come in now."
"Yes, ma'am." Martha disappeared carrying her tray and was soon replaced by the stocky figure of General Henry Wilson, closely followed by Sergeant Nora Coleman, both of whom were in civilian garb.
Wilson crossed immediately to Harrison's bedside, broad face breaking into a smile. "Dr. Blackwood! Good to see you're finally back with us." He courteously offered his left hand, sharp blue eyes boring into the physicist's own. "We weren't sure you were going to wake up at all for awhile there. And considering ... er ... obvious possibilities, we had cause to wonder if there were ... reasons." Extra-terrestrial reasons, was the unspoken addition to the thought.
Good enough reasons to eliminate me permanently, was what Harrison interpreted. Par for the course. "Be out of here in a day or so," he returned the greeting warily, braced, knowing what was to come and actually glad for the numbing effect of the painkillers.
"Perhaps a day or so," Lee corrected firmly. She cast the newcomers a curious look but asked no questions. "Probably two or three."
"Perhaps a day," Wilson echoed sympathetically. He nodded genially at Ironhorse. "How about you, Paul?"
Undisturbed at being seen half naked in front of the pretty female non com, Ironhorse swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. "I'm being released this afternoon. Hand me that robe, Nora." The Sergeant's first name sounded odd coming from Ironhorse, though Harrison understood the reason for the lack of titles in public. Need to know, he thought sourly.
Coleman held the robe while Ironhorse slipped it on carefully over his wounds. "I'm picking him up at fifteen hundred, sir," she added, stepping back around the bed to stand at her commander's shoulder. "I'm authorized to sign him out."
Harrison watched them dully, envious at the chance to leave this place. With a jolt he switched mental gears, pulling his drug wandering attention back to the waiting older man. "General, I'm sorry about...."
Wilson cut him off with a raised hand and a quirk of his white brows. All four turned to stare at Lee, who, to her credit, took the hint at once. She turned on her heel, pausing when she was only inches from the tall Nora Coleman. "I want you all to appreciate that Dr. Blackwood has been unconscious for the past two days," she admonished, not backing down from the other woman's scowl. "I will not permit him to be overtired on his first day awake."
Coleman's fine lips parted to deliver what they all knew would be a crushing reply; Wilson gainsaid that by waving one arm agreeably. "We understand, Doctor," he boomed. "We won't be staying long." Lee studied him another moment, then left, lab coat swirling around her shapely legs. Wilson waited until she'd gone, then gestured an order at Coleman, who shut the door. "The room was swept this morning," he explained in a low voice. "It should be secure enough for a preliminary report." He tipped his head at the physicist. "You were saying?"
Harrison cleared his throat, trying to speak around the lump there. "I'm sorry about..." He swallowed hard. It didn't help; his voice grew husky. "...about Suzanne. She was very dear to us."
"As you were to her, Doctor." Wilson met the too-bright blue gaze, unashamed by the pain brimming in his own eyes. "We talked often about you -- about both of you. She ... cared very much."
Silence fell, each man lost to his personal remembrances. Finally the spell was broken when Sergeant Coleman coughed politely. "Colonel, Omega Force has finished final clean up at the grounds; all evidence of the alien assault has been eradicated. No problem with the local police."
"Very well, Sergeant. What of the Synth?" The woman looked puzzled and Ironhorse hurried to add, "The android, Q'Tara?"
"Oh." The Sergeant shifted her weight from one foot to the other, in the unflappable soldier the equivalent of putting up a flare. "The Squad has transferred it to the Cottage. We're maintaining twenty-four hour guard until further notice. Sir."
Ironhorse looked thoughtful. "I've a suspicion my next question should be, under guard against what?"
Coleman squirmed again, fair cheeks reddening. "Uh ... the Air Force. Sir."
The Air Force?
Meaty features ruddy with annoyance, Wilson stood up and began to pace. "Department-9 again, Paul. They showed up yesterday demanding we turn the robot over to them."
"They didn't get her?" Harrison asked, alarm sitting him bolt upright despite an instant bout of nausea. "How did you stop them?"
"You have Sergeant Coleman to thank for that." Wilson nodded at the slender blonde, who had stopped squirming and was now returning a full glower. "From what I understand, she told the Captain in charge that if he took one step onto Cottage grounds she'd personally shove his test tubes up his--"
"Sir! I mean...." The woman cleared her throat nervously. "I took what action I thought appropriate to the situation. Sir."
Ironhorse regarded her impassively, though Harrison caught the twinkle in his eyes. "Yes, Sergeant, I'm sure you did." He turned back to Wilson. "Were you able to clear it with the White House, General? Or are we going to have to turn her over to the Air Force boys."
Wilson lifted both hands, waving them in vague circles. "That's still up in the air. We'll deal with it after the funerals."
"I ... yes, Sir." Ironhorse glanced at Harrison's stricken expression, then quickly away. He regained control of himself, managing to ask, "Have Norton's family been notified yet?" in a level tone.
"This morning. We were able to contact one of his brothers in Los Angeles. He's flying in to claim the body tomorrow afternoon."
"And ... Suzanne?"
Wilson drew his hand across his face and Harrison was struck by how old the man looked. He'd aged ten years since his last visit. "I tried to notify Cash McCullough through that rag he works for. He's on assignment in Africa -- won't be in contact for another two weeks."
Blackwood licked dry lips. "And Debi?"
"Debi knows." The older man reseated himself heavily. "She'll live with me, of course. I've already told my wife to expect us. She'll need family around her now."
"I agree." Harrison manfully attempted to stifle a yawn but it escaped anyway, making him realize just how weary he was. "I'm going to need a nap pretty soon."
"I should be going anyway." Wilson stood and headed for the door, followed a pace behind by the blonde sergeant. "Get some rest, gentlemen."
"But, General, your report?" Ironhorse started to stand, unwittingly using his more injured arm for support. He sat down again suddenly, loosing an oath.
"You should have taken that shot," Harrison commented dryly, feeling very little pain -- or anything else -- himself.
Wilson cocked a brow. "What shot?"
"Pain killer, General. It seems the good Colonel is going the stoic route." Ironhorse sent him a murderous glare which he blithely ignored. "Now as for myself, I've had a better time in the '60's; however, I don't object to a nice, legal...."
"Will you can it, Blackwood," the indian growled. "Good thing I'm getting out of here this afternoon; two days of listening to you babble, and they'd have to transfer me to a room with some padding."
"Just trying to make conversation." Harrison winked at the blond sergeant. She scowled. He sighed and gave up. Bunch of dead heads.
Inured by now to such arguments, Hank Wilson resumed his short trek to the door. "Come along, Coleman. These men need their rest. I'll arrange for someone to pick you up this afternoon, Paul; you can make your report over dinner tonight." With that they were gone leaving a vacuum in their wake.
"The General certainly knows how to get things accomplished," Harrison noted, unnaturally amused by a blob of pink plaster on the wall. Dead silence greeted the observation. "Come on, Ironhorse, you're not going to sulk, are you? Not when I heard a whole new batch of jokes...."
"Can it, Blackwood," Ironhorse repeated, turning his back.
Harrison fell quiet, not in a laughing mood anyway but willing to say anything to break the cloying silence that hung over the room. At this rate, he reflected wryly, it won't be the Colonel who needs a padded room, it'll be me.
***
Yielding to the inevitable, Harrison pried open his other eyelid and looked around. So the room wasn't actually red; sunlight streaked through the open curtains, dappling the room with the colors of the sunset. Or sunrise, he mentally amended, rubbing at his eyes. No way to tell how long he'd been out.
A sharp twinge in his shoulder reminded him of the reason he'd ended up in this red streaked, sterile room in the first place, bringing with it the realization that his less than clear thoughts must be attributable to painkillers. Everything was fuzzy and his shoulder was a dull ache rather than a sharp one. He probed the wound gently, fingers encountering a thick bandage and sling holding his right arm immobile. Didn't feel too bad ... not with the pain dulled like that, anyway.
Cautiously he turned his head, examine the casual trappings of a semiprivate hospital room. An IV stand stood to his left, explaining the bruise on his left hand. How long had that been in? And how long had he been unconscious?
Long enough to have to go to the bathroom, he decided. He debated ringing for a nurse, then decided against it as visions of bed pans and acute embarrassment presented themselves. He could handle it ... provided he took things slowly.
It took him far longer than he could have possibly imagined to make it the less than six feet to the bathroom and back. Trembling violently with exertion, it was all he could do to lever himself back up onto the narrow bed and lie there panting for breath. He fought to maintain consciousness, then surrendered seconds later and felt himself spiraling down into a soothing womb of non-existence....
How long he slept he had no way of knowing but when next he opened his eyes, golden radiance streamed merrily through the drapes and a bird was singing outside the paned glass. Morning? At least it was yellow, he thought groggily, then had to smile. Where had that come from? Yellow?
For some reason it was easier to face a yellow room. Harrison hesitated not at all before turning his head and looking around. A hospital room, or course. He'd been shot. The alien attack....
"No." Whether the word was spoken aloud or in his head, Harrison Blackwood never afterwards could say. He was aware only that he was sitting bolt upright in horror as the details of the alien raid played themselves out in pitiless detail. "Norton ... Suzanne." His mind insisted on superimposing images of the two as they had been before the meeting with Q'Tara: laughing, glowingly vital -- alive! -- over his last sight of them with their cold, dead eyes staring sightlessly, accusingly into his own ... and their own eternity.
The pain welled up but there were no tears. Not now. They would come later, he was sure. For now there was a sense of detachment -- of not quite reality holding the full force of the grief at bay and granting him precious time to think as clearly as possible through the morphine. Norton and Suzanne were gone -- dead. What of Ironhorse? Was he still alive? Or was Harrison now -- again -- truly alone?
For the first time he noticed that a semicircle of curtain divided the room in two. He had a roommate. Could it be...? Fighting back a surge of irrational hope, Harrison sidled to the edge of the bed and swung his feet over the side. A wave of vertigo spun the room again, forcing him to cling grimly to the bedpost. After a moment's concentration the room regained its solidity, allowing Harrison to slide to his feet and take his first tentative steps toward the curtain. Unconsciously the scientist muttered little prayers under his breath -- phrases unuttered since early childhood; comforting words for the babe, desperate pleas for the man.
Wobbly legs barely supported him across the distance, and only sheer determination carried him those final few steps around the curtain to the sheet-draped figure in the second bed. "Please...." It was a badly trembling hand which lifted the sheet half-hiding the dark head, but the tall physicist scarcely noticed -- noticed nothing at all, in fact, except the angular features revealed.
"Thank you." Harrison offered the prayer to all the powers that be, gratitude filling his heart at having even one of his friends back to ease some of the pain deep inside. He wasn't completely alone. There was still one member of his team/family left to him.
Legs refused to hold him any longer, spilling Blackwood heavily onto the side of the bed, relief sapping what strength fear had provided. "Thank you," he whispered again. Silently he studied the sleeping figure, drinking in the sight of the friend whom he'd feared lost. The slight rise and fall of the muscled chest, the flutter of the dark lashes against bronze cheeks, spoke of life -- a heady wine to a man lost in the sorrows of grief. Harrison drank deep and rejoiced.
Gently he laid his hand against the cloth-covered arm, craving some form of physical contact, needing some reassurance that the man wasn't some drug- induced fantasy fulfilling the need of the moment only to soon vanish in a puff of smoke. But no, the skin was warm, solid, beneath his hand. Blessed reality! Harrison drew comfort from the touch, then reluctantly withdrew to begin the arduous journey back to his own bed. That was when he noticed a pair of dark eyes peering up at him. "Colonel? How...?" His dry throat betrayed him then, choking off any further speech.
Ironhorse jerked his head at the nightstand. "Help yourself, Doctor."
A water pitcher stood there, and Harrison clumsily filled a cup one- handedly; he took a hasty gulp, relishing the coolness as it slid down his throat. Then he offered the cup to Ironhorse, who took a sip of his own. "Better," the soldier sighed. "Blood loss will raise a good thirst."
"I guess so." Harrison returned the plastic cup to the nightstand and sat regarding his friend with a relieved smile. "You certainly look a lot better than the last time I saw you," he commented, clasping his friend's forearm. "How are you feeling?"
Amusement flashed in Ironhorse's dark eyes. He jacked himself to a sitting position, waving away Harrison's offer of assistance. "I'm fine, Doctor. It's you we were concerned about."
"Why were you concerned about me?" Harrison asked curiously. "My shoulder isn't that serious..." Newly alarmed, he glanced down at the heavily bandaging. "...is it?"
The soldier shook his head at once, much to Blackwood's intense relief. "Not that bad. You were unconscious for forty-eight hours and--"
"Two days?!"
Ironhorse scanned him carefully from head to foot, then leaned back against the headboard, obviously satisfied with what he saw. "Shock and exhaustion, the medics said. But we were beginning to wonder if you were going to come out of it at all."
"Two days," Harrison repeated wonderingly, remembering crimson vistas. "Red."
"What?"
"Nothing." Why was he thinking of that again? Why did the color generate such feelings of despair? Not letting himself dwell on the problem, he asked, "What's been happening? Has General Wilson....?
Ironhorse settled himself higher on the pillows, suddenly finding the ceiling a fascinating study. "He was here this morning. I told him about Q'Tara."
I'll bet that tickled his military weapons mentality, Blackwood -- an avowed pacifist type -- thought unkindly, though the acid was old and had lost most of its bite. "And Suzanne?"
"He already knew." Cherokee birth and military training had instilled in Colonel Paul Ironhorse an outward stoicism that had served him through more than one war. It frayed under Harrison's sorrowful gaze, and he closed his eyes but not fast enough to hide the single flash of pain that belied the dispassionate tone of his voice. "He'll be back for a further debriefing this afternoon. First he had to make some arrangements for Suzanne and Norton."
Absorbing that took a moment, and even the cheerfully golden room could not dispel the pall of the concept. "He'll notify the families?"
"I presume so, Doctor. It would be logical for him to do so."
Harrison glared at the controlled features, choosing anger as brief respite from sorrow. "Who do you think you are, Mr. Spock?" he flared, forgetting the pain he'd glimpsed but a moment earlier. The anger cooled, soothed away by the memory of gentle fingers stroking his hair and a sad voice offering what comfort it could. The memory gave him pause; he more than anyone else, knew Ironhorse simply released his grief in a different manner than did Harrison. "Colonel, I'm sorry."
"And what do you think you're doing out of bed?"
Harrison jumped to his feet, startled at the interruption from the doorway. Unfortunately the action upset his delicate equilibrium, setting the room aspin again. He tottered and would have fallen but for a strong grip encircling his wrist and guiding him back to the edge of the bed. Desperately he clutched at it as his vision faded and returned, clearing by degrees. "Thanks," he muttered, leaning into the support and grateful he didn't have to greet their visitor from the floor.
Ironhorse held him a moment longer, then dropped his hand, turning his attention to the petite Oriental woman entering the room and polite introductions. "Dr. Lee -- Dr. Blackwood."
"It's about time you rejoined us, Dr. Blackwood," the woman acknowledged in softly-accented english. "We were beginning to wonder if you were going to sleep forever."
"So I heard." Harrison used his left hand to return her firm handshake, then pushed himself to his feet, allowing the woman to slide an arm around his waist in support. Once more the room spun, and Harrison tottered, afraid to lean his full weight on her slender shoulders; Lee was sturdier than she looked, however, and easily took the extra strain until he was close enough to lean on his bed's safety rail.
"Lie back down, Dr. Blackwood," she admonished, giving the tall, slender physicist a firm shove. "Your body still needs rest. And don't bother telling me you are feeling better, either."
The physicist, mouth opened to say exactly that, smiled sheepishly instead. "Yes, ma'am."
"And you." She turned back to Ironhorse, flipping long black hair over her shoulder as she did so. "I thought you had finally fallen asleep. Ever since you got out of surgery," she explained to Harrison as an aside, "he's been lying there watching you. And he wouldn't take a sedative last night, either. The third shift nurse was quite cross over it."
Harrison adjusted his sling carefully, then seated himself at the foot of his bed where he could see his friend, a brief grin curling his lips when the soldier flushed. "Didn't know you cared," he quipped, amused by the other's countering oath.
Inured to difficult patients by now, Lee merely rolled her large eyes heavenward. "Such language, Colonel Ironhorse," she remonstrated, drawing shut the curtain and cutting off Harrison's view. "I know your arm hurts. As soon as I examine your friend, I'll have Martha bring you a painkiller."
"No shots!" Ironhorse shouted from behind the barrier."
Pink lips pursed with annoyance, then Lee sighed and threw up her hands. "I hope you are a better patient than the Colonel," she muttered, returning to the first bed.
"I'll do my best." Harrison quick skimmed the woman, appreciating her prettiness in some far off fashion. There was compassion in her brown eyes, though, that tugged at the sadness weighting his heart. This too was distant, a muted throbbing that matched the one in his shoulder. "You're a good looking woman," he startled himself by saying aloud.
The unintentional compliment engendered an answering twinkle, though she continued to study the bruising around his wound. "Thank you. Does your shoulder hurt much?"
"Nothing hurts much," he replied dreamily. "I don't feel anything at all. What kind of drugs are you giving me?"
"Only the usual." Deft fingers unwrapped the thick bandaging covering the bullet wound, turning it into the light. "Hmmm. The puncture is healing well. Does this hurt?" She poked the reddened flesh, nearly causing Harrison to leap off the bed.
"Yes, it hurts!" he snapped, catching his breath and summoning up an impotent glare.
Inordinately pleased -- in Blackwood's opinion -- at the reaction, Lee nodded, adding insult to injury by patting his cheek in a maternal fashion. "Very good. That means there's no nerve damage." A middle aged black woman entered carrying a tray, which she deposited on a sidetable. The pretty doctor offered the newcomer a friendly nod. "Ah, Martha. We need fresh dressing here. Do you want a shot for the pain, Dr. Blackwood? No? Perhaps later." She continued to examine him, calling off a string of numbers that Martha dutifully noted on a chart. Finally she settled one hip on the edge of the bed, shoving her stethoscope back into the pocket of her lab coat. "You are doing very well, Harrison. We'll start you on P.T. ..."
The initials didn't register ... or perhaps he did know what they stood for and couldn't quite dredge them out of the slow mud that was pretending to be his memory. "On what?"
"Physical therapy," the larger Martha replied in an even contralto. "We have to maintain the strength and flexibility in those arm muscles. Before you know it, all that'll be left of that boo-boo will be an interesting scar to show your girlfriend."
Boo-boo? Summoning up what remained of his strength, Harrison cautiously moved his arm under the sling, grimaced, and abandoned the attempt. "When can I go home?" he asked, turning huge, pleading eyes on Lee.
The physician tapped her lower lip with one finger, brows drawn low as she considered. "You have someone home to help you? Besides the Colonel?" Blackwood nodded eagerly; he'd have sworn to anything at the moment. Perceptibly unconvinced by the enthusiastic reply, Lee smiled gently. "Maybe tomorrow then, more likely the day after. Depends on how you do."
Another two days in this place? Harrison tried another pleading look, eliciting absolutely no response whatsoever. He lay back on the pillow, resigned. "Terrific."
"It will go swiftly, Harrison." She gave him another friendly pat and glanced at the dividing curtain, the smile fading by degrees into a scowl. "Now I must see to your friend." She made to rise but stopped at the hand on her arm.
"How bad is he hurt?" Harrison gestured towards the other bed, his voice barely a whisper and a knot in his gut. Drugged or not, the fear of loss loomed like a massive shadow, just over his shoulder. He swallowed heavily, striving to keep the trembling out of his voice. "Is he...?"
"Don't worry -- he will also be fine. Better than you, even -- he is leaving the hospital this afternoon." Blackwood released her then and she left the bed to disappear around the curtain; Martha winked and followed. "I don't want any trouble from you, Colonel," Lee warned, drawing the curtain to. "The sooner I am finished here, the sooner your visitors can come in."
"Visitors?" Ironhorse asked warily.
"Quiet. Open wide."
Harrison grinned at the response to that, then sighed to himself. Two days. He'd have to endure General Wilson's debriefing, of course -- who else could it be waiting to see him? The man would want every detail of the mission from the time Norton had first noted the multiple alien deaths later attributed to the alien android. Reality twisted in his mind, his consciousness seeking to withdraw from the ache remembering caused. Some events were blurred, the edges dulled by shock and grief -- the twenty-four hours during which they had believed Ironhorse dead, for example, was a total blank. Other moments shone with a supernatural clarity: he had only to close his fingers to feel cold flesh or to smell blood, and Suzanne's dead eyes would haunt Harrison Blackwood for the rest of his natural life. The firefight in the great chamber could have lasted no more than ten minutes; yet, each separate sensation was experienced as though in slow motion, one minute lasting a million years of time. Like Khe Sahn. A million nights long.... exactly as Ironhorse had described it -- the waiting to die.
But he hadn't died ... only wished he had. Blindly Harrison swiped at his cheeks, his hands coming away wet. In the space of perhaps ten minutes, he had lost more than he had since ... 1953.
"When they killed my parents." Like magic the sorrow loosened its hold, allowing a dull burning hatred to fill his innermost heart, hot enough to evaporate the tears from within. "The aliens took away my family again," he murmured, choking on the words. "Now it's my turn." Music sang lightly in his ears, its rhythm fury, its melody retaliation. He clenched his fist in a silent vow, turning his face heavenward. They're going to pay, he swore. No matter what the cost, I won't stop until every one of them melts into oblivion.
He glanced up when Dr. Lee threw open the dividing curtain, dire fantasies breaking under the sight of a flustered looking Ironhorse glowering back at a just as annoyed Martha. "Oh, very well," Lee was saying in a disgusted tone. "But when that arm hurts you bad enough, then you'll wish you had taken the shot when I offered it." She swung on Harrison, almond shaped eyes flashing dangerously. "He is so ... so meshuginah!"
Harrison's brows rose in unison. "Meshuginah?"
The woman shrugged sheepishly. "My husband is Jewish. I think it fits him." She glowered again at the seemingly unaffected Ironhorse. "Martha, tell our visitors they can come in now."
"Yes, ma'am." Martha disappeared carrying her tray and was soon replaced by the stocky figure of General Henry Wilson, closely followed by Sergeant Nora Coleman, both of whom were in civilian garb.
Wilson crossed immediately to Harrison's bedside, broad face breaking into a smile. "Dr. Blackwood! Good to see you're finally back with us." He courteously offered his left hand, sharp blue eyes boring into the physicist's own. "We weren't sure you were going to wake up at all for awhile there. And considering ... er ... obvious possibilities, we had cause to wonder if there were ... reasons." Extra-terrestrial reasons, was the unspoken addition to the thought.
Good enough reasons to eliminate me permanently, was what Harrison interpreted. Par for the course. "Be out of here in a day or so," he returned the greeting warily, braced, knowing what was to come and actually glad for the numbing effect of the painkillers.
"Perhaps a day or so," Lee corrected firmly. She cast the newcomers a curious look but asked no questions. "Probably two or three."
"Perhaps a day," Wilson echoed sympathetically. He nodded genially at Ironhorse. "How about you, Paul?"
Undisturbed at being seen half naked in front of the pretty female non com, Ironhorse swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. "I'm being released this afternoon. Hand me that robe, Nora." The Sergeant's first name sounded odd coming from Ironhorse, though Harrison understood the reason for the lack of titles in public. Need to know, he thought sourly.
Coleman held the robe while Ironhorse slipped it on carefully over his wounds. "I'm picking him up at fifteen hundred, sir," she added, stepping back around the bed to stand at her commander's shoulder. "I'm authorized to sign him out."
Harrison watched them dully, envious at the chance to leave this place. With a jolt he switched mental gears, pulling his drug wandering attention back to the waiting older man. "General, I'm sorry about...."
Wilson cut him off with a raised hand and a quirk of his white brows. All four turned to stare at Lee, who, to her credit, took the hint at once. She turned on her heel, pausing when she was only inches from the tall Nora Coleman. "I want you all to appreciate that Dr. Blackwood has been unconscious for the past two days," she admonished, not backing down from the other woman's scowl. "I will not permit him to be overtired on his first day awake."
Coleman's fine lips parted to deliver what they all knew would be a crushing reply; Wilson gainsaid that by waving one arm agreeably. "We understand, Doctor," he boomed. "We won't be staying long." Lee studied him another moment, then left, lab coat swirling around her shapely legs. Wilson waited until she'd gone, then gestured an order at Coleman, who shut the door. "The room was swept this morning," he explained in a low voice. "It should be secure enough for a preliminary report." He tipped his head at the physicist. "You were saying?"
Harrison cleared his throat, trying to speak around the lump there. "I'm sorry about..." He swallowed hard. It didn't help; his voice grew husky. "...about Suzanne. She was very dear to us."
"As you were to her, Doctor." Wilson met the too-bright blue gaze, unashamed by the pain brimming in his own eyes. "We talked often about you -- about both of you. She ... cared very much."
Silence fell, each man lost to his personal remembrances. Finally the spell was broken when Sergeant Coleman coughed politely. "Colonel, Omega Force has finished final clean up at the grounds; all evidence of the alien assault has been eradicated. No problem with the local police."
"Very well, Sergeant. What of the Synth?" The woman looked puzzled and Ironhorse hurried to add, "The android, Q'Tara?"
"Oh." The Sergeant shifted her weight from one foot to the other, in the unflappable soldier the equivalent of putting up a flare. "The Squad has transferred it to the Cottage. We're maintaining twenty-four hour guard until further notice. Sir."
Ironhorse looked thoughtful. "I've a suspicion my next question should be, under guard against what?"
Coleman squirmed again, fair cheeks reddening. "Uh ... the Air Force. Sir."
The Air Force?
Meaty features ruddy with annoyance, Wilson stood up and began to pace. "Department-9 again, Paul. They showed up yesterday demanding we turn the robot over to them."
"They didn't get her?" Harrison asked, alarm sitting him bolt upright despite an instant bout of nausea. "How did you stop them?"
"You have Sergeant Coleman to thank for that." Wilson nodded at the slender blonde, who had stopped squirming and was now returning a full glower. "From what I understand, she told the Captain in charge that if he took one step onto Cottage grounds she'd personally shove his test tubes up his--"
"Sir! I mean...." The woman cleared her throat nervously. "I took what action I thought appropriate to the situation. Sir."
Ironhorse regarded her impassively, though Harrison caught the twinkle in his eyes. "Yes, Sergeant, I'm sure you did." He turned back to Wilson. "Were you able to clear it with the White House, General? Or are we going to have to turn her over to the Air Force boys."
Wilson lifted both hands, waving them in vague circles. "That's still up in the air. We'll deal with it after the funerals."
"I ... yes, Sir." Ironhorse glanced at Harrison's stricken expression, then quickly away. He regained control of himself, managing to ask, "Have Norton's family been notified yet?" in a level tone.
"This morning. We were able to contact one of his brothers in Los Angeles. He's flying in to claim the body tomorrow afternoon."
"And ... Suzanne?"
Wilson drew his hand across his face and Harrison was struck by how old the man looked. He'd aged ten years since his last visit. "I tried to notify Cash McCullough through that rag he works for. He's on assignment in Africa -- won't be in contact for another two weeks."
Blackwood licked dry lips. "And Debi?"
"Debi knows." The older man reseated himself heavily. "She'll live with me, of course. I've already told my wife to expect us. She'll need family around her now."
"I agree." Harrison manfully attempted to stifle a yawn but it escaped anyway, making him realize just how weary he was. "I'm going to need a nap pretty soon."
"I should be going anyway." Wilson stood and headed for the door, followed a pace behind by the blonde sergeant. "Get some rest, gentlemen."
"But, General, your report?" Ironhorse started to stand, unwittingly using his more injured arm for support. He sat down again suddenly, loosing an oath.
"You should have taken that shot," Harrison commented dryly, feeling very little pain -- or anything else -- himself.
Wilson cocked a brow. "What shot?"
"Pain killer, General. It seems the good Colonel is going the stoic route." Ironhorse sent him a murderous glare which he blithely ignored. "Now as for myself, I've had a better time in the '60's; however, I don't object to a nice, legal...."
"Will you can it, Blackwood," the indian growled. "Good thing I'm getting out of here this afternoon; two days of listening to you babble, and they'd have to transfer me to a room with some padding."
"Just trying to make conversation." Harrison winked at the blond sergeant. She scowled. He sighed and gave up. Bunch of dead heads.
Inured by now to such arguments, Hank Wilson resumed his short trek to the door. "Come along, Coleman. These men need their rest. I'll arrange for someone to pick you up this afternoon, Paul; you can make your report over dinner tonight." With that they were gone leaving a vacuum in their wake.
"The General certainly knows how to get things accomplished," Harrison noted, unnaturally amused by a blob of pink plaster on the wall. Dead silence greeted the observation. "Come on, Ironhorse, you're not going to sulk, are you? Not when I heard a whole new batch of jokes...."
"Can it, Blackwood," Ironhorse repeated, turning his back.
Harrison fell quiet, not in a laughing mood anyway but willing to say anything to break the cloying silence that hung over the room. At this rate, he reflected wryly, it won't be the Colonel who needs a padded room, it'll be me.
***