Charalee
The smile faded from her lips as her sister left the Medical wing. Charalee winced as she adjusted herself. She'd been delayed endlessly, through the stupidity of the Compound's design and the interfering of others. That Senton had been here, resurrecting her ire, only made it worse. And Ann? A waste of the family name. Never had Charalee been quite as embarrassed by her sister as she was now. No audacity, no ambition. The woman squandered whatever gifts she'd gained by being a Timpson, and now she was off to do her sister's errand. That, at least, made Charalee marginally more content. Her sister was so easy to manipulate. Now that the power situation was taken care of--or about to be, assuming that Ann didn't screw that up, too--Charalee could focus on getting to the Hangar. She had her final piece to include in the Portal's protocols--the whole reason she was there as an Envoy--and then she could be free of this cesspool. What a horrible planet. She'd never felt so dirty in all her life. Being around so many people, with the filth just outside the windows, made her feel agoraphobic and claustrophobic at the same time. The second the Portal was charged, she'd be freed of Prospero. Let those in her way suffer the consequences. She was getting out, and nothing was going to stop her. "How are you feeling?" asked the medic who had administered to Ann. "Leave me alone," said Charalee, irritated at the interruption to her ruminations. "No need to get snippy," said the medic, firing up something on her aedee. "You're not in a position to get too bent out of shape. We know next to nothing about these creatures' poisons, and you got a fair enough dose in your bloodstream. The fact you're still alive is in some ways surprising." The medic checked the nutrient bag that was connected to her skin-sheath. "You should be grateful." "To you?" Charalee couldn't keep the disdain from her voice--mostly because she didn't want to. "Well," said the woman slowly, "I was the one who heard you on the other side of the door. I was the one who managed to get it open. So, yes, on a certain level, you definitely owe me that." Charalee snorted. "You're straightforward." "I'm a doctor. It's best that I am." "Doctor." Another snort. The woman arched a black eyebrow. "You don't approve of my training?" "I'm fine, Doctor. I need to be going." Charalee made to get up, wincing as the movement again jarred the wound on her head. "I have an appointment." "Much as I'd like a spikey-mouthed patient like you to be well and on her way," said the medic, putting out her hand and gently pushing Charalee back into her bed, "I can't, in good conscience, let you leave. Appointment or no." "Don't touch me!" The violence of her cry was louder than she expected, but what did she care? Her injury pulsed in her head, forcing pain deeply into her--lighting up her mind and bones with agony. Charalee shoved past it. It was a scratch and this "doctor" wanted her to sit around like an infant while Charalee's chance to get free of this hellhole diminished. Not likely. "Listen," said the woman, her voice lacking all of the ameliorating tones she'd used before. "You're sick. We don't know what this toxin will do to you. It could affect you now, later, or maybe never. It seems to be interfering with your cognitive functions, and preliminary tests show that your body isn't doing much to shut down the invaders. So you're not only injured, you could also be a liability for everyone else. We don't know how this would mutate, if it's contagious, or anything about it at all." "What about the evacuation?" "We're safe enough here, for now. We'll be better off staying in the Medical wing and waiting for help than trying to pull a bunch of wounded people to the Hangar." Charalee grimaced. "You're not going to the Hangar?" "That's what I said." "Oh, I don't think so," said Charalee, her voice low. "You're not in the position to--" But the medic never had a chance to explain what Charalee was in the position to do, as Charalee lashed out with one hand, cracking the woman across the jaw with a vicious left hook. The woman crumpled, taken completely unawares, and slumped to the ground. A shout at the attack from one of the crew made Charalee move faster. She didn't have time to waste with these idiots, and she wasn't really in the mood to explain herself, either. Yanking the tube from the catheter-connector on her skin-sheath's harness-interface, Charalee stepped over the unconscious medic and headed toward the door. A couple of people cried out in fear as she came close to them, but for the most part, the patients found other things--their own problems, if they were smart--to focus on. The closest Security crewmember stopped a couple meters away, her hand out to slow Charalee but the other resting warningly on her holstered weapon. To Charalee's left, one of the other crewmembers brought up his aedee-rifle, targeting the Envoy. "I'm going to have to ask you to get down on your knees," said the woman member. "Put your hands on your head." "I'm not interested in that," said Charalee, not even breaking stride. The security woman put herself between Charalee and her path. "You're under arrest until--" Triggering a squirt of strength via her skin-sheath, Charalee's muscles tensed with augmented power. She knocked the woman's hand to one side, grabbed her by the throat, and jerked the woman as if she were a doll. There was an audible cracking noise and the security woman slumped in Charalee's grip. "Freeze!" shouted the security guard. Standing in between the different medical beds--all of which were occupied with frantic and frightened invalids--the crewmember couldn't risk a shot going astray. But, at the same time, he'd just witnessed his co-crewmember die. Charalee thought she could hear some anger and pathos in the man's orders, but she didn't care to truly parse it out. Holding the dangling, head-lolling corpse in front of her, she walked steadily to the door. Once clear of the aisle of the sick and injured, Charalee stalked toward the crewmember. Now that she wasn't close to the injured, the man opened fire. The whole idea was ludicrous. Not only did she have the corpse as a shield, but she was wearing a military-grade skin-sheath. The thing would be able to absorb and disperse almost any velocity of bullet that weapon could spit out, and Charalee would hardly feel it. A couple of shots hit the armored back of the crewmember's mate, but then the man realized the futility. She heard him jabber into his aedee that he needed backup, that they had a crewmember down, and they needed to get to the Medical wing as quickly as possible. Sneering, Charalee began to run, then spun in a brisk, sharp circle. Hurling the sixty kilo woman into her friend with that much force caused additional cracking--though whose bones broke, Charalee neither knew nor cared--and a deflated whompf from the man as he collapsed beneath the tangle of dead limbs. Charalee stepped onto the woman's back, bent over, yanked free her weapon, and check its type. This one--unlike the aedee-rifles--could be used by anyone. That was good. It meant she didn't have to worry about it not working. The male crewmember stirred and groaned, but that cut short as she fired a tight shot into his forehead. The smell of burning ozone and carbonized blood wafted toward her. "You were in my way," she said matter of factly. "I didn't appreciate that." A rustling her drew her attention, but too late. A heavy body tackled her from behind and she lost her grip on the gun as she toppled to the concrete floor. The stale stench of the assailant's hot breath punched her as much as the man's--it was clearly a male, based solely upon the amount of grunting he was doing--fists were. Stars burst behind her eyes when one of his punches landed on the left side of her face. The icy-hot agony of the recently-healed wound reopening sent a shock of pain from the tip of her skull to the right kneecap, glancing off a spasm in her heart. The world swirled. Charalee could taste blood. Charalee didn't have time to calculate much, so instead of planning anything, she triggered her skin-sheath to release an electric current. It normally was set to simply incapacitate the attacker, but she cranked it up to almost-lethal amounts--as far as the aedee would let her go. The man--a broad-chested fellow who was now missing an eye and a nasty gash in his shoulder told Charalee why he was in the Medical wing in the first place--chewed his tongue as the electrical current coursed through him. Convulsing on the ground, he dropped to one side, frothy blood dripping from his mouth. His eyes glazed, but it looked like he was still breathing. Sucking in her own ragged breaths, Charalee regained her feet, picked up the gun, and looked around for any other would-be heroes. The Medical wing stared at her in mute terror. "Quite the day, isn't it?" she asked, her voice raw from the screaming she'd done (when had that happened? She couldn't remember). Smiling, blood from her reopened wound seeping through her hair and painting the side of her face with a crimson sheet, Charalee pointed the gun at the unconscious man. She pulled the trigger. A moment later, stumbling out of the Medical wing's triage bay, Charalee steadied herself on the wall away from the door. The coppery taste of blood was thick in her mouth, and she found it hard to breathe. If she wanted to survive--and she definitely wanted to survive--she needed to get free of this place. There would be medicines on a spacestation that would help her. There was nothing on Prospero that would do anything for her except make her worse. She could feel that in her soul, in her deepest heart. There was nothing for her here. She had to press on. Sucking in another deep breath, she began jogging. The attack from the wounded man hadn't hurt--the skin-sheath protected her from that sort of thing--but taking that punch had messed her up. More than once, she found she had to stop to let a wave of dizziness pass. She didn't want to spend too much time heading toward the Hangar, but she also couldn't faint…not if she wanted to escape. The sounds of pursuit drifted into her ears. Someone was following her. Cursing quietly, she slipped down one of the hallways, unsure of where it would lead her. A door blocked her path. She still didn't have the aedee protocols to open anything on Prospero. "Shit," she said. The sounds of pursuit continued. Glancing around, she saw that there was only a small protuberance from the wall that would give her shelter. If they were looking for her, there wasn't likely a chance that they would miss seeing her, even if she pushed herself tightly against the wall. She adjusted her grip on the weapon. She could shoot her way out. The skin-sheath would take a lot of the punishment they could mete out, and though she'd be in worse shape, she'd survive. Unless they hit her exposed face. Silently, she cursed the fact that she'd lost the helmet to that stupid lura in the tunnels. Of course, the helmet had saved her life, but that was what helmets were supposed to do. Berating herself for dwelling on this, she flexed her fingers and settled into a shooter's stance. She'd blast her way through, then… Then what? She still didn't know how to get to the Hangar. But if she didn't shoot her way through, it wouldn't matter either way, because she'd be in the Brig and what good did that do her? The plan snapped into her head, like a door dilating open. When the Security crewmembers turned around the corner, their weapons up, they were surprised to see Charalee, on her knees, the gun two meters in front of her, and her hands on her head. "Please," she said, her breathing ragged and tears, expertly feigned, on her face. "Please. Just don't take me to the Brig." Comments are closed.
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What is this?This is a NaNoWriMo project that publishes, day by day, the chapters I'm writing for 2017. If you're confused, go to Chapter 1 Ann and start there. ArchivesCategories
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