The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2012 B. V. Larson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612182322
ISBN-10: 1612182321
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I slowly became aware of my surroundings. I felt groggy and I knew I must have been drugged—probably for pain. I was lying in a bed. I knew I was in a hospital room, but I had no idea how I had come to be here. There was a TV mounted high on the wall in front of me, blaring with late-night infomercials. The TV tried in vain to sell me waffle irons, jewelry, and exercise equipment. Attractive, almost frantic people tried to get me to pick up the phone and call right now. The bluish, flickering light from the TV screen provided most of the illumination in the room. The door was closed and the curtains were drawn around my bed. Apparently I rated a single occupancy, as the bed to my left was empty.
I searched my foggy brain for information, but I found precious little there. I had names for all the furniture around me, and I understood the function of each item. But I did not know my own name.
Much of what we are exists in the mysterious realm called memory. Our identities reside there. Without memories, what are we? Virtually nothing. Since I had no memories, I decided to investigate my surroundings and build some new ones.
I stirred under my sheets and felt sharp, stabbing pains. I noticed an intravenous drip line taped to my wrist. I curled my lip at the IV. Here was the source of the drug fogging my brain. I thought vaguely of pulling out the needle, but it seemed like too much effort. I reached out, kinked the clear plastic tube that ran to the sliver of steel in my arm, and pinched it. The flow stopped.
I waited for several minutes, lying there and gathering my thoughts. I felt like sleeping again, but stubbornly refused to let my mind fade away. I knew if I did, that IV line would open and the fluid would run into my veins.
After a while, my mind began to clear. Carefully, I lifted away the sheet over my legs and inspected the damage. My parts were all there, but there was a hard cast on my right leg below the knee. I was pretty well mangled. I saw staples, sutures, dark scabs, and even glassy spots where they’d used glue to hold my flesh together. The scabs flaked away at my touch, revealing fresh, pink skin growing underneath. How long had I been here?
Still pinching the IV drip line, I forced myself into a sitting position. The world swam for a moment, then steadied. I noticed that someone had brought me a flower. I spotted it to my right on a tiny table. I turned my stiff neck from side to side, but didn’t see a phone in the room, or any sign of clothing more significant than the flannel smock I was wearing.
I looked at the flower again. Someone must have placed it there, either out of concern or kindness. Maybe it meant I had at least one friend in the world who cared. I tried to remember friends, relatives. I drew a blank. As the implications sank in, I began to worry. How much of my mind had I lost? Would it come back in time?
I looked at the flower one more time, seeking solace. Whoever had brought it, they must have done so a long while ago, because it was dead. The flower wasn’t a red rose—which would have left me hopeful of a romantic interest. It wasn’t pink, yellow, or even white. In fact, it wasn’t even a rose. It was a chrysanthemum. A big purple one. It had sagged over, its frilly head growing too heavy for the stalk as it expired. Dipping down like a weeping mourner, each of its long thin petals was tipped with crinkly brown.
I stared at the dead flower in its cloudy vase of green glass. How long would it take for a flower to die like that? Three days? A week? Somewhere in between, I guessed. In any case, the inescapable conclusion was that I’d been lying here in this hospital bed for quite some time.
There was a tiny note on the chrysanthemum, tied around its neck like a collar. It was written on folded purple paper and said: Hope you feel better—Holly. I wondered who the hell Holly was, but my mind produced no answers. Maybe she was the woman who had hit me and landed me here. Maybe she hoped I would lighten the lawsuit if she did the courtesy of sending me a flower. If so, she was in for a surprise.
By this time, I’d grown tired of pinching the IV line. I untaped the needle from my wrist, wincing as the adhesives plucked out fifty or so hairs from my arm. I found a box of tissues and wadded up a stack of them before pulling out the needle. It didn’t hurt much, but the blood flowed. I pressed the tissues against my wrist and muttered curses.
I got up at last and staggered around my bed in widening circles. My mind was still fuzzy, but it was clearing up fast. The cast on my right leg made walking difficult. I stretched painfully, and some of the stiffness left my body as I did so. I found a paper inside a plastic sheath hanging from the foot of my bed. Inside were a few printed facts. My name was Quentin Draith. It seemed like an odd name, but it did ring a bell. The rest of the sheet was a list of stats: blood gas numbers, dates, operations. I’d been here for ten days.
The door rattled. Some dark instinct within me caused me to release the paper in its plastic sheath and let it fall back into place. I flopped back, painfully, onto the bed. There was no time to pull up the sheets, so I didn’t bother. I did conceal the dangling IV line, however.
I didn’t move as the door swung quietly open. A figure stood there, watching. I opened one eye to a slit in the dimly lit room, and I watched her in return. The nurse had a fresh IV bag in her hand. The clear liquid inside gleamed in the light from the corridor behind her.
I had a hazy memory of someone coming in and changing that little bag of drugs now and then, whenever I showed signs of life. Perhaps this nurse was the culprit. I did my best to simulate deep sleep. I let my head loll on the pillow as convincingly as I could, even though it hurt to do so. The nurse hesitated for a long while, then finally closed the door quietly and left.
My eyes snapped open again and roved the room. For ten days they’d been drugging me, keeping me in this helpless state. How long did they plan to continue? Although I could not recall the details, I had the impression that my personal history was not one filled with happy events. I didn’t like depending on the kindness of
strangers.
I stood up again and dragged my leg to the door. I leaned heavily on the door when I got there. The window had security wire embedded in it, forming a pattern of diamonds. I peered out of the small, rectangular pane of glass into the quiet corridor beyond.
I tried the handle, applying gentle pressure to make sure it opened quietly. It only went down half an inch before it stopped dead. I looked down and rattled it gently. I realized with a cold feeling that I’d been locked in. I tried the bathroom door next, but that was locked as well.
I looked around the room with wide, staring eyes. A trickle of sweat went down the back of my neck. I hobbled back to my bed, dragging a leg that remained encased in a fiberglass cast. I was already thinking of escape, but the leg cast would make such a thing difficult, if not impossible.
I was uncertain what to do next. I tried to take stock of my situation. I was being drugged on a regular basis, which could be excusable immediately after an accident, but not a week later. I was locked in my room as well. What was going on?
I searched the room. All the basics were there: TV, water bottle, bedpan—but no phone. No windows to the outside world either. Digging in the bed on a hunch, I discovered something. A photograph lay tucked under the pillow. I had a vague memory of placing it there. But why?
I took a moment to examine the image. It was old, from the days before people printed such things in their homes. A young woman and a baby were tightly framed in the shot, plus most of a man wearing a white T-shirt. I couldn’t see his face, because he apparently had taken the picture himself by extending out his arm and trying to capture the entire family. He’d missed and cut off his own head above the chin. There was little else in the photo, as the people were too close to the camera and filled the frame.
I examined the photo, flipping it over and searching for a date. There was nothing. I didn’t recognize the people, and that upset me. Was this my mother? Was I the baby? I really didn’t know. The thought was disturbing because I’d so clearly made an effort to keep possession of the picture. Some previous version of me had considered it valuable. I took it with me, determined to hold on to it. I trusted the wisdom of my past self more than anyone in this place.
A new fear filled me as I pondered my situation further. What if I had awakened like this many times, only to be drugged back into sleep and forgetfulness? I knew there were plenty of modern anesthetics used by paramedics that erased traumatic memories from victims. Was such a drug being administered in my case? If so, why?
I frowned and decided to take matters into my own hands. I recomposed myself upon the bed and waited in approximately the same position I had been when the nurse had last looked in on me.
It didn’t take long. Less than ten minutes later, she was at the door again, peering in. This time, she didn’t retreat. She stepped inside, having obviously decided to freshen my drugs whether the old bag was empty or not. She was Hispanic, about thirty years old, and good-looking. Her brunette hair was cut short, but remained feminine. Her eyes were a reddish-gold rather than brown.
As she approached, my eyes snapped open.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“Oh, hello…,” she said. “I have to adjust your medication.”
I revealed the needle and the tube connected to it. The plastic tube drooped and the needle at the tip gleamed. “You mean this?”
“You pulled it out?”
“Apparently.”
She sighed. “We’re going to have to put that back into a fresh vein now.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t be difficult, Mr. Draith.”
“I’m known for being difficult,” I said, feeling in my bones it was true.
She licked her lips and eyed me for a moment. She took the old bag down from the hook over my bed. She examined it critically. “How long ago did you…? Your medication is dangerously low. You may be suffering from withdrawal symptoms.”
“Withdrawal? It’s far too early for that. What is that stuff you’ve been pumping into me, anyway?”
“The doctor does not appreciate this kind of—”
“Send him around then. I want to talk to him anyway.”
“She won’t be back until the morning shift.”
I nodded. “Good enough, but tell her to hurry. I’ll be checking out today.”
“What?” she asked, shaking her head. “That’s impossible. You’ve got seven broken bones and there was internal bleeding. I can’t understand how you’re able to sit up.”
“I always heal fast,” I said. For some reason, I could remember that detail of my previous life.
“Mr. Draith, your lack of cooperation is not appreciated. I have a hard enough job here without this nonsense. I have a fresh needle, and we’re going to start this line again now.”
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head.
“Are you afraid of needles or something?”
“I’m only afraid of what people can put into them.”
I stared into her face, and she looked troubled for a moment. I took the time to read her name tag.
“Miranda,” I said. “Don’t get yourself into more trouble than you’re already in.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed again. She moved her hands quickly, and I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. She reached up and pressed a call button over my head. I moved to grab her wrist, but halted. What was done was done. I knitted my fingers behind my head and leaned back against the headboard.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I said.
I watched her lip-glossed mouth tighten. “You’re going to have your medication, Mr. Draith,” she said.
I gave her a confident smile in return. “We’ll see.”
The nurse left without another word. I stared at her as she exited the room, but I was too worried to enjoy the view. After she was gone, I wondered if I’d been a fool. Maybe I should have taken her hostage. The trouble was, I didn’t think it would work. I had no weapons—I didn’t even have clothes.
The next face to appear at the rectangular window was much less to my liking. Made all of harsh angles and beetling brows, the orderly had muscles that jumped in his cheek as he peered in at me. He rattled the door and opened it, watching me warily. I lay on the bed as before, seemingly relaxed and unconcerned.
He was dressed in ugly surgical green. He looked like a TV wrestler, and his face was acne-scarred. He stepped inside with the attitude of a man stepping into a tiger cage. I could have looked at his name tag, but I didn’t care to know his name. I simply stared at him, smiling with my mouth but not my eyes.
He let the door click behind him. Instead of needles, he had a tangle of black straps in his hands. The straps had a number of clips like those used on backpacks. There were two blue circles of thick cloth as well. Those, I imagined, were to go around my wrists. My heart accelerated in my chest.
“All right, Mr. Draith, give me your wrists,” he said.
“How much do they pay you for this?” I asked.
That threw him for a moment. He blinked at me. “What?”
“Keeping people drugged against their will. Illegally restraining patients—that sort of thing? I bet you have a long list of felonies on your sheet working here. They must pay you better than they pay the doctors.”
The orderly took two uncertain steps toward me and grimaced. “We’ve got ways of dealing with uncooperative patients such as you. There’s no crime in it.”
“All right then,” I said, sitting up. I lifted my bare wrists toward him. “Let’s do this.”
His eyes flicked from my face to my arms, which didn’t bulge with a power-lifter’s biceps but were reasonably athletic. He took another step forward, his frown relaxing a fraction. “I’m glad you have come to your senses, Mr. Draith. I certainly didn’t look forward to having to wrestle with you. The nurse thought you were going to be a problem.”
I let him put one hand on my wrist before I made my move. My other hand stab
bed up, thrusting two stiff fingers into the larynx. I pulled the blow slightly, using enough force to stun but not to break the delicate bones of the throat and possibly kill him.
He choked in shock and dropped the tangle of restraints. His free hand groped for his throat.
I took the opportunity to give him a hard kick. Lower leg casts are really only useful for one thing: turning your foot into a club. My fiberglass-covered foot connected with the orderly’s gut. Aiming really wasn’t difficult; his knees had flexed in reaction to the pain in his throat, and he’d lined himself up with my foot perfectly. I couldn’t miss. He went down with a woofing sound.
“You’re right,” he said a few moments later while sitting on the floor. “They don’t pay me enough.”
“I need my clothes,” I said. “I’m checking out early.”
The orderly recovered somewhat, and I saw rage in his face. I’d hoped to have knocked all the fight out of him by now, but I could see I’d failed.
“Fuck you, man,” he said, his voice rasping. He attempted to rise.
His left hand came up with a small canister. I knocked it down before he could spray me. Pepper spray, garden variety. Somehow, he managed to get some of it on his own forearms, and he howled about that. Still, he didn’t stop coming at me. I could tell if he got the upper hand, he wouldn’t stop with strapping me into bed. He’d keep going.
I felt a little bad for him as I repeatedly bashed his head with my cast and fists. In the end, I took his clothes when he lay sprawled on the floor. If I’d had my wallet handy I would have left him a tip. He was a dedicated man.
I took a card key from his belt. When the corridor outside looked empty, I popped open the lock.
I ran into the night nurse at the desk down the hall. It was Miranda, the same woman who’d sent the orderly in after me. She did a double take that was almost comical. By the time she realized who I was, it was too late for her.
She reached for something under the desk, but I twisted it out of her grasp before she had the safety off. It was a .32 automatic, a compact but deadly weapon. I didn’t aim it at her face, not wanting to be rude, but kept it between us. I leaned over her desk and talked to her in a low, earnest voice.
Technomancer (Unspeakable Things: Book One) Page 1