The Clinic

by Cate Culpepper

  Brenna started to speak, stopped, then asked, “Jesstin, why were you sent to Prison?”

  Jess pulled herself from her thoughts with effort. “They don’t put that detail in patient charts, then?”

  “No. Just a statement regarding the life sentence, but not what it’s for. We’re supposed to assume everyone is dangerous.”

  “According to your Federal Tribunal, you’re wise to abide by that assumption, lass. I was convicted of killing two women.”

  Brenna’s hands stilled. “And you didn’t do it,” she said tonelessly.

  Jess was silent for a moment. “I was there when they were shot,” she said finally. “And I couldn’t stop it. It feels like the same thing.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jess summoned the last of her energies and ordered her thoughts. She tried not to hope for much. “Your Government considered one of those women a threat, Brenna. Dyan. She sat on Tristaine’s high council. So did I. Dyan was the leader of our warriors’ guild, our fighting force.”

  Brenna listened, closing Jess’s shirt.

  “An Army squad found Dyan on a night patrol, but she wasn’t alone. I was with her, and so was a young girl named Lauren. Dyan and Lauren were shot. I was arrested and charged with their murders.”

  Jess wasn’t watching Brenna’s eyes anymore. Too many nightmares replayed behind her own. “A Federal tribunal found me guilty in less than an hour.”

  “So Government troops shot two women on your high council,” Brenna repeated slowly, “and framed you for it.”

  “Lauren wasn’t on Tristaine’s council.” Jess shivered. “She was a kid. She just got in the way that night.”

  “Jesstin, make sense. Why would they do such a thing?” There was a strained note in Brenna’s voice. “How could the Army justify—?”

  “Seven of our grandmothers founded Tristaine, Brenna, generations ago. Refugees from the City. Today there are six hundred of us. Your women here are defecting in droves, lass. More come to us every day, from every borough, as rumors of Tristaine spread. And their daughters will find us too, in their time.”

  “Wait. Just wait. The Army is more than capable of bombing Tristaine to dust, Jesstin. Why would a Government that’s trying to preserve your village sink to assassinating children?”

  “Think, Brenna.” Jess struggled against a rising need to convince this girl. “Your Government isn’t interested in protecting Tristaine’s heritage. There’s only one reason the Army has spared us so far. If they wipe us out, we become legend. We’ve taken root in the public imagination, lass. Tristaine would be remembered as home to hundreds of martyrs. Movements have been launched on less. Your Government can’t abide—”

  “It’s not my Government,” Brenna said evenly. “The Government I know doesn’t ambush innocent women in the middle of the night.”

  “Dyan was dangerous. They were right about that.” Jess felt the sludge of hopelessness fill her. Brenna’s confusion leaned toward skepticism. It was all over her face. “She was brilliant, and she knew how to fight. She would never have allowed Tristaine to be assimilated. They thought they could kill the snake by cutting off its head.”

  “Enough, Jess. I shouldn’t have asked. Just rest for a moment.” Brenna went to the sink and washed her hands, grateful for the distracting sound of the tinny water rushing from the tap. There were reasons medical staff weren’t told about a prisoner’s criminal record. What had she expected? Candor? An admission of guilt? Why should a dark conspiracy theory surprise her? She turned off the water with a wrench of the spigot.

  She busied herself with a tray of medications from the Clinic pharmacy. She didn’t see the labels on the small glass bottles until she made herself focus. Then she lifted one and read it, frowning.

  “This isn’t what I ordered.” Brenna turned to see Jess regarding her. “It’s an antiseptic for your arm. Your shoulder.”

  She showed Jess the small bottle. Jess eyed the label politely, then arched one dark brow.

  “Sorry.” Brenna smiled uneasily. “It’s tecathenese. It’s very potent. It’ll do the job, I guess, but there’s at least a dozen other antiseptics I’d rather use.” She paused as a wave of bleak resignation ghosted across Jess’s features. “It’s going to sting like hell.”

  Jess sighed. She was sick of being tortured by little girls, even conflicted ones. “Thanks for warning me. It helps, sometimes, if I can brace myself a bit.”

  “Does it?” Brenna asked softly. “Most people are the exact opposite, I’ve noticed. You wouldn’t think so, but being surprised by pain is actually less traumatic than—” She made herself stop babbling and saturated a sterilized cloth with the astringent liquid.

  She bent over Jess, and the dark head jerked infinitesimally away from her hand a fraction of an inch. Brenna accepted the flinch for what it was, without comment, and felt another stone lodge in her belly. She remembered her early days of training, before her transfer to the Federal program, when the guiding principle was to do no harm. She focused on the burns left by the stunner on Jess’s shoulder.

  They were not especially ugly wounds, but Brenna felt her throat tighten again when she saw the beautiful emblem of Jess’s clan obscured by blisters and some bruising in an area about the size of a quarter. The skin around it looked flushed and tender.

  “Your type of skin doesn’t scar easily, Jess. The design should be clear again when this heals.” She folded the dripping cloth in half and laid it on the marks.

  Jess’s assaulted nerves awoke with a vengeance. True to its reputation, the tecathenese was as scathing as acid. She jerked her head off the padded surface of the chair and clenched her fists in the restraints.

  “Hey,” Brenna said sharply. She pressed a hand to her waist. “Sorry, you startled me.”

  “Bracing myself didn’t work,” Jess gasped.

  Brenna waited, wanting a drink so badly she trembled. When her patient’s breathing returned to normal, she made herself take a clinical look at the wound. “I think I got it well covered. We’ll let it air tonight. I’ll bandage it in the morning.”

  She pulled the white cotton blanket over Jess’s chest and then clicked off the overhead floodlight. Half-blinded, Brenna made her way around the bed and moved toward the door. The weary voice behind her stopped her, but only briefly.

  “Do you know the next protocol, Brenna?”

  “No.” Brenna didn’t, and she didn’t want to. The next protocol was where it bloody well belonged, several flasks and dreamless hours away. “Get some sleep, Jesstin.”

  Chapter Three

  The answering machine was just ending its metallic greeting as Brenna keyed open her door. She wrestled the two slender, brown-bagged bottles to her kitchen counter, but not with any real haste. The skree of the recording signal skewered her aching temples. She took one of the bottles with her and settled on the couch.

  “Hey. This is your pregnant sister. I know you’re home, you’re always home. You need to let me know if you think you’ll make it to this barbecue or not. Matt’s gonna invite his friend Sheila, but only if you come. She’s gorgeous, by the way. I don’t want Matthew to risk poisoning her with his toxic chili sauce unless there’s a good medic around.”

  There was a pause, and Brenna rested her head on the back of the couch, rolling the acid flood of vodka over her tongue. Her eyes closed at the wistful note in Samantha’s voice.

  “Bree, it’s been a while. We said nothing would change, right? You know Matt’s crazy about you. You can come over anytime. Like, every day would be nice, once this kid is born. We’ll always get you home by curfew. Is that what you’re worried about?”

  “Ah, Sammy,” Brenna sighed.

  “So pick up a phone already.” Her sister’s tone lightened. “We owe you a steak for helping us fill out all those pregnancy permits. Hey, you want us to invite your new boss to the barbecue too? We saw a profile of her on the news last week, and she looks really…well, shrewish, frankl
y, Bree, no offense. We’ll give her extra chili sauce. You haven’t told me anything about your new unit. Geez, it’s been that long since we—”

  The machine’s rude screech cut off the sweet music of Samantha’s voice and left Brenna in the ticking silence of her small studio.

  It was standard Government issue, a well-constructed but strictly functional cubicle. She had made a halfhearted gesture toward decorating when she first moved in, but the laws governing the production of art limited consumers to a depressingly drab roster of generic prints and paintings. Samantha kept bringing her houseplants, but they all gave up the ghost eventually because Brenna forgot to water them.

  The wall above her desk, the focus of the room, was adorned only with the neat, framed diplomas and certificates that marked her professional milestones. In contrast to the rest of the studio, which featured a neglectful haze of dust, Brenna’s desk was pristine and gleaming.

  She let out a shaking breath and sank lower on the couch, willing her shoulders to relax. She passed more of her nights here, now, on the sagging comfort of the sofa and with the numbing solace of liquor, in the six months since her assignment to the Clinic. It didn’t look like her first patient in the Military unit would change that pattern much, but she found it difficult to care.

  Brenna swirled the drink in its juice glass, then downed it and let her mind drift. She thought of riding, oddly enough. Not riding itself, at first. A City girl, she’d only seen pictures of horses.

  A brown mare, nuzzling its spindle-legged foal in the confines of a fenced corral. The warm breath of mother and child puffed twin plumes of steam in the cold morning air. Then the mare heard the trumpeting call of a stallion, and her head rose sharply, ears pricking. She dipped her muzzle to her foal in farewell, then loped across the corral and soared over the splintering four-rail fence. Her pounding hooves brought her closer to the beautiful black horse, prancing in a distant meadow.

  Then Brenna was astride the stallion, riding it, feeling the shimmering power of the beast between her thighs. They flew down the twisting trail of a mountain path, breathing in the clean scent of pine as one creature. Brenna’s hands were light on the stallion’s pistoning neck, and her heart filled with such alien joy that her eyes, closed against the worn fabric of the couch, brimmed with tears.

  The spear came from nowhere, plunging deep into the black horse’s massive chest. The beautiful animal stumbled as its heart was impaled by the iron point—and seemingly Brenna’s heart as well. She sobbed once, bereft, and then the stallion staggered, pitching her over its head toward the crumbling edge of a stone bluff…

  A horrible buzzing woke Brenna. The ringer on her phone was set at high volume, should something happen with a patient in the night. Part of Brenna’s sludged mind recognized that night had apparently come and gone, but mostly it focused on silencing the cranium-rattling telephone. She lurched across the studio and snatched the receiver from its cradle.

  “Brenna?” It was Charlotte’s nasal, faintly disapproving voice. Caster’s secretary was all but universally hated, and calls like this were why. “You do realize rounds are half over, don’t you? It’s almost ten o’clock.”

  Brenna squinted at the wall clock over the phone. “I meant to call in, Charlotte. Please give my apologies to Caster, but I’ve been hit with a nightmare virus or something—”

  “Just a moment, please.” There was the muted tapping of computer keys, and Brenna imagined an alley cat stalking haughtily across her nerve endings. “Brenna? Excuse me, but are you aware that you’ve used…more than half of your annual leave, in the twenty-six weeks you’ve been with us? Caster tries to be flexible with her staff, but…”

  Brenna felt an unwilling flicker of fear in her gut, as well as irritation. Her absences would be tracked carefully from now on. Her hand drifted to her throat. She remembered the feel of Jess’s strong neck cupped in her palm, and she shuddered. She couldn’t go in today.

  “Brenna?”

  “Thank you, Charlotte. I’ll keep it in mind.” Brenna summoned the wettest, most snot-filled sneeze ever sprayed into any mouthpiece. “Please tell Caster I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  She fumbled the receiver back in its bracket and sank onto the bar stool next to the phone. Her reflection in the side of a silver kettle on the stove was thankfully distorted. Her skin held a gray pallor, and her short hair stood up in haphazard spikes.

  Brenna rested her head on her arms as a thumping headache and queasiness asserted themselves. She thought of the medicated patches in the bathroom cabinet. She could stick one on her arm and banish her misery in minutes. She wondered who had bandaged Jesstin’s shoulder that morning before she faced another day without painkillers.

  She banished the thought quickly and went to hunt through the sofa cushions for her juice glass.

  *

  Brenna pushed up the sleeves of her white coat, backed open the door to the detention cell, and came to a startled halt. Jess was sitting upright on the side of the recliner, unrestrained and fully dressed in fresh Prison blacks. Brenna fumbled for the stunner clipped to her belt, then slipped her hand into her coat pocket to disguise the motion.

  “Your witch doctor opted to spring me.” Jess’s low voice was toneless as she shucked up one boot. “She figures you’ll use that thing if you have to.”

  “I will.” Among a dozen other emotions, Brenna felt muted relief. “How are you feeling, Jesstin?”

  “I’m fine.”

  And her patient did look all right, physically. The thick layers of Jess’s hair were clean and soft against her neck, and the sunburn had gentled to a golden bronze. Her shoulder was neatly bandaged, and she pulled on her other boot with no evident pain. Her angular features were expressionless, but virtually unmarked.

  Brenna consciously did not flinch as Jess lifted herself off the restrainer. The Amazon moved slowly, as if to avoid alarming her.

  “Caster was just here.” Jess flipped her collar up beneath her hair. “We’re expected to join her in the arena.”

  After a moment of silence, during which Brenna made no move toward the door, Jess lifted an eyebrow.

  “Jesstin,” Brenna began.

  Jess waited.

  “I’m Clinic staff. All right?” Brenna hadn’t realized she would be making this speech, but she let it emerge, speaking slowly and clearly, as if to a dim child. “This is how I make my living. I’m alone. I pay all the bills. I’ve worked hard for what I have. Placements like this don’t come along often, not in this economy.”

  Jess nodded.

  “I’m just saying I’ll do what’s necessary, Jess.” Brenna lowered her voice. “I may not like an order, but I’ll carry it out. I don’t have a choice.”

  “No need to apologize.”

  “This isn’t an apology.” Brenna furrowed her brow. “I don’t owe you an explanation. I just wanted to tell you what to expect, before we go out. And just…that I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Okay.” She turned toward the door.

  “Bren,” Jess said softly. “In Tristaine, there are always choices.”

  Brenna opened the cell door and waited for the prisoner to precede her.

  *

  Brenna’s nerves tightened again as soon as they entered the arena. Seven rather large men, dressed in fighting gear—helmets and body pads—stood clustered at one end of the workout grounds. They were Clinic orderlies, most of them. Brenna recognized Dugan and a few others from day shift. The rest wore the gray uniforms of the guards in the adjoining Prison.

  As soon as Caster saw Brenna and Jess come through the gate, she waved them nearer with her clipboard. “Here they are, at last. Is the camera ready, Stuart?”

  “Ready.” A bespectacled assistant from Caster’s unit squinted into a video camera mounted on a tripod.

  “Glad to have you with us again, Brenna. Jesstin, I think you know the drill here.” Caster gestured toward the center of the arena. “You’re
to meet these fighters in hand-to-hand combat, yes?”

  “Wait a minute.” Brenna looked from Jess to the waiting men. “She’s fighting them?”

  “She’s going to take them all on,” Caster confirmed. “One at a time, to begin with. Mr. Jodoch, are you ready?”

  The big acne-scarred orderly lifted a hand and trotted forward. He carried a small club studded with spikes.

  “Hold it. I don’t like this.” Brenna put out an arm and stopped Jess. “That guy’s armed. Doesn’t she get a weapon?”

  “No, Brenna. Jesstin’s specialty is openhanded fighting.” Caster gave her a chiding look. “If you’d been at yesterday’s briefing, dear, you’d be on the same page with all this. Just a minute, Jesstin.”

  Jess had moved past Brenna’s arm and started toward the fighting field. She looked back.

  “Shirt off, please,” Caster called.

  A sardonic expression crossed Jess’s face, but she seemed neither rattled nor surprised. She unsnapped her shirt and slipped it off her wide shoulders, baring her breasts. Their paleness contrasted vividly with her tanned belly and throat.

  “Partial nudity makes female subjects feel more vulnerable,” Caster instructed Brenna. “Besides, it’s much more authentic for an Amazon, yes?”

  One of the orderlies hooted obediently, but Jess ignored him. She tossed her shirt to the grass and walked toward Jodoch again, rolling her injured shoulder to loosen it, apparently relaxed with fighting shirtless.

  “I believe we’re ready, Stuart!” Caster brushed a leaf from the lapel of her white coat, then gave her sprayed coiffure a careful pat. She cleared her throat and faced the video camera with a tight smile.

  “Madam Undersecretary, Dr. Aldin, General Lorber…ladies and gentlemen. Good morning.” Caster’s dulcet voice was formal as she addressed the lens. “The date you see below this frame marks the opening of clinical trials for Military Research Study T-714, Phase One. Please take a moment to consult our prospectus.”