by Allie Marell
“Stop the vehicle. I will walk into the hospital from here while you park the car. We should not be seen entering together. Where are the cameras? I need to avoid them.”
“On all the major entrance and exit routes, I should imagine. As well as inside the hospital.”
“And metal detectors and bio scanners. Should I worry about those?”
“I don’t think they have metal detectors in the hospital.” She’s trying to drive and answer his oblique questions. He’s distracting her.
“Pull over to the side of the road. I will meet you inside.”
“Okay.” She casts him a concerned glance as she pulls over to the kerb. “You look as if you’re about to rob the place with that scarf over your face.”
Her comment was meant in jest, he saw that. “Do I look out of place?” Last thing he wants to do it stand out in the crowd.
“We could pretend you’ve got a cold and don’t want to pass it on to the patients. I’ll meet you by the main entrance.”
He thanks her silently for not questioning his request that they enter separately. How could she ever know the paranoia swirling in his mind? The cold brutality of a regime who took younglings from their homes to brainwash, turn into killing machines and then spit out when they had no further use for them?
This morning he was remiss to be seen at her side in the town, an action that might well drag her into Centrum Command’s dark web by association. He’s only here at the hospital because she insisted he come. She’s been good to him and he can give her this.
From now on, take more care.
He walks briskly away, threading into the crowd streaming to and from the hospital and the satellite buildings strung out along the busy road. A large square vehicle with flashing lights speeds past to dock at a bay where a male and female are waiting in white coats. Two people in uniform jump out of the vehicle. Run to open the back doors.
An injured or sick patient being delivered to the medical facility, by the sense of urgency. He wonders how sophisticated medicine and biotech are on this world.
By the front door, he turns his back on the blinking camera high on the wall and strides inside to a main reception area where females stand behind desks and medics, the sick and their visitors mill about. The scent of brewing coffee hangs in the air, mingling with the chemical tang of industrial cleaners and institutionalised food.
It’s the same all over the sector.
A serious-faced child trundles by in a wheeled chair, pushed by a male in a loose blue top and pants. The child looks up at him almost in hero worship as he passes, tipping back his head to whisper something to the male. The male smiles and shakes his head and Santar pulls the scarf further up onto his nose.
He’s relieved when Andra appears, dropping her car keys into the tote slung crosswise over her body. She lifts her hand in a wave and points to the stairs.
“Children’s ward is on the fourth floor. You up for the stairs?”
He’s almost forgotten the limp. It pains him, but he’s used to pain. Trained to push it to the back of his mind when required. On active duty, it was the task of the alpha core to run bio diagnostics and determine any necessary recalls to the medical facility. Here, he’s forced to heal by himself and hope he’s right in thinking he survived the crash with minimal injury.
On the trek upstairs, he thinks about the performance-enhancing drugs given to lend the troops an edge in battle and covert missions. So far he’s suffered no withdrawal symptoms, which is strange in itself. He’s adapted to this world far too easily for an alien from the far reaches of the sector.
A clattering tray dropped by a clumsy hospital worker shocks him out of his thoughts. Andra points to a door and the small container on the wall with the words, please sterilise your hands before entering. He copies her actions, holding his hands under the automatic spray, rubbing in the quick drying alcohol gel.
They wait to be buzzed into Ward 4b and immediately step from relative calm into a hive of younglings crying, juvenile voices shrieking, chattering and laughing. Males and females in white coats and various uniforms denoting medical rank bustle about amusing and medicating the youngsters in equal measure.
He turns more than a few heads as he walks by at Andra’s side. His height and physique, he supposes sets him apart. She leads him to a bay where three beds face a matching set of three, each of them partitioned by hangings now pulled back.
The walls are bright with characters and the kind of images designed to amuse the young.
Like William Chapman might have had on his own bedroom wall.
“Hi, Oliver.” Andra’s smile lights up the room, eliciting the same from the boy sitting propped by a stack of pillows, his leg encased in some sort of hard covering and suspended by a pulley system clamped to the end of the metal bed.
A wave of unexpected sympathy washes over Santar. He grips the bag, the sympathy soon replaced by guilt.
“Hi.” The child is in pain, it’s written plainly on his wan face. Hair almost as dark as his own hangs lank over bright blue eyes that despite his predicament, shine with hope. Andra bends to kiss the soft cheek, laughing when the boy encloses her with both arms in a throttling hug.
“Johnny Eldon came in this morning. He signed my plaster cast.” The boy points proudly to the words scrawled onto the white casing holding his injured leg together.
On the ride over, Andra had explained the child’s injuries in more detail than was necessary and yes, Santar knows her game. She’ll do anything to get him to part with General Jo and this visit is simply another salvo in her offensive.
He has to admit, watching them hug, seeing the extent of the young boy’s incapacity, he almost relents and hands it over there and then.
No, for now, he needs the toy as much as the child. If he keeps it close, the answers will come. If he hands it over, he might never know why it sparked such a reaction when he bumped into Andra at the market. Might never discover whether they met by chance or destiny.
“Johnny Eldon?” Andra says, imbuing her voice with a suitable weight of awe. “From The Magic Game Show? Oh, he’s my favourite. I wish I’d been here.”
She turns to him, standing waiting to be introduced. “Eldon’s a kid’s TV star. Oliver loves the show.”
“He brought me candy too. Who’s this man?” The boy peers shyly around Andra. She’s fishing in her bag for the tiny replica vehicle she found in the used goods store.
“Oh, this is my friend, Santar. He’s come to say hello. Look, I bought you a car.”
Santar steps from Andra’s shadow into the cubicle, causing Oliver’s eyes to widen like full moons, the car lying ignored on his lap. His curious gaze rakes over Santar’s covered face, the coat and hat, the dark jeans tucked into his high military boots.
Santar raises an awkward hand. Specialist units dealt with the young, the raw recruits and trainees. He has little idea how to interact or converse with the child staring at him as if he possessed two heads instead of one.
“I knew it,” Oliver whispers to Andra. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
The child in the next bed, a female in a pink, furry one-piece, is too engrossed in a handheld gaming device to notice Oliver’s excitement. Santar looks behind him to make sure the celebrity hasn’t re-entered the ward. Finds only a medical orderly distributing orange and black coloured drinks from a wheeled trolley.
Andra pulls up a chair, indicates for Santar to do the same. The young female patient lifts her head, frowning. Her mouth broadens into a smile when Oliver nods at her excitedly and they exchange some unspoken agreement.
“Did you get my letter?” Oliver addresses him directly, his eyes full of sudden concern. “You did get my letter?”
“I don’t think you wrote Santar a letter.” Andra shakes her head. “That was to Santa, remember?”
“That’s what I said.” The child huffs as if she should know exactly what he said. “I sent Santa a letter about... You know.” His voice drops low at t
he end, as if this secret is between them alone.
“Oh.” Santar hears the sudden flash of understanding in Andra’s voice. He still has no idea why he should have received a communication from the child. Now, there’s more than a challenge in Andra’s eyes. She’s about to bring out the big guns, he can feel it.
“I might take a walk,” he says and makes to rise from the hard chair. Andra grasps his arm, physically restraining him from leaving, her grip steady and sure. Telling him without words to stay put.
He weighs up the chances of escape. The child is staring too hard at his unexpected visitor and he needs to lie low, to blend without incident. Better to sit still than risk drawing unwanted attention.
“You can surely stay for a moment? Where did you say you parked the sleigh?” Andra pretends to consider, then raises her eyes to the ceiling. “Oh yes, on the hospital roof.”
What in the name of Ogrin is she talking about? Santar’s aware there are juveniles present, medical staff going about their business. And security guards stationed in the corridors and reception areas. He does not wish to tangle with those.
All the while Oliver’s face lights up in unadulterated delight.
“I knew it the moment he walked in.” Oliver flashes him another covert glance. “He got it, didn’t he?”
Andra taps the side of her nose twice. The conspiratorial gesture of two beings sharing a secret. “Five sleeps to go, Oliver. You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Five sleeps to go. Santar’s chest constricts. That same memory is there in his own head and suddenly the air is too thick to breathe. He shakes off Andra’s hand and stands, heaving air into his lungs.
Stay calm, the younglings are watching. And so are the cameras.
“You’re not Santa.” The female in the next bed can’t be more than a few Earth years older than Oliver, yet her accusation holds a cynicism belying her tender age.
“He is so too,” Oliver retorts hotly. “You are Santa, aren’t you?” The boy turns from him to Andra. “You said he was Santa. His sleigh’s parked on the roof.”
It’s on the tip of Santar’s tongue to state his name loud and clear so no confusion remains. SA NT AR12. Officer and a covert operative of Centrum Command. Santar to you Earth folk. Something in the boy’s hopeful gaze stops him. Who is he to crush a young boy’s dreams?
Andra’s deriving far too much enjoyment from his predicament. Casually, her foot grazes the backpack. Santar slides it from her reach and clears his throat. The female child attempts to adopt a bored disregard for Oliver’s silly claim, but Santar catches her watching. Keeping her options open, he supposes, just in case he does turn out to be this mythical being Oliver is so enraptured by.
“I need to feed the...” What were they called? The hoofed animals said to pull Santa’s sleigh? He racks his brain, knowing Andra mentioned eight of the beasts back at the house. “I need to feed the rainbows. I may be some time.”
“Reindeer.” Andra issues the correction through gritted teeth. Too busy stifling her laughter to keep hold of him. Santar puts a suitable distance between them, stooping to scoop up the bulging backpack.
On the wall opposite Oliver’s bed he spots an image of the mythical being in red coat and hat, white scarf and high boots. The image superimposes in his mind onto the man reflected in the window glass beside the bed. In the injured boy’s eyes, all that’s missing is the long curly facial hair and Santa’s rotund girth.
“Yes. Reindeer. I need to attend before they start eating each other.”
He thought to make a jest. Obviously not judging by the young boy’s appalled expression.
“Kicking each other,” Andra chimed in. “Reindeer get very playful when they’re hungry.”
“Indeed. We would not wish to cause an unfortunate incident on the roof.”
Oliver’s leaning over to the cluttered table beside his bed, taking up a packet.
“Does Rudolph like sweets?”
Santar looks at Andra in appeal, floundering now. What or who is a Rudolph? She’s totally unapologetic in her teasing. He deserves it. She sits and lets him sweat for a while under the child’s enquiring gaze.
“I believe it might,” Santar says when no help is forthcoming.
“Can you give him this, Santar?”
Santar steps closer to take the wrapped candy from the boy’s hand. Such tiny fingers compared to his. Trembling and fragile as Oliver hands over the gift.
“The nurses say we can leave carrots out on Christmas Eve. And mince pies and milk because you’ll be hungry too.”
“That is a very generous offer.” Santar takes the sticky candy, crushing it in his palm. The young female patient is watching with the shuttered look of one who’s moved past childish fantasies and entered the real world of harsh reality.
The boy, William Chapman, was like Oliver once. Filled with excitement and hope. Untainted by cynical worlds.
“Santa, why don’t you go and feed those reindeer?” Andra’s voice gentles. She’s pushed him far enough for now. Squeezes his hand in understanding before she lets him go.
He turns, remembers to wave to the incredulous child and flees. Small arms lift in greeting as he passes other beds holding sick children. One of the medical staff flashes him a knowing smile when he presses the button operating the door release.
And a voice in the back of his head nags at him to do the right thing.
Give Andra the toy. The boy’s waiting.
But he can’t let go of it. Not yet.
Chapter 14
“Hey, Oliver.” Andra dragged her thoughts to the child in the bed, to his mother in another bed on another ward fighting for life. “Are you ready to visit your mummy?”
Two medical orderlies appeared, rocking homemade versions of the futuristic costumes worn by the actors of the children’s TV show who did the rounds this morning, signing casts, posing for photos and distributing early Christmas gifts.
They made a real effort to cheer up glum children stuck in the hospital at the most exciting time of the year. Andra rose from her chair, standing clear as they took the brake off the bed, ready to wheel it to the private room in the Intensive Care Unit where Emma lay asleep.
Or so Oliver thought. One of the orderlies made revving noises as they pushed the bed from the bay, making Oliver clutch the sheet and chuckle with glee. A good thing kids were so resilient or all this would have been too much to bear.
“Did you see him?” Oliver looked happier today at the prospect of visiting his mother. They prepared him as much as they could. Explained she was asleep for now while she got better. He didn’t have to go, but if he did, she would listen in her sleep and that would help her to wake up.
He wanted to go, but Andra had seen the confusion and dread in his eyes, too. It was a lot for a little guy to cope with.
“The Magic Game Show actor?” The orderly wiggled his hips like the character in the show. Something guaranteed to at least get a giggle. Oliver frowned.
“I saw Santa, too. He was here, didn’t you see him?”
“You mean your other visitor?” The orderly caught Andra’s eye, confused. Andra nodded slightly, telling him to go along with Oliver’s story.
“Yes. He was in disguise, but he was called Santa. It was definitely him.”
“Oh, that guy?” The second orderly winked at Andra. “I wouldn’t mind him climbing my chimney in the middle of the night.”
Andra coughed away the sudden laughter. Luckily, Oliver seemed oblivious to the outrageous double entendre.
“I think he got my letter.” Oliver nodded to himself. “I think he read it too.”
Andra almost didn’t want to ask. How did she let Oliver down gently if Santar did a runner with General Jo? He’d been upfront about deserting his post. If he had, the army would find him.
Which army and from which world was still a matter of debate.
She changed the subject hastily, glad for the orderlies who were more adept than her at enterta
ining bored young minds. She nipped to the bathroom while they negotiated the long corridors and stood leaning on the sink, wondering where Santar had bolted to. Thinking about the weird twists and turns her life had taken in the past couple of weeks.
Please don’t let him be causing mayhem in the hospital.
He mentioned metal detectors. Was the poor guy a mess of titanium rods and metal plates? What a reward for serving your country.
Right, happy face on. All that mattered for the next fifteen minutes was Oliver and Emma and working towards the day she awoke from the coma. His mother escaped with a few broken bones and a blood clot on the brain. Never regained consciousness after the operation to relieve the pressure. But the signs were good. Only a matter of time and a lot of luck.
Racing to catch up, Andra caught sight of the bed entering the elevator. Signalled for them to wait. Oliver had lapsed back to the anxious expression he wore around this stage in the journey across the hospital. Anticipation at seeing his mother, worry that she shouldn’t be lying there so still. Likening her to sleeping beauty had been a disaster when Oliver immediately asked if that meant his daddy was coming from Italy to wake her up.
Andra crossed her fingers, like she always did and prayed.
“There she is.” One of the orderlies clipped back the door. The other steered the bed into the room, parking it next to the sleeping woman.
No change. Andra’s heart dropped at the sight of the pale skin, the shallow breath. The tubes, wires, and beeping monitors. Was it worse for her as an adult with too many hours spent googling comas and head trauma? Did Oliver possess the resilience of youth that helped them cope better than adults?
“Oh.” He made a little sound in the back of his throat, his mouth forming a disappointed pout. “He didn’t read it.”
“Who didn’t, Oliver?” One of the orderlies raised a hand, signalling they’d be on call if needed. They tiptoed discreetly from the room, closing the door behind them.
“Santa. He didn’t read my letter.”