It was still day in New Rydynn, hot, as usual, and difficult to breathe even within the badly -- filtered air of the hospital. Ash moved up and away from the desk as the man entered the ER. She motioned to his arm as she moved toward him with a casual efficiency. "I take it you want that fixed?"
The cowboy laughed hoarsely. "Yeah, that would be nice."
She was already digging through the many pockets of her jump suit. "Uh huh..." She swept her arm in the direction of one of the curtained partitions.
"Damn Sheila ... let her get away from me ... stupid speed bumps."
A soft shuffling announced the entry of a woman, her left leg dragged slightly as she lurched into the hospital. Her overly rouged features turned this way and that. Her lined eyes took in her surroundings. The tatters of her hem trailed upon the immaculate floor of the clinic, and a fragile hand pressed against the tiled wall for support.
Still rummaging, Ash’s gaze alit on the creepy Trelnikk – man of her nightmares -- and the woman. The former crept in as usual, smiling, as usual and the latter looked worse than all the visions of death Ash had had put together. She gave up the search in her pocket – who knew what she was looking for anyway? And she probed at the cowboy's broken arm, her fingers competent. Speaking to Trelnikk without really looking at him … who could for long? … Ash said as kindly as possible, "Get yourself something to eat, the cafeteria's open." He blinked and crept off toward that room of the hospital.
"How are you with pain, hon?" She asked the cowboy.
"It don't bother me any, ma'am," he sighed.
Ash nodded but wasn’t sure she believed him. Ash continued to fiddle with the man’s arm, assessing the break. It was clean, there was no need for x-rays, which relieved her and wouldn’t put a drain on the hospital’s resources. "I trust you, but I'm still gonna give you a local. You've got a break and from what I can tell it's clean. Need to get that shirt off."
He nodded and pulled off the cowboy hat first, followed by the poncho which he gathered oddly and set down carefully beside the exam table. When he was done with that, he neatly draped his shirt on a nearby chair.
"No drugs."
"Your funeral."
"My philosophy."
"Okay, tough guy, on the table ... I trust you don't have objections to antibiotics?" Cracking her knuckles, the medic reached for a pair of rubber gloves.
The man chuckled and moved to the table. He jumped up and said, "No objections to those. I dislike infection." Staying awake and aware was apparently his main concern. Never could tell how much impact one of the hospital's "local" injections would have on a man.
A snort that turned into a slightly mocking smile was Ash’s retort. "As I suspected." He grunted and grew quiet. Ash worked, also in silence, for a time, looking very pensive and somewhat distracted.
Ash tried not to notice as a deep and phlegm-filled cough erupted from the other woman’s chest. She wheezed, trying to calm her fit of coughing. Ash glanced at her and immediately regretted having done so because the woman was searching the area for a waste receptacle in which to deposit the mucus she’d coughed up. The bulge in her cheek was the tell tale sign, followed by a loud spit as she found the can. Ash shook her head and looked away as the woman gripped the support rail that lined the walls.
When Ash was done, she helped the man back on with his shirt, but he told her he had the rest under control. Ash excused herself saying she had some work to tend to in another part of the hospital.
Regaining her composure, the woman with the cough straightened herself. Too-thin fingers brushed back a lock of lanky blond hair from her rouge-caked cheek. Limping, the sick woman crossed the clinic to the hall. Having visited the cafeteria in the past, a warm meal was on her mind and would be easier on her stomach than the sewer phlupps. Dragging herself up towards the very meager selection of edibles, her fingers lifted one of the bowls. Her hands shook as she ladled the thick stew. She spilled a drop on the floor, but paid it little mind.
Once his arm was mended, the cowboy, with a curious bulge beneath his poncho drifted off to the cafeteria, the enticing smell of stew drawing him to it.
The raggedy woman with the horrendous cough glanced toward the container of silverware. She eyed it thoughtfully, with a look that said she wondered how long it had been since last she had used such things. Her almost claw-like fingers fumbled with a spoon as she drifted toward one of the tables in the cafeteria. Slowly lowering her odorous form into a chair, she reached into one of the pockets of her ragged attire and withdrew a moldy piece of crust. When the man entered the room, she was in the midst of dipping the crust into the stew. She glanced upward and wrapped her arm nearly completely about the bowl – protectively. It was something she had learned when out on the street. One never knew when someone would try to take what you scavenged yerself. It happened more often than not. The stew slopped noisily in her mouth as she chewed until another phlegm-laden cough shook her. She dared take a moment to lift her arm to wipe the back of her hand across her mucus-spittled lips.
The cowboy looked around, noting the girl’s and the pot of stew’s locations. His hand was on the butt of his new 9mm and, confident, he went to the stew pot to pour a bowl. Quickly he moved to a table where he ate silently, watching the girl with his cold blue eyes.
Her heavily lined eyes glanced upward at him. She drew the bowl of stew yet closer to her if possible. She dipped her moldy crust again, and bit off a large piece not caring that it was stale and far beyond condition for consumption. The cowboy's stare disturbed her and her glance at him lingered into an angry glare. "You cant have it! It's mine! I see how you look at it ... wanting it." Her voice trailed into near silent grumbles while she protected her stew from him.
His smile was slight. "Girlie, I have my own, in case you didn't notice." He spooned another bit, held it up as if in salute and then chomped on it thoroughly.
The woman turned about to the table behind her so she wouldn't have to look at him, her stew and crust making the trip with her in a coveted grasp. Her voice was a constant low key mumble and the shift in her position let loose an acrid stench which filtered into the air to greet unwary noses. Another swipe of her sleeve across her nose left a trail of cheek rouge upon the tattered fabric.
"Scavengers ... we're all alike. But some us are just too inta it." After swallowing down another bite of the stew he spoke again, as if there were another person in the room. "This stuff is good, better than my jerky, anyways." He shook his head slightly and muttered then, "Nah ... I'll wait a bit longer ... don't get yer feathers in an uproar." He patted the font of his poncho. The slight bulge there moved under his hand.
The woman finished the last of her stew. She shoved the rest of the crust back into her pocket, oddly careful to pull out whatever lint there might be beforehand. She shook the lint from her fingertips, the lint falling from that fragile hand to the floor. She pressed her palms to the table top and slowly rose from her chair. That ever-present limp accompanied her movements as she made her way past the other "scavenger." Her threadbare cloak she held tight to her emaciated form.
The cowboy shoved the bowl forward after eating the last bite. He shook his head and muttered, "You don't get any, you old bird."
The frightened woman’s eyes flashed toward him at his words, ‘Old bird.’ "What was ya saying?"
The cowboy smiled an oddly perfect smile at the woman. "I wasn't talkin' bout yerself, girlie." He knew she didn’t believe him because of the way she muttered under her breath. Her mouth open to retort, the woman is caught within another coughing spasm. Her hand tugged her rags near her stomach as she leaned over during the wasting fit. The mound in his poncho wiggled a bit and he spoke again, aloud, to it. "No'n you can't kill her! You've had enough ta eat today!" He regarded the woman, thoughtful and then said, with disdain in his cold blue eyes, "Besides, she's sick...wouldn't be a challenge for you." Her eyes widened fearfully at his words and she backed up away from him despite the fit that still held her coughing in it's grasp.
A tone sounded from the speakers in the ceiling. It was then followed by the cheery voice of Elliott 7. "You really should consider something for that cough, miss."
The man, startled, whipped his head around. "Whozat?!"
The woman cursed the voice, her fear fading before her anger. "An' what would ya know about me? Ya know nothing..."
"Untrue. I know quite a bit, actually. Then again, I suppose you are also correct. Technically a computer doesn't know anything. It merely is quite adept at storing and recalling information." And as if she hadn't said anything offensive – for to Elliott, it wasn't – he went on; "I would suggest a cough suppressant."
"Take something fer it, ya say. Fer what? To live another day in this hell?"
The man grinned. "Hell is what you make of it, girlie." The cowboy muttered to his poncho, "No's I ain't makin' it rhyme... I ain't no poet..."
"To live another day, that would be the idea ... would it not?" Elliott queried.
"Yas all know nothin' ... yer all nothin'..." Her too-thin form lurched towards the doors as she muttered something about loons.
The man felt his body, his face, his head, and chuckled. "I sure do feel like something."
"Bah." Her claw-like hand lifted and lowered in a gesture of dismissal. The woman stepped out into the broiling Sabattan suns, crept her way into one of the nearby alleys ... and vanished.
The computer's singsong voice chimed, "She seems quite angry. Unfortunate that one would so angry." He sounded almost sad. Again the man asked who he was. "Who is talking you ask? I believe the correct term would be "what" is talking, sir. Elliott Enterprises Incorporated Series 7 would be that ‘what.’"
"Huh? Elliott?"
"Though I do suppose in some less string definitions, I would be considered a ‘who.’ And you may call me Elliott, sir. Most do."
"Sounds good ta me, Elliott."
The soft squeak of rubber soles against the tile floor announced the approach of the young aide, Meralynn Harperr. As she stepped into the cafeteria she nodded to the stranger present, and smiled hearing the voice of her friend. "Good evening Elliott."
"Good evening Meralynn."
Mera moved over to the service area of the cafeteria and glanced into the pot. "So what is on the menu today?"
"Reconstituted stew, Meralynn," Elliott told her.
"Again?"
Elliott had cameras and interpretive devices within his repertoire of abilities and so could see the grimace on Mera’s face. "It can feed many and doesn't require much power to prepare."
"Yeah...I guess," she conceded, but a rather disappointed sigh escaped her lips. Mera scooped some of the "Stew" into a bowl and made her way toward a table.
"It seems that the phlupp population as of late has dwindled. As fresh phlupp stew has been more and more difficult to come by."
Mera took a bite of the stew and began to chew. "So ... what is it then...the meat in here?"
"Well, Meralynn," continued Elliott's pleasant voice, "I was always instructed not to discuss the ingredients of the reconstituted foods with others."
Off at his table, the muttering of the cowboy became loud enough for Mera to hear. "No'n ya can't come out. How many time do I have ta tell you?" He chuckled, "I told you not ta eat so much, didn't I? Now these people can't get fresh phlupp." He muttered then, "You're goin' ta get so fat you can't fly."
Her chestnut eyes glanced curiously towards the stranger as he seemed to be talking to himself. Mera wanted to be sure. "Are you talking to me, sir?"
He looked up at Mera with his cold, blue eyes. "Huh? Nah, I was, um, just talkin' ta myself."
She nodded. It's what she had been afraid of; but, she tried to be pleasant regardless and said, "Oh, um ... all right." Her smile was nervous and her brows drew together.
"But if you must know...Well, tonight's stew was prepared with vegetables grown in our own hydroponics center."
Mera’s glance went to the speaker. Elliott's voice reassured her somewhat. "They are very good, Elliott," she told the supercomputer. "You do such a wonderful job of growing and tending to them."
There was a momentary pause, then Elliott said, "The stew also contains some harvested flesh from a deceased patient."
Her young face lost all pleasant expression. "It … What?"
"Of course," the supercomputer added helpfully, "the flesh was retextured and flavored to resemble fresh phlupp meat."
She glanced down at her stew bowl ... swirled the contents with her spoon. "You mean ... I'm eating..."
"When was your last hearing examination, Meralynn? It seems you didn't hear me. You should have that checked out. The meat, in part, came from harvested flesh from a deceased patient. Such resources cannot be squandered, Meralynn. You know that."
Elliott may have sounded sympathetic, but Mera could barely hear him now. "I ... I ..." Mera felt her stomach lurch and churn. "I never thought ... I would be eating it ... will you excuse me a moment?" Her hand clutched at her stomach as she rose and stumbled her way toward the restroom.
"Antacid, Meralynn?" Elliott asked helpfully, his cameras tracking her as she left the room. "I guess not."
===
The cowboy, while sitting at his spot in the cafeteria, was still arguing with himself, or his poncho – whichever the observer's eye deemed the least crazy. "No, you can't come out!" he shouted and there was a flapping and strangled hunter's cry as the man fell back suddenly. A falcon burst out from beneath his poncho and flew around the room. He grunted, momentarily trapped in his chair, then shook his fist in the air. He shouted and cursed at the bird from the floor, looking very comical. Had there been captions floating in the air above the man's head, to be seen by polite company, asterisks and pound symbols and exclamation points would have been seen.
"I'm goin' ta kill you! You no good bird!" The falcon flapped around the room while the man continued to lie on his back, shaking his fist in the air repeatedly. "You! I'll see you in my stew, Link! Damn bird! I bet you'll be tasty, too! Should have ate you long ago! Stop laughing!" He again cursed the bird vehemently. "I'll see you on my fire this night, LInk!"
Josi Putter peeked her grimy head into the cafeteria from the lobby. The rest of her followed a tad more slowly. Things were relatively quite in the lobby and waiting rooms but this hysterical, swearing man had garnered her attention. She edged in a bit more, her head tilting just a bit to the side. She took a gander at the bird as it flew through place and the look on her dirty face clearly said that she was wondering how a bird got into the hospital's cafeteria in the first place. Why the guy on the floor was screaming at it was another puzzle. Her curiosity remained but her face settled into a more commonplace and bland expression. After all, she had seen far stranger things then that.
The large bird stopped flapping about and landed on the table before him. It stretched it's wings and screeched somewhat smugly at the man. He rolled away from the overturned chair, stood slowly to right the chair, but never took his eyes from the bird.
"Why you screaming at the bird?" Josi finally piped in. She kept way back from the man, her pale eyes intent on the bird that had relaxed on the table top before them. "You expect it to talk back or something?"
The man sat down, staring directly at the bird; but, his conversation was for Josi. "Talk," he nodded, "But not loud. If'n he did, I'd have killed this bastard long ago." The bird fluttered a wing slightly and the man said, "Yeah, you're a bastard, you damn bird. And fat, too." Another flutter followed that. The man grinned. "Of course, I don't mean it, you stupid fowl. I couldn't live without you," he pointed at the bird in all seriousness. "And I mean that." The falcon stretched its wings again and screeched, then it flapped up to his shoulder. The man patted it's regal head. "That's my Link," he crooned. "You are gettin' fat, though."
Josi shook her filthy head. "Weird," she said, turning her attention to the rest of the place. Seemed kinda slow in the hospital to her that night ... compared to the other two time she had been there. She tugged an oily, grimy sack she held in oil slicked fingers, and continued further into the cafeteria, just looking around.
The supercomputer silently monitored all the goings on in the cafeteria. His drives deep within the complex of the NRMH whirred and spun about their daily chores and subroutines.
Gray Byron sauntered through the cafeteria doors, all style and no substance. A cigarette rested behind one ear and his hands were buried in his pockets. Upon his face, there existed no expression that could hint to his mood; but, once again, he was on the prowl for decent coffee. He moved between various tables -- and every step took him further and further from his intention and more toward the thoughts that plagued his mind. There is mostly just one thought there, though none could have seen it -- a female one: Aislin Estcott. His blue eyes moved over the various presences with indifference. There were none who resembled her.
After several minutes, Mera returned. Her face was pale, and she wasn't able to even look towards the table with the stew bowl still resting upon its surface where she had left it.
"Feeling better, Meralynn? Some coffee, perhaps?" Elliott was solicitous. That was something he knew how to be because it was programmed into him. He was sentient to some degree and armed with a tremendous databank of knowledge; but, still, he couldn't comprehend why it should be objectionable that the old staff of the hospital would have programmed him to utilize the nutrients in fresh huumunn flesh. Only the flesh of the deceased who had died from their war-inflicted wounds was used. The diseased and radioactive were not. Patients like Trelnikk - provided they actually died in the hospital -- were not candidates for this particular disposal procedure. The reserves of Sabatt as a world were very low. Hydroponics functioned in selected areas but much of the once radioactive land was reluctant still go lend itself to the growth of great quantities of food. The phlupp population was dwindling and until there were "phlupp wranglers," it would continue to do so. Huumunn flesh was a viable alternative. And what the huumunn didn't know, couldn't be objected to; or so Elliott had been programmed to believe.
"N ... no thank you. I'd be afraid to find out what's in THAT now."
"Coffee!" Gray shouted, the sound of the word shattering his thoughts. "Coffee? Whoa, where's the coffee?" His head jerked from side to side, searching for the pot.
Slowly, Mera made her way towards the water purifier. She filled a cup with the clear liquid. Lifting the cup to her lips, she sipped away the persistent sour taste in her mouth. Her warm brown eyes lifted at last to take in the rest of the cafeteria.
"I can brew some coffee," she heard Elliott say. "Ground beans from our hydroponics department."
Gray's shoulders tensed though he tried to avoid signs of his uneasiness. "I mean 'good' coffee."
"I am unable to differentiate between 'good' and 'bad' coffee, sir. I can only assure you that the beans are fresh and that the coffee will be as well."
"Bad coffee is what a patient would drink, catch my drift?" Gray walked again through the obstacle course of chairs.
With the falcon's apparent cooperation, the cowboy stood and looked around for the speaker where the voice of Elliott issued. "That was good stew, whoever made it. I thank you."
Gray made a face overhearing the bird-man while impatiently waiting for the coffee to be done. "’Stew?’ What about coffee?"
"Your compliments on the stew are so noted, sir," Elliott sounded a trifle more cheerful than usual.
The man smacked his lips. "Real tasty ... wish I had stuff like that on the trail."
Mera blanched to a paler shade of pale at the cowboy's words. And the man with the falcon named Link looked up, focusing on the speaker and then the only visible "bubble" of camera monitoring. "It was nice meetin' you, Elliot. That stew sure had a familiar taste, though. Real familiar..." He smiled at the pale Union Aide. Mera quickly sipped her water again, lest the bile should rise within her once more. "Tasted like ... well ... I'm not exactly sure ..." He turned then and stalked out, chuckling to himself and patting the downy feathers of the falcon perched on his shoulder.
"Oh Lurudd. I cant believe he ate it..."
"What is there not to believe, Meralynn? Protein is protein."
Mera made a slow shake of her head and sipped the water – a deeper draught – again. "You just don’t understand Elliot."
"I guess I do not." The supercomputer didn't seemed distressed by this at all, his tone was still quite cheery; but, perhaps there was some deep down desire to know and he set about within the realms of his own data banks to seek knowledge to attempt to find understanding.
Josi and her pale eyes caught sight of Mera. Her dirt smeared brow crinkled in concentration, the girl's expression flickered between daring, as if there was recognition in her eyes, and uncertainty. Well, OK, maybe she's not the right woman. But hey, a woman is a woman, right? She crept her way over towards Mera, the filthy bag clenched tightly in one hand.
Mera nodded to the woman, seeing her approach from across the room. "Hello," she said and smiled warmly.
A faint and fleeting smile crossed Josi’s mouth but it was one unused to the exercise. "You works here, right?"
"Yes, can I help you?"
"Uh, well." She held the bag tightly in one hand. "I got my hand fixed up here a little bit ago. And, well, I heard that guy -- the one with one eye that comes here? I heard him talking to one of you ladies that works here. Talkin’ about a trade."
Recognition lit the eyes of the UoM Aide. "Ah, yes. I remember. I believe it was Terra that helped you and the one who made the deal," she smiled knowingly, "that was probably Ash. She gets us most of our supplies through trade."
"Ash," Josi nodded slowly, obviously filing the name away. She even repeated it softly to herself a few times. "Well, she said she needed distributor caps." Abruptly she held out the greasy bag. "I got a few."
Mera’s eyes widened. "You do? That is terrific! Ash could get the ambulance up and running again with these."
Again there came a faint smile across the girl’s lips and then it was gone as quickly as it came. "Well, they fixed my hand." It was all she offered by way of explanation.
Mera was very pleased. She didn’t want to spook the girl by gushing but it was exciting to see something of this nature where the purpose of the hospital in this dismal city became clear. She smiled pleasantly and said, "You know, you didn’t have to do this. But it is much appreciated."
"There are three in there ... different ones."
"Ash will be thrilled!"
"I can …" Josi closed her mouth and thought, then tried to rephrase: "I mean... I could fix the ambulance ... or help if ya need it."
Mera lifted her brows in surprise. "Really?"
Josi gave a half hearted shrug before finally smiling proudly. "I fix things," she declared.
"Well, ... fixing talents are always welcome around here. I will have to tell Mira."
Mera’s bright smile made Josi fidget for a few moments. The girl didn’t know quite what to say. She presumed that Mira wasn’t Ash and so said, "Yeah ... you tell those ladies I can help out ... cause," her voice dropped to a near whisper of confession, "I eat here sometimes."
"We have two ambulances. Only one is running, and that one not even running well. It will be nice to have you around." Mera smiled warmly. "By the way," she held out her hand to Josi. "My name is Meralynn. You can call me Mera if you like."
Josi glanced at the woman's clean hand. She regarded a while before wiping her own greasy, grimy hand upon her filthy clothes and then taking Mera’s hand in a firm clasp. "Putter. Everyone calls me Putter."
"A pleasure to meet you ... Putter," Mera said, still smiling.
"Well. Thanks." The girl had never really had such a statement spoken to her before. "Glad to meet ya too."
Mera held her hand just long enough to make the handshake real and she didn’t wipe it off on a towel when it was over either. She smiled as she said, "Well, I’d better get back to the lab. Greg is going to have a fit if I haven’t completed my homework."
Josi nodded. "Don't lose those caps," she said quickly before Mera could get out of earshot. "They are real hard to come by."
Mera nodded, holding the filthy bag in her hand as she turned. "I'll put them in Ash's room before I go up to the lab. Thank you again Putter," she said and shuffled her way down the hall her UoM uniform rustling with each step.
Putter nodded mostly to herself as she slunk back toward the door. She was intent upon leaving now that her goal had been accomplished. Besides, more and more people were starting to crowd both the lobby and the cafeteria. Too many people made her uncomfortable.
"Safe journeys, Putter," she heard from the overhead speakers and she glanced around, then up. She smiled faintly. She wasn’t really too sure about how to address Elliott and so swallowed, feeling warm inside but … odd. "Uh. Thanks …" she trailed off, then heard the voice of Gray finish her farewell for her as she slipped out of the cafeteria.
"Thanks Nuts n' Bolts!"
Josi crept down the hall, then, pulling all warm feelings inward, and disappeared through a doorway.
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