Freedom Star

Chapter 3

He woke to bright white light, cool clean sheets, a smell of antiseptic--and plastic straps holding him down. Hospital, he thought. In Touchdown City.

He raised his head—all he could move—and looked around. A window in the wall to his right showed blue sky, more evidence he must be in Touchdown: high in the mountains, the city saw a lot more clear sky than the lowland jungle ever did. A blue blanket covered him, but he could see his feet sticking up under it and he could wriggle both sets of toes, which reassured him: at least the bushscreamer hadn’t maimed or crippled him as it died.

Bandages covered his back and the wound on his leg. Both itched, but neither hurt. The itch he could put up with. He’d have to, since he couldn’t scratch with his arms tied down.

Jon tilted his head back and just managed to bring into view the monitor over his bed. To his left a glass and a pitcher of water stood on a small table—water Jon would dearly have loved to have, but those blasted straps...

The door suddenly clicked and swung open. A soldier looked in, then stepped aside for a doctor, a tall, thin, middle-aged woman with her dark hair tied back in a severe bun. “You’re awake,” she said. She made it sound like an accusation.

“Excellent diagnosis,” said Jon.

The doctor ignored him and examined a monitor turned so Jon couldn’t see it. “You’re doing very well,” she said without looking at him. “We have had you under electronic sleep inducement, with the computer instructed to allow you to wake when the healing had reached a certain level. When we initially induced sleep we did not anticipate you waking until tomorrow, but last night it became apparent we could allow you to awaken this morning. You heal quickly, young man.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve had lots of practice.” Electronic sleep inducement? “How long have I been here?”

The doctor took a small datapad from her pocket and swiped it down the side of the monitor, slipped the datapad back into her pocket, and only then answered his question.  “Six days.” She turned to go.

Jon gasped. Six days? “What about the others? What happened in the jungle?”

The doctor shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing to do with me.”

“Then let me talk to someone who can tell me!”

“That someone is waiting outside. He came when I told him you would be waking this morning. But I wouldn’t count on too many answers.”

“What? Who—“

The doctor walked out, leaving the door open. Jon stared after her, saw her back disappearing down the bit of hallway he could see—

--and then the guard saluted, and a man Jon had hoped to never see again stepped through the door.

 “Hello, Jon,” said Andrew Carlson.

Jon remembered thinking, when he’d almost gotten his head burned off shaking his spear at Skyforce, that he hoped Carlson would see it. It looked like he’d gotten his wish. “Carlson,” he said, not even trying to keep the hatred out of his voice. “I’d hoped they’d bumped you down to shoveling manure after our escape.”

“I’m afraid not.” Carlson stood over the bed, hands in his pockets of the worn black leather jacket he favored even in hot weather. His gray hair and beard were as immaculately trimmed as ever, and his eyes the same cold, sardonic blue Jon remembered far too well. “In fact, they were quite impressed with my efforts. Six killed trying to escape. I imagine you’ve had rather a harder time living down your failures than I have mine.”