Miles, Mutants and Microbes - Lois McMaster Bujold [40]
Red shirt: Tony, it was Tony who'd been hurt. Claire was crouched on the floor a little farther down the aisle, clutching Andy, tears streaming silently down her ragged white mask of a face. On the stretcher, Tony writhed and cried out with a hoarse sob.
"Can't you at least give him something for pain?" the security guard urged the medtech.
"I don't know." The medtech was clearly flustered. "I don't know what all they've done to their metabolisms. Shock is shock, I'm safe with the IV and the warmers and the synergine, but as for the rest of it—"
"Patch in an emergency com link to Dr. Warren Minchenko." Leo advised, kneeling beside them. "He's chief medical officer for the Cay Habitat, and he's on his month's downside leave right now. Ask him to meet you at your infirmary; he'll take over the case there."
The security guard eagerly unhooked his com link and began punching in codes.
"Oh, thank God," said the medtech, turning to Leo. "At last, somebody who knows what the hell they're doing. Do you know what I can give him for pain, sir?"
"Uh . . ." Leo did a quick mental review of his first aid. "Syntha-morph should be all right, until you get in touch with Dr. Minchenko. But adjust the dose—these kids weigh less than they look like they ought to—I think Tony masses about, um, 42 kilos."
The peculiar nature of Tony's injuries dawned on Leo at last. He had been picturing a fall, broken bones, maybe spinal cord or cranial damage. . . . "What happened here?"
"Gunshot wound," reported the medtech shortly. "Left lower abdomen and . . . and, um, not femur—left lower limb. That's just a flesh wound, but the abdominal one is serious."
"Gunshot!" Leo stared aghast at the guard, who reddened. "Did you—I thought you guys carried stunners—why in the name of God—"
"When that damned hysteric called down from the Habitat, yammering about his escaped monsters, I thought—I thought—I don't know what I thought." The guard glowered at his boots.
"Didn't you look before you fired?"
"I damn near shot the girl with the baby." The guard shuddered. "I hit this kid by accident, jerking my aim away."
Van Atta panted up. "Holy shit, what a mess!" His eye fell on the security guard. "I thought I told you to keep this quiet, Bannerji. What did you do, set off a bomb?"
"He shot Tony," said Leo through his teeth.
"You idiot, I told you to capture them, not murder them! How the hell am I supposed to sweep this—" he waved his arm down Aisle 29, "under the rug? And what the hell were you doing with a pistol anyway?"
"You said—I thought—" the guard began.
"I swear I'll have you canned for this. Of all the ass-backwards—did you think this was some kind of feelie-dream drama? I don't know whose judgment is worse, yours or the jerk's who hired you—"
The guard's face had gone from red to white. "Why you stupid son-of-a-bitch, you set me up for this—"
Somebody had better keep a level head, Leo thought wretchedly. Bannerji had retrieved and holstered his unauthorized weapon, a fact of which Van Atta seemed to be unconscious—the temptation to shoot the project chief shouldn't be allowed to get too overwhelming—Leo intervened. "Gentlemen, may I suggest that charges and defenses would be better saved for a formal investigation, where everyone will be cooler and, er, more reasoned. Meantime we have some hurt and frightened kids to take care of."
Bannerji fell silent, simmering with injustice. Van Atta growled assent, contenting himself with a black look toward Bannerji that boded ill for the guard's future career. The two medtechs snapped down the wheels of Tony's stretcher and began rolling him down the aisle toward their waiting truck. One of Claire's hands reached out after him, fell back hopelessly.
The gesture caught Van Atta's attention. Full of suppressed rage, he discovered he had an object on which to vent it after