The Zenith Angle - Bruce Sterling [100]
After all, he had won. Maybe no one knew how, why, or what the real reasons were, but so what? The world was full of humiliating, secret battles. Van had won in front of witnesses who were used to secret fights. No substitute for victory. He was woozy and scarred in a Washington hospital, but somewhere, a rogue operative had been dragged back to some lair with the crap beaten out of him by a computer-science professor. Message sent. Let’s roll.
Van rubbed one-handed at his crusty eyes. He slid sideways into a twilight sleep.
When he woke the anesthetics had faded. His broken skull smoldered like a fire in a coal mine. Every scrap of flesh, once cold and rubbery, was burning briskly.
Dr. Mukherjee was the young surgeon on the night shift who had rebuilt Van’s face. Mukherjee had luminous eyes, slender wrists, and a sweet smile full of unfeigned doctorly kindness.
Mukherjee set his transparent clipboard aside. He probed the interior of Van’s mouth with his white-gloved fingers. “There is no sign of infection,” he reported, staring intently and feeling his way over the aching pulp. “The facial bones will knit quickly in a man who is so fit.” The latex-coated fingers left Van’s mouth. Mukherjee gave Van’s solid left bicep a reassuring pat. “You are military, eh? A training accident.”
Van grunted. His pulpy gums were blazing with pain.
Dr. Mukherjee nodded knowingly. “Demerol.” Mukherjee made a note on his clipboard with the gleaming steel of a Rotring ballpoint. “Your blood pressure is too high for a young man. You should go fishing, eh? Take leave for a while. Relax.”
Van moved his shoulders to suggest a shrug. He was sore from kicks and punches in his back and gut. The spreading bruises from those wallops were nothing compared to his broken head, though.
“We will discharge you tonight. The breaks were clean and the ducts were not severed. New bone will grow through the bone cement. In a month, the steel comes out. That’s a walk-in procedure.”
Van realized that he was being told amazingly good news. Face smashed in, yet he was out of the hospital in one day. Should he feel grateful?
“You will need tomography,” said Dr. Mukherjee. “The roots of the teeth, there I cannot tell you. I’m a maxillofacial surgeon. I’m not an orthodontist.”
“Mmmph.”
“You need to see an orthodontist, Mr. Vandeveer. In your later life, you might spend much time with orthodontists.” Dr. Mukherjee delicately turned a sheet of hospital paper. “If you were not American . . . or if you lived thirty years ago, which is to say the same thing . . . then you would have been badly disfigured last night. Yes, marked for life. Very unfortunate. But not today. No. Today you will be fully restored to quite normal appearance. They do wonderful things with teeth now. Although the lip, the lip concerns me.”
Van’s split and stitched upper lip no longer felt like part of him. It belonged to some distant, remote, legendary being. The Michelin Man, maybe.
“You will lisp,” said Dr. Mukherjee. “For a while. You might lisp quite a while.”
Van nodded silently.
“There will be scarring. Cosmetic surgery is a possibility. Or you might grow a beard, sir. A beard would look good on you, I think.”
Fawn brought him flowers.
“Nobody knows about what happened,” she assured him. “I mean, okay, Mike Hickok knows. So I know. And those two tough guys in your apartment, they must have got a real shock. Because you beat his ass up!” Fawn’s eyes shone with sincere secretarial pride. “That was just so awesome. Wow! I told everybody that you fell down the stairs. Was that okay?”
Van typed and showed Fawn the screen of his laptop.
THAT SHOULD WORK
“You look better than I expected. That must really hurt a lot, though.”
Van spread his hands. The pain of healing was different from the shocking, heart-thudding pain of being wounded. Pain made him simpleminded and sentimental. It made him wildly, totally impatient.
“I brought you a good book to read. I know it can get pretty boring in a hospital.